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LIRIENNE

Igrip the wooden reins so tightly my knuckles turn white. The cart rocks beneath me, wheels crunching against uneven gravel as it passes under the massive iron gates of the orcish settlement. A cold wind blows across the high walls, tugging at my woolen cloak. I fight to keep my trembling under control, determined not to let them see my fear.

No human willingly comes here. And yet, here I am, jostling forward with my heart in my throat, offering myself up as a living guarantee of peace.

The stench of sweat and smoke fills the air, undercut by a sharper scent I can’t quite place—like scorched metal or singed herbs. Torchlight flickers against the dark stone ramparts, revealing glimpses of watchful shapes hunched on the battlements. Those shapes are big. Hulking. Orcs. I can almost feel their burning eyes on me, studying each breath I take, deciding if I’m prey or some sacrificial token best tossed aside.

But I chose this fate—for my village, I remind myself. My stomach churns at the memory of the council meeting where I stood before my neighbors, cheeks flushed with both terror and determination, and offered myself as tribute. The orcs’ demandshad been explicit, a representative from the village must be sent to negotiate a peace, or else the next raid would leave no survivors. Everyone assumed it would be an older widow or a prisoner, not me. But as soon as the elders started talking about it in hush-hush tones—volunteering a nameless scapegoat—a hollow ache bloomed in my chest.

No one else was stepping forward. Not the mayor’s grown sons, not any of the village’s older men. Too frightened, too pragmatic, or perhaps too selfish. When I rose from my seat and said, “I’ll go,” it was as though a hush had stilled even the wind. Before I fully realized what I was saying, I’d made my vow. I couldn’t bear the thought of children starving or my younger sister, Mara, forced into some orc’s captivity. The council seized on my volunteerism with desperate relief.

Now, seeing the dark silhouette of the orcish fortress looming all around me, that council feels very far away. The gate slams behind us with an iron clang, cutting off my escape.

A stooped figure at the head of the procession raises a torch, lighting the wide courtyard that stretches before us. A hush seems to grip the space, as though even the wind dares not stir. Shadows flicker across the high walls, revealing glimpses of intimidating spikes and battered shields mounted like trophies. It’s a brutal aesthetic—a world so far removed from my tiny farmland that I suddenly feel small and terribly fragile.

The orc driver brings the cart to a halt, and I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat threatening to choke me. He doesn’t bother offering a hand to help me down. My left foot catches momentarily on the cart’s edge before I find solid ground.

A cluster of orc warriors approaches, their massive builds casting long shadows across the dirt. The largest among them, with deep brown skin marred by jagged scars, sneers in my direction. “So this is the human bride?” he scoffs, voice as rough as gravel sliding off a cliff.

My cheeks heat, but I lift my chin. Bride. That word tastes bittersweet on my tongue. Some say it with scorn, others with pity. I’m no blushing newlywed. I’m a bargaining chip.

Still, I can only stare at the orc who has spoken, half in alarm and half in fascination. His tusks are chipped, and the scar across his face tells me he’s seen real battle, not a scuffle in a farmland. He stands almost two heads taller than me. I hear my breath catch in my chest when he reaches out, as though to tug the cloak from my shoulders. I stiffen.

“Watch it,” he growls, before actually grabbing a handful of my cloak and yanking it aside. If he wants to see if I’m hiding weapons, he’ll be disappointed; I have nothing but a small satchel of personal effects.

I try to control my breathing, try to steady the wild beating of my heart. Yes, orcs are known for their aggression, but my father used to say we mustn’t confuse savage appearance for a savage spirit. He believed peace was possible. Just maybe.

I force myself to meet the orc’s eyes, refusing to tremble in front of him. “I—” I begin, voice weaker than I intend. I cough and try again. “I come in peace.”

He snorts. “You come because your people are afraid.”

I can’t deny that. So I hold silent, letting him feel victorious in his observation.

A second orc steps forward, pushing the scarred warrior aside with a curt grunt. This newcomer is nearly as tall, with slate-gray skin and long, bristling black hair. He wears an insignia on his chest plate—an ornate symbol etched in gold that looks like jagged lightning. His eyes flicker, a slight orange gleam in the torchlight.

He studies me for a moment and then motions for the warriors to form a half-circle around us. “We have our orders,” he says, voice filled with authority. “Bring her to the main hall. The chieftain awaits.”

My throat constricts further. The chieftain. The one who announced, through a swiftly delivered message, that if the humans wanted peace, he demanded a bride to seal it. Some say the idea of forging an alliance through matrimony is progressive by orc standards—others believe it’s a humiliating insult. I have no illusions about how complicated this union will be, if it can even be called that.

The orcs march me across the courtyard. Each step I take, my boots kick up dust that seems to swirl around my ankles. The fortress interior, beyond the open yard, is lit by blazing torches anchored into the stone walls. Rough-hewn archways lead off in many directions, some culminating in staircases that spiral downward—perhaps into the dens or training pits. Echoes of orcish chatter and the clang of metal on metal surround us like an oppressive symphony.

I hear a few curses in their guttural tongue. I pick out bits and pieces of the common language woven in. Words likecursed…unworthy…war god. My gaze darts from face to face. Some orcs stare openly, eyes brimming with suspicion or curiosity. Others spit on the ground as I pass.

One younger orc woman stands behind a row of barrels, arms crossed beneath her leather tunic, watching with a guarded expression. She seems almost pitying. My cheeks burn in shame. Being paraded through their territory feels like being led to a tribunal.

We stop at a broad doorway made of sturdy oak planks. A carved relief of an orc’s face—fierce and snarling—decorates the panels. Two guards stand posted. They swing the doors wide and the orc with the lightning insignia guides me inside.

It is warmer here, though not necessarily inviting. The floors are lined with furs, and the walls are hung with banners in deep reds and blacks. My senses are battered by the smell of tallowcandles, the tang of old blood, and the overwhelming presence of power.

In the center of the hall stands a rough-hewn stone throne, illuminated by torches set on iron sconces behind it. Orcish runes crawl across the throne’s surface, forming patterns I can’t decipher. But the occupant of that throne immediately captures my attention.

He rises to his feet with a deliberate slowness. Tall—no, immense—and broad across the shoulders. His skin is a deep forest-green, marked by swirling tattoos. Each line seems to emphasize the powerful muscles in his arms. A pair of tusks juts from his lower jaw, one chipped at the tip, and a scar swoops beneath his left eye. His long, dark hair is tied back with leather cords and small iron beads.

This is the chieftain, orc leader of the clan that terrorizes the edges of my homeland. I feel the weight of his gaze as if it’s a physical force pressing against my chest.

He takes a step forward, and the scattered torchlight highlights the ridges of his face in bronze and shadow. “You are the human who has come to forge peace?”