Then, that insidious voice filled her mind again, a smooth and honeyed whisper that made her blood run cold:
"They will not suffer this insult long. Their fury rises, ready to boil over. Yet you... you can tame their rage, make it yours to command. A drop of your blood on the ground—just a drop—and I shall grant you the power to boil their blood with wrath or calm it into obedience. The choice is yours, blood-bearer."
Nindia stiffened. Her pulse quickened, and her breath caught in her throat. She glanced at the others, but no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. Faramos was locked in his exchange with Graknok, his mocking words slurred but defiant. Brenda and Korena were entirely focused on the battle. The orcs, though silent and watchful, showed no sign of hearing the voice.
It was clear: she alone could hear it.
Her grip tightened on her weapon as the weight of the voice’s promise pressed on her. A drop of blood? She looked at the dagger in her hand instinctively, her mind swirling with unease.
Her gaze flicked to the orcs, their towering forms unmoving but brimming with a barely contained energy. The voice’s seductive whisper came again, as though it could sense her hesitation:
"The power is yours, blood-bearer. All it takes is a drop. Your will over theirs, or their wrath unchecked. You can choose... Or leave it to fate."
Nindia’s jaw clenched, her mind racing. The second creature, unperturbed by its companion’s destruction, shambled very close to her, its grotesque fungal body pulsating ominously. The battle demanded her attention, yet the voice’s promise lingered, a chilling temptation only she could hear.
Nindia, what do you do?