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“Rosemary said she was never in the house. She waited all evening and decided we must have changed our minds about coming. Thought she must have mixed up her weeks. When she saw me at the market, she asked when Shally was coming. Confused the hell out of me. I told her you’d brought her nearly a full moon ago,” Frakil says. He’s just come from Creede and was supposed to bring a delivery back, but when he heard the news, he dropped everything and raced back here.
“Someone grabbed her before Rosemary got home.” I should have taken her to the market. I should have handed her to her aunt.
She’s been gone a fucking moon. A little over an Earth month.
“Bakog. Son. She can protect herself.” My father tries to talk to me but I’m frozen inside. What must she be going through? Those dreams of her sobbing, her braids unraveled and loose.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to the Southpeak territory first, letting them know one of ours is missing. And if anyone knows anything, they’d best turn over that information immediately.”
“I’m going with you,” Latsil, Shalia’s father, says. A male who’s like an uncle to me.
“Afterward I’ll head north—”
“Nay. I’ll send another team up there to the Blackhearts,” Brachard says. “Then we’ll hit every town along the way home and let everyone know that no stone shall remain unturned until she’s safe home again.”
Shalia. My first kiss. The mate I carefully set aside because I didn’t want to hurt her. The one I swore to protect.
The mate I refused to make mine because the vision showed my mate would be taken. So, I kept her at arm’s length.
And I still failed. Because I’m a foolish male, thinking Shally wasn’t my mate because I refused to touch her. Shally is in my soul.
JOGUG:
“Lazy wench, wake up!”
My husband—and his friends—laugh as I spew water.
When I’m done choking, I glare at the biernaks. “Wake me like that again, and you’ll end up like your king.”
A false king he was, since the clan is more like an excess of rejects. Their clothing looks like it comes from different places—three of the males wear black leather with gold threads—including the dead king—and two, my mate included, wear warmer clothing. Long dusters that trail over a steed’s rear. And while their clothing may mimic that of the two other clans, it doesn’t fit well. It’s old and... especially in the Blackheart case, the clan never goes with filthy uniforms. Because that’s what their clothes resemble, formal wear.
Speaking of which, my clothes are completely different from all of theirs. My hair is intricately braided, while my mate and the one who dresses similar have none whatsoever. They do, however, wear long unkempt beards. The two who wore leather have tattoos and now I sport three bars across the bridge of my nose, which matches the marks on the nose of my ugly mate.
The mate I’m trying to find love for. Surely it was there once? But when he offered to do my marks, I could only cringe. He did his own, and I hurriedly did my own before he could insist.
“You think you can take on five males at once?” My mate guffaws. “Get your ass up. I told you there’s one day left in this camp. Either make your tattoo at once, or suffer with the biting winds and dust stinging your wounds tomorrow as we ride. In either case, you’ll have to pay homage to the fallen king.”
The others snicker and try as I might, I can’t figure out why. I told them I’d wear his tats for taking his life, why they keep demanding is beyond me.
“You’ll need to wear grease in your hair to darken it for a period of three moons.” He tosses the pouch at me—it smells of elderberries. Why would he add elderberries to the grease? Doesn’t he realize it won’t wash out easily?
I start to unravel my tresses. Once the braids come undone, my hair looks even lighter than before in its frizzed state, highlights of flaxen wheat over deeper threads of green. If it wasn’t for the green, I’d wonder if I was even orc.
But, of course, I’m orc. What else would I be?
All five males let their mouth hang open as they stare. Then they look back and forth at each other uneasily. Surely, they’ve seen my hair unbraided before? There’s only so many ways to wash it clean through the braids before they must be taken out and redone.
“What?” I bark, and a couple look away, while two more smirk. But my mate? His eyes narrow on me.
“Get it done. I brought you a piece of mirror, a knife, and some ink.”
The piece of mirror is exactly that. A broken piece of glass that’s been scraped multiple times, losing its reflection.
Seven years bad luck.
The thought skitters across my mind and I wonder where the phrase comes from. It’s not something a crew of male orcs would ever come up with.
How did I end up here? Why won’t my memory return? I wonder each morn when I wake for the day and find myself in the same situation as the day before—craving the dreams I wake from instead of real life.
