Chapter Twelve
Fire. Not the careful heat of processed blood, regulated by mechanical components, but something wild that burned through every artificial system it touched. Sebastian's body convulsed as pure blood fought against two centuries of improvements. Each surge stripped away more careful regulation, more precise control, until he wasn't sure what would remain.
The chamber's crystals pulsed pink in time with his heart, his real heart, the one piece of him that had been caged but never improved. Their light caught the seams where the brass melded into him, highlighting every place where artificial precision warred against organic chaos.
In the brief periods when his consciousness had surfaced since that first awakening, he'd caught fragments of conversation, learning names as the orcs spoke among themselves. The large one who'd fed him, Boarstaff, they called him, their warchief. The scarred one with the perpetual scowl was Thornmaker. The witch who'd captured him was Ochrehand. There were others whose names blurred together in his pain-fogged mind.
"Hold him down," ordered the scarred one, Thornmaker. "Before he hurts himself."
Another convulsion cut off the words. Boarstaff's blood on his tongue was raw, real and overwhelming in its power. Nothing like the scent of bear's blood that had drawn him into this trap. Nothing like anything his systems had been designed to process.
"The bear," he gasped when the seizure passed. "When I hunted... it never..." He couldn't finish. Couldn't find words to describe how animal blood had always been safe. How his father had encouraged hunting as controlled exposure to nature. How everything he'd thoughthe understood about feeding had been carefully regulated lies.
"Animal blood is simple," Ochrehand's voice cut through his haze of pain and revelation. "Natural, yes, but with different power. But the blood of the elder races, orc, elf, dwarf, even the desert peoples, it carries old magic. Magic your kind tried to strip away with brass and steam."
The truth of it burned through him like liquid fire. Every careful improvement, every precise regulation, every synthetic system, all designed to protect against that exact thing. To prevent vampires from experiencing what any form of old magic felt like flowing through their veins. Their expansion had driven them into conflict with every race that still held connection to natural power, not just the orcs. But the orcs were the ones whose territories they'd pushed into first, whose lands they sought to claim. He'd seen plans to move into the dwarven territories next. It didn't seem right. When he stopped and thought about it, why weren't the vampires content with what they had? Were they afraid of what the other races held in their blood?
His father had known. Had always known why they processed blood, why they regulated everything, why they pushed ever outward instead of seeking coexistence with any of the elder races.
"The pure blood seeks out every artificial component." Ochrehand reported, her magic crackling as she probed the changes wracking his body.
Sebastian gasped as another surge of magic tore through dead brass. The sound that escaped him held nothing of nobility, nothing of careful control. Just raw pain that echoed off crystal walls that pulsed with answering power.
"His improvements fail faster now," the elder female orc said, Moonsinger, if he recalled correctly from their murmured conversations. Her magical patterns shifted with concern. "The blood reaches places,"
"Places it was never meant to reach," Sebastian finished. Yellowish vapor poured from his collar as understanding hit with the force of physical pain. "Places father's improvements were meant to protect." His laugh held no synthetic modulation, just bitter recognition of two centuries of careful lies.
Boarstaff knelt beside him, wounded wrist still marked with therough tears from Sebastian's feeding. "Your father knew about our raw blood's power?"
"Knew?" Sebastian's body shuddered. "He built our entire society around processing it out. Synthetic precision. Artificial regulation. All to contain the effects." He paused, gathering strength against the pain. "Our expansion... it's more than hiding. Conquering. Replacing. That's why we push outward, always outward. The elves retreated to their forests. The dwarves sealed their mountain halls. But your people..." Vapor escaped in irregular patterns. "Your people stood your ground."
The chamber's crystals flared deep, earthy orange as more mechanical components failed, their light taking on colors Sebastian had never seen in vampire territories. The almost-brown color that spoke of earth and stone and things that lived far from artificial precision.
"The desert peoples warned us," Ochrehand began, but Thornmaker cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"Enough," he said firmly. "We share secrets with the enemy while his scouts search the forest?" His spear sparked in crystal light as he stepped forward. "Warchief, with respect,"
"Watch your tone, Thornmaker." Boarstaff's voice was measured but firm. He didn't rise from his position near Sebastian, but authority filled every word. "I am well aware of what we risk."
"Are you?" Thornmaker's grip tightened on his weapon, though he kept his distance. "Every word we speak gives him knowledge that could be used against us. The longer we keep him here,"
Another convulsion cut off the brewing confrontation. Sebastian's body seized. Through the haze of pain, he noted how quickly the council members responded to Boarstaff's authority. How even Thornmaker's challenge held careful deference.
Something shifted in Sebastian's awareness. He'd been questioning the foundations of his own society, voicing doubts he'd buried for centuries. Such thoughts would be considered treasonous back home, weakness unbecoming of House de la Sang. Yet in the midst of enemies, these doubts flowed freely from him. The pain stripped away artificial control, but it also seemed to dissolve the careful political discipline he'd cultivated his entire life.
Distant vibrations filtered through the ground, methodicalpatterns that Sebastian recognized from historical texts. Old hunting formations from before improvements, when vampires had relied on resonance beacons instead of their newer methods.
"They fall back on old patterns," observed one of the orcs near the entrance, Rockbreaker, Sebastian thought, though his pain-fogged memory remained uncertain. "Like the dwarves said they would."
Sebastian tried to focus through the pain. "You've... spoken with the dwarves?"
"Some of us," Boarstaff replied, his voice revealing little. "The elder races maintain... certain connections. Certain warnings against your kind's expansion."
Another surge of magic tore through Sebastian's aching body. The sacred chamber's crystals pulsed faster, their ever-changing light seeking out every place brass still lived, every seam where copper threaded through muscle.
"The transformation deepens," Ochrehand reported. "The old magic burns through artificial bounds-"
"Burns through everything," Sebastian gasped. The taste of Boarstaff's blood lingered on his tongue, no longer just orc blood, but something that carried memories of ancient pacts between peoples who still remembered natural ways. His father's improvements had been designed to protect against exactly this, against knowing what they'd turned away from, against remembering what they'd lost.
