Page 11 of The War God's Woman

My throat feels tight. “Yes, but I’m supposed to be his… bride. That must grant me some right to speak with him, yes?”

Nagra’s gaze drops to the ground. “In theory, the chieftain’s mate is second only to him in rank. But you haven’t been formally recognized by the clan. Many still think of you as a prisoner or a sacrificial lamb. Approaching Ghorzag might draw more suspicion.”

I swallow hard. “I can’t just hide in this tent, waiting for them to decide my fate, either. If they’re performing this rite tonight, I need to at least know what it entails.”

After a long pause, Nagra sighs. “I might be able to help. If you truly want to see him, I can try to slip you a chance later. But it’ll be risky. Some orcs are still fuming from the morning’s uproar.”

My heart leaps at that sliver of possibility. “Please. I’ll take the risk.”

She studies me for a moment more, then gives a reluctant nod. “Fine. Finish your meal and gather your courage. If fortunesmiles on us, I can lead you to Ghorzag before the evening gathering.” She rises to her feet, brushing dust from her leather leggings. “But be cautious. If we cross paths with Gorath or any of the chieftain’s rivals, your presence might provoke a confrontation.”

I clutch the bowl of stew like a lifeline. “I understand.”

“Good.” She starts to leave, then pauses at the flap, tossing me a fleeting, sympathetic look. “Do you regret coming here, Lirienne? You must have known it would be hard.”

A wave of conflicting emotions wells inside me—fear, nostalgia, longing for the simplicity of my old life, but also a stubborn spark of determination. “Sometimes I do,” I admit, “but regrets won’t fix anything. I have to see it through.”

She inclines her head, an almost-grin tugging at her mouth. “You might survive, human. You have the right spirit for it.”

With that, she slips out into the daylight, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the stew steadily cooling in my hands. I lift the spoon again, sipping absently.I have the right spirit,I repeat to myself, half in amazement. No one has called me strong or fierce before. But maybe, in this brutal place, a seed of defiance is blooming inside me.

I press my palm against my sternum, feeling my heartbeat and reaffirming my vow: I’ll do whatever I can to make this arrangement worth the risk—to protect my village, and maybe even to show these orcs that not all humans are their enemies. And that I’m not the scapegoat they think I am.

Outside, the fortress thrums with activity, the clan preparing for the day’s tasks and the looming evening rite. I set aside my bowl, square my shoulders, and draw in a lungful of the tent’s leather-scented air. The debate in my mind—the one that pulls me between fleeing and standing my ground—has reached its conclusion: I stay. I endure.

Because if I don’t, everything I’ve sacrificed will be for nothing.

4

GHORZAG

Dawn breaks with pale light creeping through the high windows of my private quarters. I stand near the narrow balcony overlooking the clan’s courtyard, arms folded as I survey the fortress below. Orcs bustle about—some preparing the morning’s training sessions, others hefting crates of supplies or tending small fires for cooking. From up here, the scene appears almost orderly, as if the tension roiling within the clan is hidden beneath the routine. But I can feel the undercurrent of unease like a low, thrumming drumbeat.

My gaze drifts to the far corner of the courtyard, where a cluster of rough tents sprawls in haphazard rows. Somewhere among them, Lirienne has been taken. I tell myself the arrangement is only temporary, that I’ll find a more suitable space for her once the initial uproar dies down. Yet guilt tugs at me, a persistent, nagging bite. A small, human woman—my mate, supposedly—tucked away in a drafty tent under watchful, often hostile eyes. It isn’t the alliance I pictured when I first offered the proposal to her people. It feels… precarious.

A firm knock on my chamber door interrupts my brooding. “Enter,” I rumble, pulling away from the balcony’s edge.

The door swings open to admit Karzug, my second-in-command, clad in his usual leather armor etched with lightning insignias. His face is as tight as a drawn bowstring. “Chieftain,” he says by way of greeting, inclining his head briefly.

I gesture for him to speak. “What news?”

He lifts one hand, holding a small wooden carving—a whittled figurine shaped like a raven, but the edges are darkened, scorched by flame. “We found this near the Eastern Pasture fence, tied to a split beam,” he says, voice tinged with annoyance. “A sign. Possibly from the priests, or from someone wanting to look like they’re aligned with the War God.”

My tusks grind together. “I take it the fence was damaged?”

He nods. “Broken during the night. And the water channels that feed into the eastern fields look tampered with—rocks piled, deliberately diverting the flow. Could explain the flooding that’s ruining crops.”

Heat flares in my chest, somewhere between anger and grim satisfaction. I’ve suspected sabotage for days, but each new discovery makes it harder to ignore. “So not a natural overflow,” I say quietly, turning the figurine over in my hand. The scorched wood smells faintly of pitch. “Someone wants the clan to believe these disasters are divine punishment.”

Karzug’s mouth twitches. “And we both know the clan is more than willing to believe it. Cursing the human woman is simpler than accepting that someone within our ranks could be betraying us.”

My fists clench around the figurine. This confirms the roiling doubt I’ve felt since last night’s confrontation: the omens might not be the War God’s doing, but a deliberate ploy. But by whom—and why? It could be some misguided orc who loathes the idea of an alliance with humans, or a more sinister outside force, like the dark elves, sowing discord among us.

I exhale, setting the wooden raven on a nearby table. “Have you confronted the priests about this?”

Karzug shakes his head. “Not directly. Druzh is preparing tonight’s rite. You know how he is—he’ll say this sign is yet another warning from the War God. We’ll have no proof it’s otherwise, not unless we catch someone in the act.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. Druzh has preached about these ‘cursed omens’ with fervor, only fueling the clan’s paranoia. “And how are the people responding?” I ask.

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