Page 42 of The War God's Woman

His hand trembles. “Then I’ll face them. I’m their chieftain; it’s my responsibility to see reason prevails.” His gaze searches mine, a storm of emotion swirling. “Lirienne… I know it seems hopeless. But I won’t give up.”

For a heartbeat, I consider telling him about my fleeting thoughts of running. The words catch in my throat. He’d be furious, I realize. He’d see it as a betrayal or a sign of no faith in his vow. And yet, I can’t banish the lingering notion that flight might spare him more bloodshed.

His thumb brushes away a tear on my cheek. That simple gesture nearly undoes me. My chest aches with a desperate mix of gratitude and heartbreak.Why does his devotion feel so heavy now?Because it means he might die defending me if the clan turns violent.

I swallow hard. “I—thank you.” My voice is a shaky whisper. “For… believing in me.”

He presses his forehead to mine, eyes drifting shut. The warmth of his breath fans across my skin. We stay like that, an island of quiet amid the swirling chaos, hearts pounding in shared grief and uncertain hope. I cling to him as if he’s the last stable point in a collapsing world.

Eventually, he pulls back, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “Rest,” he says softly, rising to his feet. “We depart at dawn.”

I nod, tears gathering again. “All right.”

Just before stepping out, he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Lirienne… Rakan’s death isn’t your fault. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise.”

I open my mouth, but no words come. He slips out into the night, leaving me alone with my turmoil. Though his parting reassurance lights a small spark of comfort, the shadow of despair remains.I can’t escape the clan’s fury or the sabotage that clings to my footsteps.

I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie curled on my bedroll, staring at the wavering lantern flame, the darkness beyond. The fortress’s night sounds carry faintly—distant footsteps, hushed murmurs, the occasional clang of a weapon shifting in some watchful orc’s hands.

Rakan’s lifeless face haunts me. No matter how many times I close my eyes, I see the foam at his lips, hear the crowd’s accusations. This will only intensify tomorrow. Even if I survive the pilgrimage, the clan’s trauma won’t vanish overnight.

Sometime near the darkest hour before dawn, an odd calm settles over me, the hush of utter despair.Maybe I should leave. Slip away while everyone’s busy preparing.My heart throbs painfully at the thought of abandoning Ghorzag. But if my departure means the clan might focus on finding the real saboteur, would that not save them from further tragedy?

Tears burn my eyes anew. But if I run, Gaurbod wins. The saboteur still lurks. Ghorzag might be blamed for letting me escape. Guilt wars with self-preservation. He vowed to protect me, but can I really let him risk everything?

I press my face into the bedroll, stifling a sob.All is lost.The words echo through my mind like a dirge, final and merciless. Yet dawn will come regardless, and with it, the forced march toward the War God’s temple. Perhaps fate will decide.

I lie awake, hollow-eyed. No matter how bleak the night has felt, it’s time to face the clan’s wrath once more. My headpounds from exhaustion, but I push to my feet, preparing for a pilgrimage that might seal my fate.

12

GHORZAG

Istand beneath the sputtering torchlight in the main hall, my armor half-fastened, fists clenched at my sides. Around me, the fortress pulses with the echoes of unrest. Orc warriors stride hurriedly through corridors, faces grim. Advisors mutter in low voices. Even the stone under my boots seems to hum with tension. The clan teeters on the brink of chaos—and I feel every tremor in my bones.

Just hours ago, a young orc named Rakan was found dead, apparently poisoned. Even as I force the clan not to lynch Lirienne on the spot, the outcry nearly turns into a riot. The demand for her exile—or her blood—beats at me from all sides, so loud I can scarcely think. Sabotage, I tell myself. A cunning plan to break the clan’s unity and place the blame at Lirienne’s feet. But the clan sees only “omens,” further proof that the War God punishes them for harboring a human bride.

I exhale, pressing a hand to the cold surface of the great stone table at the hall’s center. My breath comes in ragged bursts. Control, I remind myself, but the swirling anger and grief inside me refuse to settle. Everywhere I look, I see only suspicion, distrust… and the shadow of my father’s failures.

The night has deepened to a point where the torches burn low, their flames snapping at the slightest draft. Huddled at the far end of the hall are a handful of my loyal warriors—Karzug, Harzug, and a few others—exchanging worried words about the morning’s imminent pilgrimage. Beyond them, I hear echoes of orcs shouting in the courtyard. Word of Rakan’s death spread too quickly, stoking fury among the clan’s easily provoked members.

It is near midnight, yet none of us have any hope of true rest. Dawn will bring the official departure for the War God’s temple: a trek meant to prove or disprove Lirienne’s cursed presence. That is the official reason, at least. In truth, I feel the tension coiling like a loaded crossbow. Many in the clan see the pilgrimage as an opportunity to press for Lirienne’s exile—even final judgment. Should any further tragedy strike on the journey, they’ll claim it’s the War God condemning her. The thought turns my stomach.

Karzug notices me staring. He peels away from the others and crosses the hall, armor scraping. “Chieftain?” he asks, voice subdued. “You look like you’re about to fight a war.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Aren’t we? The clan stands on the knife’s edge, ready to mutiny if I don’t bow to their demands to cast out Lirienne. Our enemy is fear, Karzug—a fear so deeply rooted it drowns reason.”

Karzug nods, face grim. “You said you suspected sabotage. But none have been caught, and that leaves the clan no tangible foe to blame. So they blame her.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “We have no choice but to endure the pilgrimage. If the War God himself can’t quell their superstition, then no mortal logic will.”

He holds my shoulder. “The clan follows you, Ghorzag, even if some are too afraid to show it. At dawn, those loyal to you willstand by your side.” His gaze flickers with uncertainty. “But the rest—like Gaurbod’s faction—may cause trouble.”

I grit my teeth. “If Gaurbod tries anything on the road, I’ll personally see he pays.” Cousin or no cousin, I won’t let him turn my clan into a lynch mob.

Karzug leaves me to confer with the others, the clank of his armor receding. I stand alone in the cavernous hall, the worn tapestries on the walls rustling in a stray breeze. My eyes drift to the largest tapestry: a scene depicting my father leading orcs against dark elf raiders. It is woven in colors of deep crimson and obsidian, capturing a moment of triumph. But I know well the truth behind that threadbare illusion.

I can still recall being a boy, hiding behind stone pillars, watching as my father roared about our clan’s unstoppable might. He believed no enemy could best us, that the War God’s favor guaranteed victory. Yet he died in a disastrous battle against cunning dark elves—surprised, outmaneuvered, trusting too easily that brute force alone would crush them.

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