Khal’kha - The Fire Dance (Part 2)(Explicit)
In the midst of a celebration in full swing, among the mixed company that had congregated around the large circular tables set up for the feasting, sat an old general quietly enjoying the efforts of younger orcs. Around him, fellow warriors compared battle scars with a passion, while children played chaotically and freely, their parents taking turns at the great bonfires to cook meals for both the living and the dead. The smoke carried the heady aroma of sizzling boar fat and charred marrow bones through the whole town. It paired well with the hoppy ale in his tankard.
“Ah, is that the new ale from Warpath Ales and Drohn’s Distillery?” A young orc man with a braided crest of dark red hair and the blood of the Frostwolf, based on his garb, took the seat next to him. “Is it as strong as the rumors claim?”
“It is.”
“I’m surprised an elder like you would take on the challenge!” The newcomer wasn’t a pup; the past scars along his scalp and chin dismissed that assumption, but the smirk on his face told the old man all he needed to know about him. Perhaps it was time to play a game. “They say it’s strong enough to knock out a kodo.”
The older orc snorted at this, “Beware an old orc in a young orc’s profession.”
“Few live long enough against me for that to be true.” He offered his hand in friendship, “I’m Soarruk.”
A large bakar with dark fur nuzzled the hand of the Elder. Tyrant was enquiring after his master. Bazrokh let his hand stroke the thick mane before answering Soarruk with a quick but firm handshake, “Throm’ka, Soarruk. That looks fresh.” He motioned his head toward Soarruk’s chest, bound with fresh bandages concentrated around his side.
“Harpies in the canyon,” Soarruk confirmed, the confidence wavering in his face a touch. “We took a bounty from Gar’Thok to keep it clear for Kosh’harg. One of the witch’s claws was poison-laced. Would have eaten my flesh down to the bones, but we paired up with some other travelers. The shaman was able to see to it that I die another day.”
Bazrokh raised an eyebrow, “Why not channel the spirits and heal it faster?”
Soarruk shrugged, “I don’t know. She seemed to have some problems calling on them effectively. None of my business. That knife of hers carried their blessing, however. Else I’d still be in the sick tent while Karka has all the fun.”
“Karka being…?”
“My hunting partner.”
A grunt of acknowledgement was all that Bazrokh gave him. He was curious if the shaman in question could really be...
“She meets with Gar’Thok right- No, here she is now, and with my ale!”
The woman Soarruk joyously pointed out was his foil in every sense of the word. Clearly a hunter, and not just by the obvious bow slung over her shoulder. Bazrokh could see it in the quiet, steady manner with which she navigated the crowd. It reminded Bazrokh of a lioness in the Barrens, and the paint on her face and arms, which broke up her darker skin, told him that she was experienced as well. That explained why the pup was as comfortable lolling his tongue around as he was.
“There you are, Karka, what took you so long?” Soarruk grumbled, his paw making grasping motions at one of the two tankards in her hands. They were similar to Baz’s.
She did not hand them over. She froze in place when she saw him, green grass eyes wide in astonishment. In her eyes, he knew he had been made, motioned his permission to her. She composed herself long enough to place the drinks down before straightening in salute. She beat her chest and held her fist there, “Aka’magosh, General Firestep!”
The crowd around them stiffened just a little at the name, but most had the good sense to go back to what they were doing. A few looked a little surprised, but they were quickly brought back to their own business by those around them.
Soarruk straightened too fast, nearly knocking his chair back as the realization hit him at that moment. “General! General, I—uh, didn’t see you for who you were! On my honor, I should have known better.”
Bazrokh waved them both down, face twisted in annoyance. “I am Elder Bazhrok here, nothing more. I have long since retired.”
“Should carve that on my pyre wood—‘didn’t know a general when he sat beside him!’ The honor is mine, sir.” Soarruk grimaced as the pain repaid him for his earlier shock, but there was still a kind of excitement on his face.
“Think nothing of it.” He waved him off again.
“But truly, Elder, is it true that you led the first breakout from your camp when Thrall came, killing the guards with nothing but your chains?”
“Yes...”
“Then... massacre of Ashenvale? After the death of your brother?”
Noticing the darkening stare of the Elder, a snort from the huntress cut through the tension, “You must forgive Soarruk. They cut their teeth on the Fourth War. His brother, Sargol, had the honor of serving under you.”
“Is that so?” There was a passing resemblance to Soarruk and a First Sergeant of the same name who served under him and the Stormblood Warband during their time in Zul’dazar. Bazhrok had a memory that lingered in the back of his mind: Kul Tiran riflemen reinforcements with Azerite ammunition, staring down their barrels as the fight to take their hastily constructed hill fortification during yet another Alliance incursion. A few naval officers managed to flank them and get off a lucky volley, but the pain never came. Only the hot blood of a soldier who had thrown his shield -and his body- in the way. The bullets, infused with the power of the planet, tore through what should have been an adequate defensive barrier. More Horde blood to stain Bazhrok’s face. More Horde blood to water foreign soil. More pyre smoke to choke Orgrimmar’s air. He was sent home with honors, and the General ensured he was posthumously promoted to the rank of Stone Guard for his sacrifice. “Yes... I think I remember a Sargol. Sargol Shatterchain. He was a good soldier. Knew how to use that chain mace and tower shield. An honorable warrior who saved many lives that day. It is a privilege to meet one of his kin.”
Soarruk shifted, hand tightening on his knee. “You honor me. More than I deserve.”
“You took up the task of clearing the way for Kosh’harg. This is deserving of honor.” He corrected him.
That silenced the table for a moment of reverence. Under the edge of his hood, Bazhrok could see Karka making a face that wrestled somewhere between awe, respect, and guilt. Perhaps the bounty wasn’t as altruistic as he had first assumed, but it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have been the first time that those who did necessary good had less than pure intentions going into it.
When the pup spoke again, he did so with a smaller voice. “Elder, I must ask, do you know of a warrior by the name of Dorant? He was traveling with the shaman who saved my life. I would thank them both.”
So the shaman was the young Merada. Good. It’d been some time since he had seen her; so many adventures out with the Emberheart Expedition, not to mention the troubles in Khaz Algar, and then the business with some cursed urn he heard about from reports he technically wasn’t supposed to get. If this pup was telling the truth and she was suffering a loss of her connection to the spirits and ancestors, then it was good that she had found a new clan to call home, and someone was willing to watch her back in Dorant.
“I am aware of Emberscowl, yes. I am sure he is setting up camp outside the walls; he is not one for large gatherings like this.”
The Frostwolf ran a hand through his red crest. “And do... do you know if he is seeing the shaman?”
“I don’t.” He told the truth, if only by omission. The last time Bazrokh had spoken with Dorant, the younger man had come asking for help; he had just finished forging an ancient dagger, and wanted a new leather sheath worthy of it. He had devoted himself to the project, bordering on zeal, and if that were not confirmation enough, Bazrokh would later catch the smith staring at the finished piece with a look that he could only describe as the parched earth dreaming of rain. Dorant’s feelings for the shaman ran deep, but he had chosen to speak them through steel and leather rather than with his own tongue.
Bazrokh had counseled him to share his heart before someone else did, but the stubborn orc claimed that there was no use, no time for such a thing when they were both so dedicated to their work. For all his stubbornness, Dorant was young yet, and the youth often mistook silence for strength. Bazrokh would have said more, perhaps even warned the pup against the alluded course of action, but the air changed—his companions’ focus had shifted to another part of the festival.
“Why don’t you ask the woman yourself, Soarruk? She’s right there.” They all followed Karka’s pointing finger, and it led straight to Merada, as she made her way through the crowd.
She looked…. Tired. Or maybe she was ill. Certainly lesser than, in a way that wasn’t easy to identify, which was saying something, as the woman with Monk’thal heritage normally excuded such strength and resolve. Her grip was tight on her dagger, which bore a craftsmanship all too familiar to the Elder, for that was the very same dagger he had aided Dorant in creating. She held it as if she were afraid it would be lost or stolen. There was something else different about her that took a second look to pinpoint. Baz may not have had a girl in every theater, as he knew some were want to do so, but he was a widower, and he knew an old tradition when he saw it; Merada had chosen to braid her black hair differently than it had been when they last met. A small detail, for sure, easily could be nothing; however, the old General posited that it was not the case. Rather than being done on a whim or a sign of her self-neglect, they indicated quietly to whoever could read the message that she was, as the humans would say, a courted woman.
Bazrokh couldn’t help but chuckle, “That boy finally went and did it. Good, good.”
“What was that?” Soarruk asked.
“Nothing, nothing. Enough of me. Tell me more about your fight with the harpies.”
His excitement wrestled with the urge to remain cool in front of an Elder he clearly respected, but the pup couldn’t resist the request. While Soarruk’s words tumbled over one another as he recounted the skirmish, all eager pride and raw energy, Baz took another look at Merada. She was lingering at the edge of the gathering, pretending to be waiting in line for water. He considered calling her over and requesting the story of the harpy ambush, the sleeping sickness, and the possessed urn; after all, as a Lorekeeper, she was trained in the art of relating oral history. But he stopped the sound from leaving his throat. If the youth wanted guidance, they would have to seek him in their own time. They wouldn’t know how to stand on their own otherwise.
He might have thought differently had he seen the sudden resolve straighten her shoulders before she turned away and strode toward the healer’s tent.
It was well-positioned near the well, both in terms of serving the needs of festivalgoers and saving Merada the trip. She had needed more herbs to replace the infused water she had used on Soarruk anyway; certainly, they would part with some, for a fair price or in trade, if not in the spirit of the season. When she pulled back the flap, the scent of roasted meat and wood smoke gave way to something sharper for her, that of memory—memories of a sage, salves, and poultice ash. The place was primarily empty, almost expectantly—more of a supply station than an actual infirmary. Only the most critical of patients would be here for observation. The rest of the drunks would have been shuffled over to the inn, which had set aside some cots for the purpose.
An older woman looked her over, exasperated when she found nothing bleeding or broken. “We are out of the herbal potions, child. I advise exercising wisdom, or you will simply have to make do without.”
Merada gaped for a moment before shaking her head, “Ah, no, Matron, I am not here for… those. I am-”
“I have nothing for the morning either, if that is your next question.”
“No,” Merada grimaced, “I am seeking Arrowroot and Morning Glory to replenish my supply… for a fair trade, of course.”
The Matron scoffed, but gave her another critical once-over. “Are you the shaman who treated that loud mouth with the harpy poison wound?”
Merada nodded once, else she risked receiving further comment about nighttime deeds.
The response she received was but a long sigh, but the Matron motioned her further inside, into the dark of the tent, toward several large sacks and crates, ”You are the first, then, half a dozen of your litter have already come to visit me in the past hour alone. Take what you wish. My reward for wisdom rare in your age.”
‘Litter’ was a low choice of words for ‘generation’, given the woman was old enough to be her grandmother, but she let it slide. Beggars could not be choosers. “Aka’Magosh, Matron.”
Left alone, Merada realized that the supplies were not only unlabeled but wildly unorganized. A result of poor management, or the barrage of visitors, it was hard to say. It did not matter, she supposed, as her mind wandered. At the same time, her hands moved automatically, sorting dried leaves from fresh, replacing crushed bandages (she pocketed some that were nothing more than rags loosely wrapped together), and restacking the crate of jarred oil that had been tossed over. The work steadied her, even as her mind moved to her next purpose: getting access into the dance circle for the Khal’kha.
In her mind, the uphill battle all hinged upon who among her kin would be attending. Having Greatmother Geyah there would be ideal, but it was unlikely. Her health wavered in her old age. It was no surprise she would abstain from traveling, just as the Frostwolf farseer Drek’Thar had. The Greatmother had always quietly supported Merada and her mother, so her absence would mean one less voice in her favor. But she was not the only authority; Elkay’gan the Mystic, Elementalist Yal’hah, along with the Lighting Sons, Farseer’s Corhuk, Margadesh, and Kurkush, all held enough power within the clan to be considered the de facto leaders of the delegation, as did Seer, now Lok’osh Nakha. It was simply a matter of who would be chosen to come. Yal’hah would have been a good choice for both herself and Garadar, as a member of the Earthen Ring, with ties outside of Nagrand to help smooth over any issues. Lok’osh Nakha was a gentler soul. She would agree to the proposal if approached. The Lighting Sons, especially Kurkush and Corhuk, were also good for Merada’s cause. They might overlook her particular situation, since this was Kosh’harg, and Clan Mok’nathal had been coming since the revival on Azeroth. Margadesh was a bit old-fashioned, and Elkay’gan even more so. They may be able to hold their tongues in the presence of other festival goers, but they would definitely object to someone of mixed blood participating in their Fire Dance.
Just as she was reaching a solemn conclusion, the flap behind her stirred. Voices filtered in—low, tired, rough in its timbre but intimately familiar. She froze, recognizing the accent of Garadar men. They spoke in hurried whispers with the Matron, then to themselves as she went to prepare or gather whatever they had asked for.
“Still no decision?” One asked his companion, the scrape of his armor audible as he sank to a stool for the wait. “The sun sets, and the fire-dance has no lead.”
A second voice—older, sharp with worry—sighed. “Aye. The elders argued for half the morning before we left Orgimmar. Some say to send word for Grashna to decide the matter, though Kosh’harg would be over by the time word returned. Others whisper we should let the dance pass us by this season.”
“Pass it by?” The first man’s scoff was full of disbelief. “After Garadar was directly called? The clans will think our spirits’ gone dull. The old traditions like the Fire Dance are who we are!”
“Tell that to the Mystic,” the older one muttered. “He fears a misstep. To name another First Dancer without Grashna’s blessing could insult the spirits. But to forgo the rite altogether…” He trailed off, and Merada could almost hear him rub a hand over his face. “It would shame us before every clan here.”
Silence followed. Just the creak of the stool, frustrated breathing, the soft rustle of supplies in their containers being shifted around. Merada didn’t breathe; she just kept her back towards the pair and continued her sorting.
The first man broke the stillness. “If they’d stop clutching old fears, they’d see an answer clearly. Perhaps there is a dancer among the other clans, someone unknown to us.”
The older man grunted. “What we need is Merika’s daughter.”
A pause. Merada’s hands tightened around a jar until the glass pressed sharply against her palms. She could not see either’s face, so there was no way to judge the tone of his words, but it sounded almost regretful.
“Merada?” the younger man said finally. “She ran off last Kosh’harg to cavort with goblins and elves. We’ll never see her again.”
The conversation drifted away—talk of supplies, of how the Garadar tents were placed too near the smoke of the Bonechewer’s cookfires—but she barely heard it. Her mind raced like a bloodlust-blinded berserker charge. There was always a First Dancer, as the Khal’kha demanded it. Still, there were always two who held the position: the primary and the apprentice, usually mother and daughter, although not always. Such was the case when her mother, Merika, had held the position of First Dancer until she gave birth to Merada, at which point she “stepped down” in favor of her apprentice at the time, Grashna. The Elders never allowed her mother to dance again, though she trained Merada as though there was always a chance they would change their minds. They never would, and when Merika died, Grashna began teaching her daughter, Torga, as her apprentice. If the strangers were to believe, and why would they lie, something must have happened to them both. To have both dancers unable to lead was truly a crisis.
Or a sign.
She waited until their footsteps faded, then rose slowly, giving a sign of thanks to the Matron as she left. From her position in the town, she could glimpse most of the festival beyond, through the sea of orcs and banners, until she found the tables under the light brown banner of the Garadar Mag’har. How she missed them before she couldn’t say, but they were here now.
It had only been a few years since her mother’s pyre, but she recognized the faces immediately. There was Kera G’ochar, a woman the same age as Merada, who held her toddler son close as he refused to eat the food given to him. Warden Bullrok and his brother were engaged in a heated discussion, but it was friendly enough. Another male, with a face bearing only the vaguest resemblance to a boy, who once called her “mudface,” “soft-tusk,” and various other colorful childhood insults, was blissfully enjoying his ale. Elkay’gan sat near the banner pole among the other elders, the light catching on their burnished tusks and ceremonial beads. Their faces were nearly unchanged, with the same stern lines carved by pride and years of Nagrand’s plain wind, softened only by the dust of the long road here. To the Mystic’s right and left, however, were the farseers, Kurkush and Corhuk, and further right still was Elementalist Yal’hah. All men, but they could be the right men.
Had the Spirits heard her? Merada dared not hope, but her heart fluttered anyway. There was a chance, a very real chance, but she needed to be clever about her approach, and quick about it too.
She rushed to the well, doing her best not to push others aside completely when it was her turn to get a bucket. The cool water helped refresh her from the heat, and the crushed bandages worked well as rags to wash the dust from her face. As she rebraided her hair and smoothed down the strays with soaked fingers, an idea crossed her mind to return to camp, where Dorant could help her put on some of the ceremonial garb she had prepared. It would make an indelible impression to be sure, but as she discarded it as quickly as the idea came to her. That would take time and bring questions she did not have the answers to. No, time was of the essence, and she had spent enough time making sure she looked as little akin to a rapid animal as possible.
Not that it seemed to matter, by the way, a few of their gazes turned toward her, then away again as she began approaching the men’s tables. She hadn’t changed much in their eyes either. There was some kindness directed her way; most suddenly took more interest in their feasting than in her, but there were a few curt nods and several bowed heads. She pressed on. Approaching the main table, the clattering of bowls and laughter faltered, replaced by the shock of those present to find a ghost still walking. Nonetheless, she inclined her head with respect in the proper bow before she spoke.
“Spirits watch over you, Elders. I am glad you all were able to make the Kosh’harg.”
The response was unexpectedly mixed. Some of the elders nodded, their expressions giving away their surprise. Others were merely courteous, but not expectant, and others still barely looked up from their bowls.
Elkay’gan the Mystic was the first to speak. “Merada…so the winds carried you back to us after all. It is an unexpected blessing to see you so hearty after your sudden departure.”
“They did,” she replied. “And they have made me stronger than when I left.”
That earned her a few side glances. Not all approving. The murmur that filtered through the other tables was cautious, uncertain. At the far end of the table closest to them was a group of younger women who stilled their chatter and watched her with a mix of curiosity and discomfort, as if she were a wild wolf who had strayed too near the fire.
Perhaps she was.
One of the women, Ahza, sharp-eyed and incurious as ever, leaned an elbow on the table. “Stronger, huh? Hm. I’d heard you’d taken up wandering with knife-ears, demon worshippers, and other filthy Ur’gora.”
Ur’gora. “Not-honor”. One of the worst possible insults an orc can use. Merada smiled coldly.
“The Blood Elves have proven themselves as warriors tenfold. I am proud to have fought alongside them, and while I still question the source of power the warlocks and demon hunters turn to, I have come to recognize that the use of such magics does not automatically mean dishonor.” She turned to face Ahza directly, “In truth, I have seen one of their kind have more honor, and earn more glory, than an entire pack of Outridders.”
Ahza shot out of her seat, unsettling her wolf behind her, but Merada did not flinch. The quiet that followed was thick enough to chew, until Farseer Corhuk chuckled.
“Your mother’s fire seems to have found a worthy new home, Merada. Merika would be proud.” He paused, considering her as he continued, “Your timing is… curious. Kosh’harg began under an unsettling sign. You have heard that Garadar is to organize a Khal’kha, surely?”
“I had… heard rumors, Farseer. The clans have given you a great honor.”
“Then you should know that our dance-circle stands without its lead.”
Merada’s gaze lifted, her head jerking to the side. “Grashna and Torga?”
The Farseer nodded solemnly. “The Spirit of Life blessed Grashna with twins. Her body didn’t recover from labor in time to leave. Torga, however, sustained injuries on the journey. The swelling is severe. She is being cared for by the healers, but... There are doubts that her ankle will support her weight so soon.”
The pause in his words was unexpected, almost a cloaked invitation. It was hard to say. A few of the gathered exchanged uneasy looks. Did they sense it as Merada had? “This is troubling to hear, Corhuk. Garadar’s honor should never lack a dancer.”
“Indeed, it should not.”
She watched Farseer Kurkush murmur something to Yal’ah beside him. The Elementist kept looking back between him and her, until his hand brushed the other man aside. He leaned forward in his seat with a renewed interest in her, “Tell me, Merada, do you still remember your mother’s rhythm?
“Like the heart that beats in my chest,” She countered, too quickly. “Her blood is my blood.”
A murmur passed through the table—agreement wrapped in reluctance. Merada’s words tread on dangerous ground. Merika had been dearly loved, but she had also fallen far from favor for having her daughter.
Elkay’gan spoke back up, and the crowd listened. “We’ll find someone. The spirits won’t have us shamed before the clans.”
“Someone,” Corhuk echoed, though his gaze lingered on Merada longer than she expected.
Had she pressed her luck too far? There was a sphere of silence around her. Even the greater feasting around them seemed to have quieted, perhaps sensing the tension. Merada silently challenged each of the men’s eyes. Kurkush and Elkay’gan both met her gaze, though what they offered her couldn’t be further apart from each other; the latter wanted her to go back to being a forethought, while the former looked almost amused about the whole exchange. Corhuk only stirred his soup. Yal’ah seemed lost in his own mind, brow creased in deep thought.
There was nothing to gain by lingering. “Strength and honor, Elders.”
She didn’t wait for a response. The silence stretched out to follow her away from the tables, away from the feasting, back to the well and outside the walls. She walked until the laughter and smoke had largely faded behind her, a bucket of water in each hand.
A curse slipped from her lips. She was unsure how to make sense of the entire exchange. Maybe she had been too bold. Garadar wasn’t known for quick decisions and careful planning, after all. The same restlessness that characterized Garrosh seemed to have taken root in her. Or maybe she had been spending too much time around elves. They have so many fanciful ways of twisting words, of turning mud water into honey, saying one thing but truly meaning another. It didn’t matter. She would dance for the Spirits of Life and Flame; they couldn’t physically stop her. It might not have been in the position of honor she foolishly hoped for earlier, but that didn’t matter. The thought didn’t ease the tightness in her chest; however, seeing Dorant tending to his arms by a respectful fire brought a little relief.
When she arrived at camp, Dorant was setting down his axe in favor of the harpy-blood-covered shield. He barely glanced in her direction before he asked, “Did the Spirits call for a pilgrimage for those buckets?”
“Something like that.” She sighed.
He frowned. “You found your clan-kin, I take it.”
“Something like that.”
He stood, putting aside his work to approach her, “It did not go well, did it?”
Merada set the buckets down, accessible but out of the way, “I.. I am unsure. Garadar does not have anyone to lead the Khal’kha.”
“A position of importance and honor, I take it.”
“Something like-” She chuckled, “Yes. The First Dancer sets the rhythm for the circle. A good rhythm means the spirits are more likely to be in attendance.”
Dorant nodded curtly, a sign he understood what was being quietly said, “Did they extend the honor?”
She thought back to the exchange. Her head shook in quiet defeat.
“I would not be so sure, Merada,” Dorant asked, but his attention was turned back to Razor Hill, and his finger was pointed towards an approaching young orc, whose tabard bore the Garadar crest—one of the Outrider apprentices, who were trusted to deliver messages.
Her breath caught, though she did not let it show. They waited for the man to approach the camp.
“Merada, daughter of Merika?” The messenger’s voice was steady, formal.
“I am.”
“The elders bid me find you,” he said, “They ask that you join them in the camp.”
“Did they, now?” Dorant murmured, his arms folded. The elemental magic in his metal arm flared.
He hesitated to answer, glancing instead at the Blackrock orc whose blazing eyes were piercing into his person, “Yes... The Mystic has proclaimed that the circle will not stand empty. You are needed at the Garadar camp to help with the preparations before sundown.”
For a heartbeat, Merada said nothing. She just stared into the space in front of the messenger’s face, searching for any sign of deception. The young orc fidgeted, uncertain whether to repeat himself, but she finally drew a long breath through her nose and found his eyes again. There was no deceit there. They wouldn’t have sent him if there had been. She lifted her chin and answered, “Tell them I will come, but I will prepare myself here, at my camp. There is a bounty hunter, Karkaa, at this festival, traveling with a man named Soarruk. Tell her I’d like her here, that I wish to call in the life debt her hunting partner owes me.”
The messenger looked confused, the words clearly meaning more than he understood, but bowed quickly and set off without another question. Merada stood beside Dorant until the stranger was well out of hearing range.
“Why not go with the messenger?” He questioned her, the previous heat in his gaze simmering down to something more gentle.
For the first time since they had arrived, Merada smiled with a wicked radiance back at him, unguarded and with too much tusk. “Because it would irritate them. A small price to pay, I think.”
Dorant raised an eyebrow at this, the ghost of concern flickering across his face. He thought to reach for her, steady or comfort her as she may need, but he uncertainly stayed his hand. As if reading his mind, it was her hand that reached for his instead. She squeezed him tightly, grounding him, reassuring him. When she let him go, it was to march back into the tent. When Dorant tried to follow her inside, she stopped him with the gentlest hand on his chest.
“No, I need to get ready. Alone. It’s important....Go enjoy Kosh’harg. Get cleaned up. At sunset, find a place at the bonfire for us.”
He nodded, reluctant but understanding. “Perhaps I will see if Bazrokh has slipped through the monk’s fingers again.”
Without ceremony, she caught his jaw in her hand and kissed him tenderly. “Say hello to the old man if you see him.”
He grunted, the sound rougher than he meant it, betraying more than he liked, and left her to herself.
The air hung heavy with anticipation that night, the large bonfire spitting sparks as its flames clawed upward and cast restless shadows over the gathering. The sun had almost completely set by now, and the crowd around Dorant began to get restless. They whispered and grumbled rumors and concerns in equal measure. It seemed there had been trouble with the first dancer, the one who was meant to be the spark to start the blaze, yet no one knew who was meant to step forward to ignite the night in her place.
Dorant was unbothered, however. He knew the truth. Merada would appear… eventually.
In the meantime, he had found a place to watch the dancing as instructed, in a prime place amongst the gathering crowd, almost directly in front of the fire. The woven rug he was leaning back on was borrowed from Bazrokh, whom he had found almost by accident at one of the feasting tables alongside the two bounty hunters.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Bazrokh had said simply when he pushed the rolled-up carpet into the Blackrock orc’s arms. The knowing grin that followed the statement twisted what was likely meant to be a soothing sentiment, but Dorant had not pushed him on the topic. Not in front of veritable strangers.
He looked down into the metal cup in his hand, at the sheen and shimmer of the reflected firelight as it danced across the reddish-burnt-golden orange liquor. The surface shifted with each breath he took, the liquid swaying in slow, hypnotic arcs. Its scent rose warm and heady, honey with wild berries, but even that faded as his eyes traced the way the firelight curled over the drink, almost as if the spirit itself was rehearsing the first steps of a dance.
His thoughts were beckoned along, loosening the defenses he had built up since he last saw her. Unspoken words and uncertain desires surfaced, too vague to hold onto. The crowd’s murmurs blurred into a distant hum, muted behind that veil of color, heat, and unspoken things. Time passed, but how much he couldn’t say. Just when the hush fell on the crowd, soft, sweeping, immediate, the trance he was in had broken. Dorant lifted his gaze from the cup, and there she was: Merada, stepping into the light from the shadows.
Dorant had only seen her needlework at various stages of completion—here a piece, there a part—but never all together or on her actual person. This was probably why she had barred him earlier. Her chest was cropped and tight, serving both as a modesty cover and an accentuation of her breasts. Her skirt was decorated with fur and fangs, highlighting her hips and emphasizing their sway, making each movement more striking. Where she was not covered by clothing, layers of charms hung from leather and beaded cords. Among these was her mother’s split-horn necklace and shiny metal bangles dangling at her wrists and ankles—the ones that he had made for her—and white war paint, applied in swirls and lines that marked her from head to toe. The symbology was clear, even if he couldn’t quite divine their meaning at a glance.
Her back arched in a slow, deliberate curve, ribs rising and falling in a flowing wave that spilled down through her hips. Her arms swept outward, elbows bent, wrists relaxed—like smoke that followed was the fire, the light of which shimmered off the metal disks, casting molten sparks into the night. The movement was smooth, respectful, and mesmerizing. A low hum, followed by a guttural shout from the crowd, propelled her forward: a sudden, sinuous twist of her spine, hips snapping forward in a thrust of pure carnal energy, as if she were summoning the sun itself to worship between her thighs. The embodiment of the flame’s passion: the life-giver, come to ripen fruits, to swell seeds, heal the sick, and restore fertility to what was long thought dead and barren. Gathered revelers watched, entranced, caught in the magnetic pull of her power.
A sharp clap. A shout. Sensuality gave way to something more ferocious, more dangerous. Merada moved to the drum’s new, relentless beat with a flick of her hips that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. Her hair lashed about her shoulders, wild and untamed. Her core tightened with each movement, her shoulders rolling like an avalanche of flesh. Her legs churned like roots ripped from the earth. Gold eyes flashed with predatory hunger as she moved with brutal grace—beauty sharpened into raw, violent desire.
She dropped low, knees bending, hips snapping side to side in a punishing rhythm that spoke of ancient rites and forbidden pleasures. A tool for creation twisted into a means of destruction; the fury of wildfire, the devouring hunger of an erupting volcano, the devastation that follows in the wake of war. The ecstasy of consumption.
Then she rose again, spinning, balanced on the balls of her feet, arms flaring wide. Fingers stretched as if she could fling flame straight from her skin. Her breath joined the music: a cry, a moan, a ragged gasp that carried into the night.
By then, the rest of her looked as if wrapped in fire itself, every braid of flame moving with her. Merada was no longer just a woman. She was living fire—Fluid, sensual, but crackling with the precision of something barely controlled. Each turn was a blaze of intention, every motion a declaration: rhythm as defiance, chaos with a pulse. Fire as part of the cycle, as a catalyst for change. Neither a medicine nor a weapon, only a tool with the power to be both.
When the drums fell silent on a final, harrowing pound, so did she—breath ragged, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat. She lowered her arms, and the spell shattered. The night inhaled again. The crowd, still flushed with fire’s feral warmth coursing through their veins, erupted in approval. More dancers surged forward as the drummers struck a new rhythm into the dark, swarming around Merada like the sparks eager for kindling.
She barely noticed them. Her wet eyes sought instead for the face of her mate, and her feet followed the tide of people until she found him. Dorant was reclining comfortably, confidently, leaning on his metal arm with legs stretched out on a rug she didn’t recognize. His chest was exposed, revealing scars that testified to his warrior pride. It seemed odd to her that he held a drink; although she couldn’t see into the hammered metal cup illuminated by flickering firelight, Dorant usually didn’t drink alcohol. Yet, the dark, intense gaze fixed on her revealed everything, as if he were undressing her with his eyes alone.
“You dance very well, Merada.” He leaned in, his breath was a warm ghost in her ear.
“I only did what was required of me, Dorant.” A small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips.
“Hm, then you are welcome to my drink. I recall it is traditional to offer a drink to the dancers of the Khal’kha. To bless them.”
His jaw tightened as she leaned across him for the cup, even as he offered it freely. The liquid inside was a distinctive hue. Merada’s eyes widened. Could it? She took a sniff before tasting it to be sure. “Is this-?”
“Bloodmead.” The smirk curled around his tusks, “It is the traditional choice for the season, is it not?”
Merada’s eyes softened. Though it was dark, Dorant was sure he could see her skin darken further to her ears. She drained the cup before setting it aside.
“Yes.” She swallowed, “Yes, it is.”
He sat up to kiss her forehead without crowing about his victory, letting her lean on him in silence as the dance circle grew around them; voices rose in guttural song. Feet stomped the dirt until dust billowed like smoke. Laughter turned into wild howls. The party reached a fever pitch, with dancers clashing in a chaotic rhythm, their drinking horns raised high before being drained again. Couples peeled away from the firelight, some bold enough to express their lustful intents where all could see, others stumbling into the shadows in tangled bursts of limbs and laughter.
Merada saw none of it. Or rather, she did, but it did not matter at the moment. What mattered more was the warmth of the bloodmead spreading through her chest, blending with the bonfire, her dancing, and the furnace of his flesh. How it contrasted with the chill of a high desert autumn, the particular bite it gave the metal arm as he lifted her to sit cross-legged, wrapping his arms around her as if it were a shield – a bulwark to mirror the one he made her – pulling her until the space between them disappeared. How the wine and ritual incense made the beat of the drums feel slower and heavier, falling in line with the steady rise and fall of Dorant’s chest.
He wanted her. She knew it. She could feel his arousal pressing against her, hard and insistent through their clothing, but there were other signs. Dorant’s metal arm kept her steady at the waist, but his flesh hand flexed and fidgeted with the fringes of her skirt. His smoldering eyes revealed their hunger each time they flicked to her, then traced the curve of her neck, along her spine, before snapping back to the fire, or to a stranger that passed by too close to them.
And yet, he remained reserved, as if he were waiting for something.
She decided to test him. Her body pressed closer, the scent of smoke and smithing flux, which was uniquely his, filling her senses. His body stiffened. Her thighs brushed his and his hand, and she watched his jaw clench. Her arm curled along the width of his shoulders so her fingers could trace delicate patterns along his scars. Retold the story of each one she knew in her mind, and imagined new ones for the ones she didn’t. Still, he didn’t give in, though his chest rose more sharply with each breath. It was a game of patience, and maybe it was celebrations, or the intoxicants, but she found herself partly amused by the whole thing.
Behind the creased brow, Dorant was fighting a war in his mind; he was hungry. He had proved himself in battle, fought monstrous foes from other worlds, and endured wounds that would have felled lesser warriors—his prosthetic was proof of that—but nothing had tested his resolve quite like watching her dance. He wanted more of her. More of her scent, which was maddening, more of the softness that was her skin. Every shift of her body against his only stoked him more. It wouldn’t be shameful to give in either. She wouldn’t deny him. He felt it in her small touches, in the way she kept pulling him in, searching his eyes for something.
Somewhere in the dark, he caught sight of Soarruk luring a giddy female off who was not Karak into the night, and the easement in his mind was dragged back, kicking and screaming, into the rigid formation of willpower. No, Dorant was not that kind of man, no matter how hot his blood ran in this moment. It was not safe. He would not risk Merada or her honor in this oppressive, hedonistic air of the celebration. He’d rather leave, retreat away from prying eyes to their tent where they could be alone. However, this was her night, her Khal’kha. He dared not act until she was ready, even if everything was threatening to break him first.
Merada leaned back and looked him thoroughly in the eyes. Her lips curved into something soft but uncertain, and he only raised his eyebrow, as if he were silently daring her to speak.
So she did, low enough for only him to hear.
“Thank you, Dorant…for joining me. For trusting me.”
“I did nothing but what I was told to,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her entire body, “What else is required of you?”
“From Garadar? Nothing. I have done my part.”
He swallowed, “And the spirits?”
Her face flickered in the night. Doubt, hope, and the delicate dance between each.
“Put it out of your mind then,” Dorant commanded, guiding her back into his arms by the lowest dip in her back, “You burned brighter tonight than any fire, and thus have given them the greatest of honors this night. They are never expedient in providing their wisdom. Give them time to return the boon.”
She sighed. He wasn’t lying.
“You sound like the old man.” She whispered against his lips. Taking his face in both her hands, she kissed his cheek, then his forehead, before she finally tasted him, sharing her faint bloodmead, smoke, and sweat with him.
He didn’t answer with words; instead, he returned her affections. His tusks brushed her cheek as he deepened the kiss, his low growl and breathless surrender blending into one. Dorant broke from her lips just long enough to press his forehead to hers.
“You have set a fire in me.” His breath came heavy, uneven, his voice more gravel than words.
“That is the point of the festival.” Her laugh was quiet.
“Maybe.” He chuckled with her, “Are you sure you can handle it?”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, a private smile that said she was sharing a secret. Guiding his right hand to rest on her thigh, she watched Dorant’s jaw clench, as if the effort of holding himself back was nearly too much. With his trembling restraint, he slid higher up her thigh, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner leg, causing her to shiver despite the warmth of the night. It grounded him. Every part of him wanted to seize, to possess, to burn — but he kept his strength coiled and controlled, as if the simple act of restraint proved his devotion. They were still not alone, even as no attention was spared them.
But then her hips ground closer against him, every movement purposeful. Her lips ghosted the line of his jaw, followed the muscles down across his throat, the faint scrape of her tusk grazing his skin, and the restraint in his touch cracked. The world pressed in—the heat of the fire, the steady beat of drums, the voices of others around them—but all of it seemed to bend, dim, and fall away again. The crowd around them faded away into a blur of shadows and sounds, until all that existed was the space between their bodies, charged with unspoken promises.
“Can you?” Her eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Dorant’s hands slid across her body like iron, his free hand splaying against damp skin as he moved to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her sweat-dampened hair. He tilted her head back, exposing the line of her throat to his hungry gaze before his lips descended upon hers in a kiss with none of the careful control of before. It was both possession and surrender—hard, demanding, yet filled with a reverence that made her heart ache. She curled her fingers into his skin, reeling from the intensity of it.
There was greed in the way his hands felt up her body now, in his fingers’ memorization of the subtle curve of her waist and the appreciative sigh he exhaled, sensing the strength in her thighs braced around him. His hand moved from her thigh to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was no space left between them. Merada arched against him, her body responding instinctively to his touch. His path doubled back the way they came, so she would do it again. When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Dorant’s eyes were heavy with desire.
“Keep testing me, Merada, and I will forget where we are.” His voice was a dark, dangerous sound, raw with effort.
Merada could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her breasts, a rhythm that matched her own. “Then take me elsewhere. Where we can see whose fire burns hottest.”
Dorant growled, a sound that rolled from his chest into hers, and for a moment it seemed he might still hold the line. But the warrior in him yielded in a single, fluid motion, and without waiting for her, he stood, still holding her in his arms, his strength evident in his unshakeable grip. A sharp breath escaped Merada, surprised in a husky laugh as her legs instinctively tightened around his waist. Her arms slid around his neck, clutching him as if she belonged there, and she did, like flame clinging to the wood that feeds it.
He carried her through the dispersing crowd toward the shadows beyond the firelight, the bonfire and drums fading behind them at a steady, urgent pace, muffling into a distant thrumming heartbeat that surged in their blood as the air cooled their skin.
When they reached the tent, Dorant shifted her higher against his chest, one hand brushing the hide flap aside. The heavy fabric fell back with a final muted snap, enclosing them in the hush of their own space and the ragged sound of their breathing. The scent of smoke and sweat clung heavily to them both.
For a heartbeat, the two stood there in the dim silence. Dorant held her as if she weighed nothing, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms locked around his neck. Breath mingling, bodies embracing, souls wound taut in the darkness. It was one thing to play games in the light when action was forbidden, and consequences were a far-off, fanciful concept. Now that action was permissible, there was a hesitation, a last-minute re-evaluation where the consequences were immediate and very, very real.
But then his mouth found hers again, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, demanding entry, and she opened to him with a soft moan. He took the sound as an invitation to press the front, their kiss becoming a frantic exploration of mouths and tongues, of teeth nipping at sensitive flesh. His hands roamed her body with possessive urgency, mapping every curve and hollow as if committing her to memory.
Unrestrained now, the fire that had smoldered at the edge of control finally ignited. The games were over. What followed was fierce, consuming, as though both sought to claim and be claimed in the same breath. The consequences were now. And at this moment, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
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