Dark elves. The possibility tastes like poison. They’re cunning, manipulative. If they want to sow discord, making it appear as though the War God himself curses us is a clever way to do it.
My steps quicken. “We’ll keep an eye on those who protest most vehemently. If any sign emerges of outside interference, we clamp down immediately.”
Karzug inclines his head. “Agreed.”
When I reach my private chambers, I dismiss Karzug with a brief wave. The corridor near my door is quiet except for a single guard standing at rigid attention. My quarters overlook the fortress courtyard—high windows that let in more natural light than most rooms. I prefer it that way; a small relief from the stone gloom.
I light a fire in the hearth, stirring the coals until they crackle and jump. The warmth spreads across my skin, reminding me that I’ve been cold for too long. My father’s old battle-ax hangs on the wall opposite the hearth, its blade nicked and scarred from countless fights. Sometimes I imagine I can still sense his presence lingering around that weapon.
He would’ve disapproved of this union, no doubt. My father believed wholeheartedly in brute force and conquest. But his zeal led us into a catastrophic battle with the dark elves—one we only barely survived. I lost him that day. And I vowed never to sacrifice orc lives so carelessly again. If forging peace with humans spares even a handful of warriors from an early grave, it might be worth the stigma.
But the War God, am I truly incurring his wrath? My jaw clenches. Orcs have always valued strength, yes, but we are not mindless beasts. The War God might test me, demand that I prove our clan is still fierce, still ready to fight if threatened. Perhaps that test is simply beginning.
I pace before the fire, the tension in my chest refusing to subside. I recall Lirienne’s pale face and her resolute stance in the Great Hall. A part of me wants to dismiss her entirely as a naive human. Another part recognizes a spark of somethingI didn’t expect to find—an earnest desire for peace, a quiet determination.
A growl escapes me, pressing a hand against the scar on my chest, the one that nearly ended me two winters ago. Could she truly be part of our clan’s salvation? Or am I sowing seeds of deeper disaster?
There’s no easy answer. All I can do is press forward and see that the War God’s supposed wrath is either put to rest or proven false.
My eyes drift to a small shelf where a carved stone idol of the War God sits: a figure with broad shoulders, a conical helm, tusks, and intricately detailed armor. I scoff inwardly. “If you have something to say, War God,” I mutter, “say it clearly.”
Silence. Only the crackle of flames, the whistle of wind through the high window.
Realizing my anger is pointless, I comb frustration through my hair. This is just the beginning of the trials to come. If the clan is unsettled now, they’ll be in full fury once we perform the official rituals to confirm whether our union with a human is truly cursed.
One day at a time. I inhale, letting my spine straighten. In a few hours, I’ll meet with Druzh to plan the evening’s rite. Then I’ll see how Lirienne fares. She must be reeling—thrust into a place where nearly everyone believes she’s a harbinger of doom.
But if she can endure the clan’s scorn, if she truly longs to create peace, then maybe… maybe we have a chance.
I stare into the dancing flames, the memory of her wide eyes flickering in my thoughts. My mind turns over a realization: not once, despite all the glares and threats, did she break down or beg to return home. She stood her ground.
A kernel of reluctant respect settles in my chest. Orcs appreciate displays of fortitude. Perhaps my clan will see that in her, eventually.
For now, I focus on leading them through the War God’s uncertain omens. A chieftain’s duty demands that I stand firm—both for my people and for the woman who’s pinned all her hopes on a tenuous alliance.
“Let the War God cast his judgment,” I say to the empty room, voice echoing off the stone. “I will not be found wanting.”
And with that, I leave to gather the priests, ready to confront whatever is stirring beneath the surface of these so-called dire signs. Though doubt knots in my gut, I have no choice but to press forward and see whether the War God’s wrath is real—or if something far more sinister lurks in the shadows, determined to sabotage us all.
3
LIRIENNE
The morning sun has barely begun its climb when two stern-faced orc warriors appear at my chamber door. Without so much as a greeting, they gesture for me to gather my belongings—what little I have—and follow them. The corridor we walk through is gray with predawn light, torches flickering and guttering in their iron sconces. It feels like the whole fortress holds its breath, tense and watchful, after Ghorzag’s announcement in the Great Hall.
I keep my head high, shoulders squared, trying not to show the nervous fluttering in my stomach. Orcs cluster in small groups as we pass, their voices low and brimming with malice—or curiosity. A young orc woman glares openly, arms crossed over her leather vest, while an older warrior spits on the ground near my feet, snorting in contempt. I try not to flinch.You volunteered for this, I remind myself, my father’s calm admonition echoing in my head.This is for your village—for Mara, for everyone you left behind.
The fortress corridors lead us to a large courtyard that opens onto a dusty expanse dotted with rough-hewn tents. Some of the tents are constructed around thick wooden posts, others lashedto the fortress walls. The orcs seem to favor these outlying areas for communal gatherings or temporary housing for visiting warriors. At this early hour, most of the tents stand quietly, though a few snoring shapes are visible through open flaps.
One of the warriors escorting me—a tall female orc with braided silver-streaked hair—jerks her chin at a brown, tattered tent near the far corner. It has a battered hide flap in place of a door, and sturdy cords secure it to wooden stakes driven into the packed earth.
“In,” she growls.
I open my mouth to protest—wasn’t I supposed to remain in the fortress?—but the question dies in my throat. The woman’s eyes flash with the promise of retribution if I resist. Realizing I have no choice, I clutch my meager satchel and step inside.
The tent’s interior is dim, lit only by a few cracks of morning light filtering through a gap in the hide flap. The earthy smell of raw leather mixes with the faint tang of charcoal from a small brazier in the corner. In place of a bed is a low wooden frame piled with furs. Nothing else.
I hear the shuffle of boots behind me, then the flap drops. Darkness encloses me like a stifling cloak, broken only by the sliver of daylight peeking under the canvas. My throat tightens, memories of the fortress cell returning in a rush.They really have no idea what to do with me, I realize. Or maybe they do—and this is part of their plan to keep me isolated.