Page 21 of Orc’s Gallows

The words are out before I’ve fully decided to speak them. Old words. Binding words. Words I’ve heard only twice in my life, both times at orc mating ceremonies in distant cities.

Words I never expected to use.

I turn to face Ismerie. Her eyes are wide, lavender light flickering with confusion and fear and something else—hope, maybe, or the beginning of understanding.

“This is the only way.” I keep my words low, meant only for her. “The claiming supersedes human law. If I mark you as mine, the council can’t touch you without starting a war with every orc in the Veillands.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“You’re insane.” But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t run. Stands there with her pulse hammering beneath my grip and her gaze locked on mine and her breath coming fast. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” I cup her face with my free hand, tilting her chin up. “I know you saved my life when you could have let me die. I know you’re the only person who understands what’s waking beneath this city. I know—” I stop, searching for words that don’t exist. “I know the sigil chose you. And I’m done fighting it.”

The crowd is stirring. The council is screaming orders. Guards are pushing through the press of bodies, trying to reach the platform.

We’re out of time.

“Do you accept?” The question is formal. Ritual. Required before the claiming can proceed. “Do you accept my mark, my protection, my⁠—”

“Yes.” She cuts me off before I can finish. “Yes, I accept. Whatever this is, whatever you’re offering—yes.”

Good enough.

I press my palm against her collarbone.

The claiming magic surges through me—power older than Blackhook, older than the Veillands, older than memory. It flows from my palm into her skin, searing patterns I can sense forming beneath my hand. The claiming sigils, branding themselves into her flesh.

She screams.

The sound cuts through me like a blade, but I don’t release the pressure. I can’t. The ritual has begun, and interrupting it now would damage us both beyond repair. All I can do is hold firm while the magic does its work, while the brand sears itself into her collarbone in patterns that mirror the sigils on my neck.

Mine. She’s mine. Claimed and marked and bound by magic that no council can challenge.

The heat spreads between us. I sense her—not thoughts, not emotions, but awareness. The certainty of where she is, the pull toward her presence, the sense of completion that sinks into my bones like coming home. The sigil has made its choice, and that choice is absolute.

The pain fades. The magic calms. The brand on her skin shines faintly before settling to a permanent scar that matches my own.

I release her and turn to address the frozen crowd.

“This woman is claimed.” My words carry across the square, absolute and undeniable. “By right of blood and marking, she is mine. Her crimes are my crimes. Her life is my life. Any who challenge this will answer to me.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves.

Then the first stone flies.

The passage beneath the Execution Hall is narrow, dark, barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. I pull her through it at a pace short of running, one hand gripping hers, the other on the blade at my hip.

Behind us, the mob’s fury echoes through stone corridors. The council has called for our arrest—I heard Varn screaming the order as we fled the platform. The guards are split, some following orders, others hesitating. Halvard bought us time by blocking the main entrance, but that won’t last.

She stumbles on the uneven stone, and I catch her without slowing. The claiming has drained her—what little power she’d regenerated is gone now, consumed by the ritual that marked her as mine. She’s running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness.

Good. Stubbornness will keep her alive.

“Where are we going?” Her words come breathless, strained.

“Somewhere they can’t follow. Not easily.”