“You cannot do this. You can not do this.”

Uthur ignored Eshge’s admonishments and marched on, down the curving hall and then to the left. Towards the vaulted cavern where all of clan Dragha awaited them. Mika was forced into a light jog just to keep up.

Threl fell in at her side.

“Hey, want me to pick you up?”

“No,” she snapped.

Eshge took a sharp breath and surged forward, refusing to let Uthur outpace them.

“If they learn the truth—”

Uthur stopped short and whipped around to face the schola so fast that the two nearly collided. At his other side, Retga stopped too—crossing her arms as she leant against the wall.

“I have no choice,” he said, a growl curling at the edges of his words. “What would you have me do?”

“Demand he challenge Ret instead.”

Retga snorted, and Uthur’s laugh echoed wildly down the hall. Shaking his head, he turned from them and continued on.

“Esh,” Ume murmured, coming up behind Eshge and putting a hand to their shoulder. “You know that’s not how this works.”

“He could have tried,” they snarled. “If he does this, and we don’t win the Rite of Gold…”

“This is his choice to make, and he’s made it.”

Catching hold of Threl’s skirt, Mika tugged at it.

“What’s going to happen to me? Can Uthur Stormsing? Or Greensing?”

But Threl just shook his head. They’d come to the entrance of the great cavern, Uthur heading their procession down the stairs while all of Clan Dragha roared as one. And as one, the crowd pressed back to form a path and a clearing at the heart of it all.

There, waiting at the center of the otherwise empty space, was Alaric—that smug smile still plastered across his face. Mika had never hated him so much as in that moment.

What I wouldn’t give to tear that grin right off his stupid, ugly head.

While she and the rest of Thrall Uthur stopped at the outer edge of the clearing, the iron-haired prince strode forward to meet Alaric at its center. Mika’s veins flooded with the fire of fear. With no proper outlet for the sudden surge of energy, she vibrated on the spot. The challenge was formally declared, and the two princes bowed to one another. Then, a horn was blown.

For a moment, they just stood there. Alaric leering, Uthur impassive. Then the red prince hauled in a breath great enough to fill his massive lungs, and Mika could practically see the power of his voice as it gathered within him. His lips fell open, a deep note rising in his throat.

But Uthur’s voice pierced it through, a sudden, brutal note. A spear of sound thrown at full force.

Alaric’s lips snapped shut even as his eyes went wide with shock. An exclamation rose up from the crowd. In the next heartbeat his face twisted in fury. Then the red prince was surging forward, meatslab hands clenched into fists.

The simple notes of Uthur’s Song drew faster together, weaving into a proper melody. There was a horrible, meaty crack as Alaric’s right leg bent unnaturally backward and buckled beneath him. Mika’s stomach churned, bile surging up her throat. Alaric’s cries of pain were stunted, locked behind his jaws and largely drowned out by the increasing uproar of Clan Dragha. But they went on and on nonetheless as the next few notes shattered his left leg.

The Song rose, building to a sudden crescendo. The ear-curling crunch of Alaric’s right arm came in time with the beat, a counterpoint to Uthur’s thrumming vocals. The last few notes shattered his left, Alaric’s muffled cries sputtering now as tears streamed down his face. The Song was over. Uthur fell silent. And for just an eyeblink, so too did the crowd.

Then he turned his back on the broken prince. Gaze fixed straight ahead, he strode through his gathered thrall and made for the exit. The rest of them fell in behind the prince as the crowd parted before him. But rather than reverence, there was disgust flashing in their eyes as they watched Uthur pass. Disgust and fear.

Mika’s legs quaked beneath her as she struggled to keep up, fighting the urge to turn and flee. Fighting not to vomit.

She didn’t know what she’d expected. She’d wanted him to win, of course she had. But not like that. Never like that. He’s…he’s a monster. By all the teachings of my people, an abomination.

And yet, most sickeningly of all…she was still relieved. Still grateful. Still happy to join his thrall over Alaric’s, even though a part of her wanted to run screaming at the thought of either one of them.

Threl slowed to fall in beside her as they made their way back to the plant-lined chamber.

“Well, that’s it,” said Eshge to Ume, just a little ahead of Mika at the back of the group. “He’s doomed.”

“Not if he becomes king,” said the other schola, though her voice was hushed, doubtful.

Eshge laughed bitterly.

Mika snatched at Threl’s sleeve.

“The rest of the clan…they didn’t know he could do that, did they?”

The elf didn’t bother to look down at her as he answered. His expression was lost, eyes fixed on something far away.

“I didn’t know he could do that,” he said.

Again Eshge and Ume accompanied Mika down the aisle, though this time with Uthur in the lead. But when they reached the balcony, he gestured for them to stay close—out of sight of the crowd below, just inside and flanking the balcony entrance.

As Mika struggled back to the top of the statue, the prince offered her a hand. For half a heartbeat, she thought of taking it—sucking in a sharp breath at the ghost of sensation that rose up in response. But she shoved back the sinful thought and shook her head. Uthur let fall his hand, and Mika managed to steady herself.

“By our blood are you reborn,” he said, carrying on where’d they’d left off without preamble.

From the hidden sheath sewn into the top panel of her skirts, Mika pulled a blade so slender and small she wondered at the fact the orcs had even had possession of it. The rest of the thrall withdrew their nose coverings again and, this time, tied them on. All except for Uthur.

Drawing a blade of his own from his broadsash, he opened his left palm with a single deft swipe. And then he pressed it to her brow.

Her nose scrunched as her hair grew sticky and hot with its ichor. But then her face relaxed as again that strange, tingling, glowy sensation overcame her. The one she’d discovered the first time she ever heard Uthur sing. But now it was concentrated at her forehead, sending waves of shivering bliss through her body every other heartbeat.

He stepped back from her, and Mika watched him expectantly. But he just gave her the minutest shake of his head, and still did not cover his nose.

“By your blood are we nourished,” he intoned.

For a few more heartbeats, she just stared at him. But each one felt like an eternity. Everyone was watching…and what could she do?

“Go on,” whispered Uthur.

At last, hands shaking, she shook back the sleeve of her wounded arm and peeled off the coverings.

They’d left the cut untouched, save for some salve to prevent infection, and it took barely a brush of her blade to reopen it. Fresh blood welled forth to drip down her arm. Then, her sharpest tooth driving into her lip as all her baser instincts shrieked at her to stop, she offered it up.

Uthur’s slit pupils and nostrils flared wide, but his jaw set—teeth gritting together as he stepped closer.

Then the prince bent before her, just enough that she might reach his brow to smear it with her blood. The glimmering sensation grew suddenly more intense and then faded. The prince withdrew, lips sealed tightly shut around his tusks, and it began to feel as though something were tickling the back of Mika’s eyeballs.

While Uthur stepped to the side, the other orcs of the thrall watched him, expressions writ with awe. And then Ume came forward. The tingling feeling resumed as she poured her blood to Mika, though not half so strong or pleasing as it had been with the prince. Eshge came next, and then an orc Mika didn’t know. One after another, each member of the thrall approached, giving blood and receiving it. The insides of Mika’s head grew ever lighter, weighted down by the mat of her gummed-up hair. But strangely, as her blood drained away, so too did her fear. Even the sickness in her stomach eased.

Retga came to her last, eyes tight around the corners. As she pressed her wound to Mika’s brow, the tingling sensation was so strong that she found it hard to stay upright. It flowed from her head to her toes in wave after golden wave. But Retga had gone rigid. Even with the leather strapped over her nose, her pupils went wide and she swallowed back saliva as Mika spread her blood over her forehead.

Their eyes locked, then, and time slowed for a heartbeat as something passed between them. What it was, exactly, Mika couldn’t be sure. Then the thread of connection snapped, and Retga stepped awkwardly back. Mika stayed where she was as the prince retreated to make way for Bosarg, who resalved her wound and sang it shut. When he’d done with her, Eshge and Ume ushered Mika down the short stair from the balcony as Uthur took her place. A queue formed in the aisle behind them, and the pair of Fleshsingers began to work their way through the thrall’s many wounds.

The first few of the healed orcs retreated immediately to the back of the space. There they cracked open the black casks propped up on ledges along the walls, pulling drinking horns from their belts.

“Princess,” called one of them. “The lady of honor. Where’s your cup?”

“I…er—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Ume. “I am so sorry. I forgot that part.” Reaching to her belt, she unhooked her own horn.

“Here, Mika, use mine. I’ll share with Eshge.”

Eshge raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’ll take Eshge’s.”

Rolling her eyes, the schola thrust the enormous cup into Mika’s hands, giving her a little nudge at her back. Mika planted her feet and frowned.

“We all drink together after the blooding, but don’t worry. We’ll be to bed soon enough. I’m sure everyone’s as exhausted as you are.”

Eshge leaned forward and down, speaking just above a whisper.

“Just humor them,” they whispered. “You don’t even have to drink. Just put your lips to the rim and smile.”

Sighing, Mika did as she was told and let the orcs fill her cup. In truth, she was actually quite thirsty. Taking a sip, she found the stuff to be sweet and strangely piney. She wasn’t at all sure she liked it.

“‘Atta girl!” said the drink-pouring orc, kneeling and slapping her back hard enough to send her stumbling forward, golden fluid splashing from the cup and over skirt and floor.

“Careful, Durg!” scolded the other. “You’re gonna knock the lungs outta her!”

Durg flushed.

“Ope.” It was a sound that could have as easily been a word as a burp. “Apologies, princess.”

Wrinkling her nose, Mika plucked at her dripping skirt with one hand as she steadied herself.

“You’re forgiven,” she sniffed.

But Durg’s face twisted with distress, eyes fixed upon her forehead. His own brow-markings turned from bright green to murky gray.

“It’s alright!” he insisted. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise!”

She frowned. “What—”

But Ume, following Durg’s gaze, gasped and knelt before her, one hand going up to cover her mouth as the other went to Mika’s shoulder.

“Princess, you…you’ve got—”

Eshge drew in closer, mouth agape.

“What in all the powers?” they breathed, their markings flashing orange in alarm.

Mika’s lips fell open, ready to demand an explanation. But as she looked into Ume’s wide eyes and saw her own reflection, she had it.

Her forehead was aglow with flame-colored markings. And as she reeled backward in shock, her hand slapping up to cover her brow, she realized what she should have much sooner.

Not only did she have markings, but she could see everyone else’s, even though her goggles were still tucked away in their inner pocket.

The orcs’ blood…somehow, it had changed her.

Mika sat hard on the uneven stone of the floor, bones reverberating with the impact. Then, throwing back her head, she began to keen.