Page 22 of Orc's Veil

The claiming has chosen. And now we both have to survive it.

“This changes nothing.”Varkhul’s voice is rough, strained. He’s pacing now—long strides that eat up the distance between the stones, restless energy pouring off him in waves. “The order doesn’t recognize claimings between orcs and humans. Even if they did?—”

“Even if they did, I’m still sentenced to die.” I finish his sentence, watching him move. My wrist throbs with every step he takes, the runes responding to his agitation. “The claiming doesn’t save me from execution.”

He stops. Turns to face me, and I see the torment in his expression. The conflict that’s been building since he arrived at the Veilborder, cracking wide open now, impossible to hide.

“No.” The word comes out low, vehement. “It doesn’t save you from the order. But it means—” He breaks off. Runs a hand over his face, tusks catching the moonlight. “If you die, I die with you.”

I go still. “What?”

“The mark ties mates to each other.” He doesn’t look at me. Can’t seem to look at me. “Life force, essence, soul—whatever you want to call it. If one half of a claimed pair dies, the other follows. Minutes later. Hours, if they’re strong.”

“So if you execute me…”

“I kill us both.” Now he meets my eyes. His gaze is raw, stripped of all the careful control he’s worn since he arrived. “The claiming has made it impossible for me to follow my orders. Even if I wanted to kill you—even if I convinced myself it was the right thing to do?—”

“The mark wouldn’t let you.”

“The mark would kill me for trying.”

Silence falls between us. The Veil hums at the edge of my awareness—that strange new song of balance and recognition, stronger now that the claiming has sealed itself into both our skins.

I should feel trapped. Furious. Violated by magic I didn’t ask for, bound to a man who came here to end my life.

Instead, I feel… relieved.

The realization startles me. But it’s true. For the first time since I heard the executioner was coming, I’m not countingdown the hours until my death. I’m not alone in facing what’s ahead.

“Kravos will send another executioner.” I break the silence, forcing my mind back to practical concerns. “When he learns you’ve failed to carry out the sentence.”

“He’ll send a dozen.” Varkhul’s voice is grim. “And when they learn about the claiming, they’ll try to kill us both. A claimed executioner is compromised. Useless. The order will see me as a traitor.”

“So we fight.” I lift my chin. Hold his gaze with defiance I don’t entirely feel. “You and me. Claimed. Trapped. But alive.”

He studies me for a long moment. I feel his emotions through the new mark on my wrist—not clearly, not yet, but in impressions. Turmoil. Resolve. And beneath it all, banked like coals beneath ash, a heat that has nothing to do with anger.

“You’re not what I expected.” The words seem dragged out of him against his will. “The order painted you as a monster. A traitor. A witch who would doom the world to satisfy her own mercy.”

“And now?”

He moves toward me. Slow. Deliberate. Each step sends a pulse of heat through my wrist, through my chest, through parts of me I’ve kept locked away for years. He stops an arm’s length away—the same distance that separated us before the claiming flared, before everything changed.

“Now I think you might be the only thing standing between this world and the darkness.” His voice has dropped, gone rough and intimate. “And I think the claiming chose better than either of us could have.”

My heart stutters. The mark on my wrist flares with warmth—not pain this time, but heat. Desire. Recognition.

“Dawn is coming,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage.

“Yes.” He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch me. But his gaze drops to my lips for just a moment—a flicker, barely visible—before returning to my eyes. “And we have a lot to discuss before it arrives.”

He turns. Walks away. And I’m left standing at the edge of the Veil stones, wrist burning, pulse racing, trapped in a claiming I didn’t choose with a man I should despise.

The Veil hums around me—settled, satisfied, whispering my name with need instead of hunger.

FIFTEEN

VARKHUL