Page 27 of The War God's Woman

My cheeks warm at the compliment. “I’m trying,” I whisper. “I never imagined I’d be here, in a fortress of orcs, but… I want to do right by your people, Ghorzag.”

He studies me, tusks gleaming faintly in the lantern light. “They’re our people now, if this alliance holds.”

The weight of his words presses on me. Our people. Perhaps that is the crux of everything—transforming “yours” and “mine” into “ours.” My heart hammers in my chest, a rush of conflicting emotions swirling: gratitude, admiration, fear of the unknown.

Impulsively, I reach out, resting a hand on his forearm. The leather bracer beneath my palm feels warm from his body heat. I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes but also a lack of recoil. “Thank you for seeing me as something more than a burden,” I say softly. “Your acceptance—or even partial acceptance—means a great deal.”

He doesn’t speak, but his arm tenses under my touch, a subtle wave of tension rippling through his muscular frame. For a heartbeat, I think he might pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he places his free hand lightly over mine, rough palm pressing gently against my skin.

I draw in a shaky breath. The walls of the tent seem to close in, or perhaps it’s just the sheer intensity of his presence that makes the space feel smaller. His gaze lingers on my face, flicking to my lips before returning to my eyes. Something unsaid passes between us, fragile and electric.

But as quickly as it sparks, he seems to catch himself. He releases my hand and steps back, clearing his throat. “Eat your meal,” he says, voice a shade rougher. “I’ll let you rest.”

Disappointment mingles with relief in my chest. “Right,” I murmur. “And… thank you for the food.”

He nods curtly, then slips out of the tent, the flap closing behind him. I stand there, heart pounding, wondering what just happened. The memory of his warm palm covering my hand lingers, sending little jolts of awareness through me.

I force myself to focus on the stew, devouring it in slow bites until my hunger is sated. Outside, the fortress quiets as night settles in, a hush broken only by the distant clang of a smith working late or the low murmur of orcs conversing near the watchfires.

Eventually, I settle onto my bedroll, lantern flickering softly. My thoughts spiral around Ghorzag’s visit—his cautious acceptance, the vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks of sabotage. He is a chieftain, burdened by responsibility. Yet he brought me food, took a moment to check on me personally.

He’s a puzzle, I muse, untying my braid and letting my hair fall around my shoulders. An orc shaped by battle and tradition, yet open-minded enough to risk forging peace with a human. He admires strength, and I’m learning to show him I have my own brand of it—quiet determination in place of brute force.

Sleep tugs at me, promising a respite from the day’s tensions. But as I drift off, I can’t help remembering how his hand felt against mine: strong, calloused, and unexpectedly gentle. In that fleeting touch, I sense a spark that goes beyond mere alliance, stirring an odd mix of hope and apprehension in my heart.

8

GHORZAG

The fortress never truly sleeps anymore. Not with tensions roiling beneath every stone. Evening is a time of temporary respite—when the day’s labors end, and the night guard begins their watch—but in recent weeks, rest has become a fragile thing. It’s almost a month since Lirienne’s arrival here.

My mind whirls with questions of sabotage and uneasy alliances, leaving me prowling the corridors when others try to find sleep.

I am returning from a late meeting with Karzug and a few trusted warriors—another fruitless debate about who might be causing these so-called omens—when an urgent shout breaks through the dim corridors:

“Chieftain!”

I spin, heart pounding. One of the younger orc scouts, face pale with anxiety, sprints toward me, nearly colliding with the torchlit wall in his haste.

“Steady,” I bark, halting him with an outstretched hand. “What is it?”

The scout draws in a gasping breath. “The eastern cistern. We found something foul in the water—an oily sheen on thesurface that stinks like rot. It’s—” His eyes flick to me, wide with dread. “Some orcs have already used it for cooking. We suspect it might be poisoned.”

My pulse kicks, a surge of cold anger washing over me. Another sabotage. Another blow designed to stoke fear and chaos. “Show me.”

In minutes, we gather a small band of warriors—Karzug among them—to investigate. Torches flare in the dark courtyard as we trek past the orchard path and descend stone steps leading to the cisterns. The air grows cooler underground, lantern light revealing damp walls coated with moss. A stale, metallic smell clings to the tunnels.

A pair of guards step aside when we reach the sealed entrance to the eastern cistern. One guard looks at me, worry etched into his features. “We only just discovered it, Chieftain. A few orcs complained of the water tasting off during dinner, so we came to check.”

Karzug grimaces. “Any ill effects yet?”

“None reported,” the guard replies. “But the smell is rank.”

I motion for him to open the heavy wooden door, dread twisting in my gut. If the water supply is compromised, we face not only poisoning but also further accusations that the War God’s wrath is upon us. Worse, the clan could turn that suspicion on Lirienne again, no matter how baseless.

The door swings open with a creaking protest. Inside, lantern beams reveal a still pool of water surrounded by carefully shaped stone walls. Sure enough, a greasy film glistens across the surface. The odor of decay hits me like a blow. My tusks grind together. No natural occurrence did this.

I step forward, footsteps echoing on damp stone. Karzug follows, expression dark. “This is definitely sabotage.” His eyes sweep the area, searching for any sign of forced entry.