Page 10 of Orc's Veil

“A child.”

“I saved his life.” She glances back at me, chin lifted, daring me to comment. “Stole a memory to do it. Add it to the charges, if you want.”

She walks away without waiting for my response.

I follow.

I shouldn’t. I should stay at the stones, secure the perimeter, maintain the professional distance required of my position. I definitely shouldn’t be trailing after a condemned witch, watching the way she moves despite her exhaustion, noticing the slim line of her shoulders beneath blood-stained fabric.

My guards exchange glances behind their iron masks. I feel their confusion, their unease. This isn’t how executions work. The condemned doesn’t lead. The executioner doesn’t follow.

“Secure the perimeter,” I tell them without turning around. “No one approaches the stones until I give the order.”

They obey. They don’t question—not yet. But I can feel the reports already forming in their minds. The messages they’ll send back to Kravos if I give them reason.

Let them.The thought surprises me with its vehemence.Let them report. Let them question. I need to understand what’s happening here before I swing the blade.

But the Veil settles as she walks. The screaming fades. The tear shrinks, just slightly, held closed by her presence alone.

And my mark burns.

Burns for her.

I don’t understand it. Don’t want to understand it. But I follow anyway, into the shadow of the cottage, where a stolen child sleeps and dawn waits with its inevitable blade.

Just another number, I tell myself. Just another execution.

But the fire in my chest calls me a liar.

And through the tear in reality, a vast and patient intelligence turns its attention toward the executioner who just made a very dangerous choice.

SEVEN

EIRENE

The executioner fills my doorway.

He has to duck to enter—the cottage wasn’t built for someone his size, wasn’t built for anyone but small, desperate witches who needed a roof more than comfort. The top of his head nearly brushes the low ceiling, and his shoulders span the narrow space between the bed and the hearth.

The child still sleeps. I checked the moment I stepped inside, felt the rise and fall of his chest, saw the healthy flush returning to his cheeks. Whatever the Shadow Court did to him, my tithe paid for his healing. He’ll wake with gaps in his memory and no understanding of why his mother’s lullaby makes him cry.

Small mercies. The only kind I can offer.

“Water?” I move toward the crooked shelf where I keep my few supplies. Careful steps. Gentle voice. The soft border-witch, harmless and helpful. “You’ve traveled far. The encampment is a day’s ride from here.”

The orc watches me. Doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze tracks every movement I make—the way I reach for the clay pitcher, the angle of my body relative to the door, the distance between us. Calculating. Assessing.

He’s positioned himself between me and the only exit. Instinct, probably. Hundreds of executions have trained those reflexes deep.

He knows what I’m doing.The realization settles cold in my gut.He’s not fooled by the gentle act.

I pour the water anyway. Offer the cup with both hands. My fingers are steady despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones. Years of bleeding have taught me how to function when my body wants to collapse.

“Thank you.” He takes the cup. His hand dwarfs mine—rough with calluses, scarred across the knuckles, built for violence. The brush of his fingers against my skin sends a jolt racing up my arm.

I pull back. Too fast. His gaze sharpens.

The contact lasted less than a second, but I can still feel the ghost of it—the roughness of his skin, the heat that seemed to radiate from his palm. My own hand tingles where we touched, and I curl my fingers into a fist to stop the sensation.