Page 79 of Orc's Mark

"I’ve been one before."

"Were you?" I challenge. "Or were you a soldier following orders, making impossible choices in brutal circumstances? There’s a difference between being a monster and surviving monstrous situations."

He’s quiet for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "The boy reminded me of someone I knew. During the wars. A young orc who’d joined my unit to feed his family. He was killed in his first battle—barely fifteen years old."

I don’t offer platitudes. Instead, I hold him while he processes old grief given new context. This is what we’ve built—space to be vulnerable, to struggle with who we were and who we want to become.

Later, when the worst of his dark mood has passed, we make love with a gentleness born from shared pain. I worship his scars with my mouth, reminding him that survival is not the same as sin. He holds me after with a tenderness that speaks louder than any words.

Six months after the Marshal’s defeat, we face our first serious threat from his former network.

A necromancer named Drezar arrives in Methran, seeking revenge for his master’s death. He’s powerful, more skilled than anything we faced in the abbey except the Marshal himself.

The battle takes place in an abandoned warehouse district. Drezar has prepared extensively—wards against my fire magic, constructs designed specifically to counter Krath’s fighting style, escape routes if he starts to lose.

We’re outmatched tactically. But we’ve learned since the abbey, grown stronger both individually and in how we work side by side.

When Drezar tries to separate us with a wall of shadow, I dissolve it with pure force of will—no spell, no components, just intention made manifest. When his constructs swarm Krath, I don’t panic and rush to help. Instead, I eliminate the necromancer’s ability to create more, forcing him to commit to the fight.

We adapt to each situation without needing to speak. He draws the physical threats while I dismantle Drezar’s magical defenses. When the necromancer realizes he’s losing, he tries to flee.

Krath intercepts him at the door, sword at his throat. "Who else is coming?"

"Others." Drezar spits blood. "You’ve made enemies by disrupting the old order. They’ll keep coming until you’re dead."

I step forward, meeting the necromancer’s eyes. "Then we’ll deal with them as they arrive. One at a time if necessary."

Drezar laughs bitterly. "You think you’ve won something. But you’ve only delayed the inevitable. The Marshal’s vision will be fulfilled, with or without him."

We hand him over to the city guard, but his words linger. We haven’t just made enemies—we’ve painted targets on ourselves.

That night, lying in bed with Krath’s arms around me, I voice the concern we’re both thinking.

"This won’t end, will it? There will be others."

"Probably." His arms tighten. "Does that change anything?"

I consider the question seriously. Six months ago, the thought of constant threat would have terrified me. Now, it feels... manageable. We’ve proven we can handle what comes at us.

"No," I decide. "It doesn’t change anything. We’ll face them as we’ve faced everything else."

"As equals," he adds, and I hear the smile in his voice.

We lie in comfortable silence, listening to the city sounds filtering through the windows. Tomorrow will bring new challenges—there’s always another threat, another problem that needs solving. But we’ll face it as we face everything now: side by side, by choice rather than compulsion.

The Marshal wanted to use our love as a weapon, to twist it into chains. Instead, we transformed it into something he never anticipated—not weakness to be exploited, but strength that grows through conscious choice.

We’ve earned our freedom, learned to use it well, and discovered that love freely given is infinitely stronger than any force that could be taken.

And that’s worth everything we survived to find it.