I left Heartland Park with a plan. Bribery. I would bribe the shit out of Old Fang until he agreed to say no to the marriage. I also had my association with Ashwynn in my back pocket. The lord didn’t want to upset the balance of districts, so he would not be the primary naysayer. However, if I had enough reasons to escape the marriage, he said he’d be glad to be one more.

  Akilah’s voice over chat interrupted my thoughts as I headed towards the park entrance closest to Bauring Tok Kraup Patarshan.

  Akilah: “Get things settled with Lord Asshole? What did he give you?”

  “Whatever I need to bribe Old Fang into going with me to Shardshore. Listen, I ended up telling Ashwynn my plans…”

  Akilah: “What? Are you stupid?”

  “Debatable, but not about this. He doesn’t like being manipulated by the System any more than we do.”

  She went quiet for a while. The air was so clear it glistened. Seed pods floated on wispy fluff, drifting with the eddy of the breezes as I passed from the shade of trees into the brilliance of a meadow spangled with pale flowers. The earthen path led me toward the gate.

  “How’s the workshop thing coming?”

  Akilah: “It’s taking shape.”

  Jake: “Fig’s got us a spot in the mountain near Lacunae.”

  “I’ll come by once I take care of this negotiation with Voj’Kasak.”

  I walked out from the arched vines and into a misting rain. It didn’t last long, just enough to get my boots muddy on the path that led straight from Heartland to the orc encampment. I didn’t pause until I’d made it to the baobab trees, where Old Fang would be, lingering against one, smoking his pipe and listening to the little orc child complain about her kite.

  I slowed as I approached him. He squinted against the gleam of fresh drops on yellow-edged grasses. I felt a strange ache in my chest, looking at him and the scenery. Where had it come from? Was it mine, or prompted?

  I peeled back the interface of the aspect screen in my mind’s eye. No manipulation. No secret numbers war of me against the System or anything else. No flags or modifiers. The setup was the trap. The System was a pitcher plant luring the fly with real, primal needs, without having to rewrite anything inside my virtual self.

  I stepped over to the old man, hunched over his pipe. He didn’t look up as my shadow cast over him. “Standing there like an idiot waiting for bugs to fall in your mouth, huh?”

  Why did I like this guy?

  “What will it take to get you to tell Queen Hythsaa I can’t marry her?” I asked.

  “More than you have,” Old Fang grunted.

  “I’m serious, Voj’Kasak. What will it take?” I growled, stepping back from the random swing of his cane. “I can’t reach my potential as a Salt Spear warrior if I’m chained down at Shardshore. What will it take?”

  His face tipped up to look at me. Finally. He squinted through the folds of his eyelids. “Become a Salt Spear.”

  A jolt ran through me. I already was, I thought. I looked at my Rep list and discovered I was higher in Heartland than with the Salt Spears. I was higher in Shardshore! Skaama, for real?

  I nodded slowly, casting my gaze to the far yurt. The one finer than all the rest and therefore, avoided. As a half-breed and stranger, I stayed out of their way. The strongest warriors didn’t go to Fist’s Home, and I didn’t go past the animal pens.

  I’d dealt with the wary acceptance of Alga, her patrons, and Voj’Kasak, and they’d tolerated me long enough to stop sneering, or at least ignored me. Alga and Voj’Kasak actually liked me enough to treat me like family. Maybe it was time to cross the unspoken social line. After all, I had the Vash’Ora. That meant something to the Salt Spears; meant I was chosen, even if the choosing had been rigged. The Vash’Ora was supposed to be some kind of pitcher plant trap, but I’d find a new way to bend Loogie’s existence as my little bondling to my will.

  “If that’s what it will take, I will.”

  I met a broken-tusked grin when I glanced down at him. “Good, Rau’dajal. Show them your ugly face and your proud scars. Make them accept you. Ask the spirit of my daughter to choose you, and you may be my grandson.”

  Besides the fact that I’d never been anyone’s son—or grandson—and I didn’t know how to ask his long-lost daughter to be my mother, I was game. The NPC ‘ghost’ he considered hers might be malleable enough to give me the answer I needed. I’d figure it out. Somehow.

  I nodded at him, then squinted at the distant fire circle where the warriors gathered to drink and eat, before the large yurt. I had some time before they gathered for their meal. “Tonight, then.”

  A CLUNK jolted me from my thoughts. I hissed at the bright shooting pain on my shin. Note to self: wear armor when talking to Old Fang.

  “F-f-f-fuck!”

  “Use Ork, Rau’dajal!” He barked, swinging his cane again. I pivoted on my heel, yanking my leg out of range.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I bared my teeth at him, then spat on the ground. “If I didn’t need you, old man…”

  “You’d kill me?” Old Fang finished with bright cheer, glee blooming across his wrinkled face.

  I shook my fist at him and hobbled away. He took some HP with that one. Tan’Fukshan.

  When I brought charcoal in for Alga, I told her my plans. I layered the lengths of wood, black smudge clinging to my hands, and said, “I’m going to see the Krual tonight.”

  “Does she know you’re coming?” Alga asked, her tone measured, careful.

  “No,” I said, glancing up at her.

  She had a horn cup in hand, rag stuffed in it, as still as a painting. A pang of fear struck my gut at the weight of her stare. “Should I not? Should I write a—note or something? Ask for an audience?”

  Alga continued staring at me for a breath, and then two.

  “I have to see the Chief,” I said. “I need to be accepted into the clan.”

  I shifted on my knee, stacking the charred wood as I looked up at her. When I was done, I brushed black dust from my palms, leaving streaks along my pants.

  “Then you must go,” she said finally, chin dropping, hands resuming the task. Her lips thinned.

  I swallowed against the nervous lump in my throat and nodded. Lifting the empty basket, I turned on my heel. Earlier, I’d felt secure in my plan. I’d dealt with three district lords and, by luck or wit, held my ground. This time felt different. I wasn’t just falling into a situation this time. I made one.

  Just before I cleared the bar, a heavy hand gripped my shoulder. Alga shook her head, dreadlocks bobbing gently. “You can not go as you are. I will help prepare you. Go bathe.”

  My heart jumped. A grin tugged against my tusks. “Yes.”

  “Wait,” she said, and went to the back room to fetch something. She came back with a small bag of herbs, pressed it to my hand. “Use these in your bath. Smell nice.”

  Instead of smelling like onions and fear? Fantastic idea. I nodded and headed for the bathhouse. While I was bathing, I talked to the others.

  “So, hey, I know I said I’d come by the workshop, but I have to resolve some stuff with the Salt Spears.”

  Jake: “Oh, big surprise, Dath blowing us off.”

  “Bro. Buddy. I’m not ditching party stuff. I’m dealing with the whole Queen betrothal thing.”

  Jake: “Yeah, sure. Do what you gotta do. We’ll be here.”

  Elora: “I believe you, Dath. Tell us everything, when you can.”

  Just what I was not good at. Telling people personal things.

  “Sure thing. Talk to you later. Going silent for now.”

  Once I’d scrubbed myself with herbs and washed away charcoal smudges, I returned to Alga. She sat me on a stool and toweled my hair, clucking her tongue at the state of it. I’d given myself great hair and then went on to neglect it. She got a comb and worked the knots out. I clenched my teeth and let her do it.

  Her rough, steady hands twisted braids along the sides of my head. She spoke as she worked my hair into a design I couldn’t see. “A warrior keeps his hair from his eyes. Let nothing prevent you from seeing your prey.”

  Once she finished, I patted my head to feel what she’d done. It was better than the messy ponytail or topknot I tended to use. No strands straggled free.

  She gave me a push off the stool and said, “Put your armor on.”

  I equipped it. She drew back, surprised. I’d been standing there in my scruffed up, hole-ridden leathers, and then suddenly, my armor appeared over them. To her, it probably looked like magic. She shook her head, clucking her tongue again.

  “Use no magic before the warriors, or they’ll kill you. It must be allowed. Do you understand?”

  My eyes widened, and I nodded, tugging at my breastplate. She looked me over and pulled a knife from her apron. This time it was me that drew back.

  “Do I need more scars?” I asked, warily eyeing her blade.

  She snorted. “You need to cut your shirt to show your scars, fool. Lay bare your pride.”

  “Oh.” I let her trim away every scrap of fabric that hid the nasty line around my middle, the faint dots where Baby had scratched me, and the newest scar on my arm. My greaves hid the crab claw marks on my legs, and thankfully she didn’t cut my pants. I wasn’t going full bikini-armor here, and I wasn’t about to flaunt my pock-marked ass, Shivrith’s parting gift.

  The ripping and cutting felt as much like ceremony as everything else. The cool air touched my skin. Exposed, along with my scars. My pride.

  She stepped back and appraised her work. “Good. Now, you need a spear.”

  “I have my sword…”

  “No elf or human weapon! Ork. Your face is enough to put them off without foreign weapons!”

  I shut my mouth. Alga disappeared into the back room again. I stood there, feeling my nerves again. What if my face, my mixedness, was too much for them? Not obviously human, not hard and blunt enough to be orc, but alien to both… No. To hell with that.

  I made this body. It was mine. They’d learn to deal with it.

  Still, I hoped I could run faster than they could. If I had to.

  “Here,” Alga came out, carrying a patarshan, black feathers and the fangs of some unknown creature dangling from the shaft.

  That had belonged to someone. It wasn’t like the spears kept by the pens, spare weapons in case of need. Orcish runes inscribed on the shaft read Ro’Fatoft. Cold Cloud. Alga thrust it at me.

  “I don’t use spears. You may as well wield it. Do no shame to Ro’Fatoft, or I will kill you, myself,” she said fiercely.

  My fingers wrapped around the haft. It felt cool to the touch. [Long Spear: +5 cold damage] My gaze flicked inward to read, then back to her.

  “This belonged to someone?”

  “Someone gone,” Alga grunted. “Now, war marks. How many battles have you fought?”

  Do I count the slimes? Skipping that, I thought back. Wolves in Heartland, Broodmother, a handful of insectile mobs, the Cable Construct, Shivrith, and kind of the ghosts in Shade? I’d count them, because of all the semi-almost skirmishes together could round it out.

  “Six,” I said after my janky mental count.

  Alga took a chunk of charcoal out of the bin and grabbed my chin with a warm, rough hand. With the other she drew three streaks on one side of my face with the char, and then three on the other.

  Stepping back, she said, “You’re ready.”

  -ARCHIVE-