Page 2

His voice rolls through the hall like distant thunder. I swallow, my mouth suddenly bone-dry. “I am,” I say. “My name is Lirienne Marshfield.”

Behind me, the warrior with the lightning insignia clears his throat, but the chieftain raises a hand and he falls silent. A hush descends on the room, punctuated only by the crackle of flames and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Lirienne Marshfield.” His tone is measured, quietly dangerous, but not cruel. Then he gestures toward a brazier near the throne. “Stand by the fire. Warm yourself.”

Cautiously, I step forward, the wave of heat washing over my numb fingers. My reflection wavers in the glowing coals: a disheveled, pale human woman, eyes wide with worry. The orcchieftain studies me for a few seconds more, then turns to his assembled warriors.

“Clanmates,” he calls out, voice carrying to every dark corner of the hall, “this is the peace offering from the Marshfield region. She is my responsibility. See that she is treated according to our laws.”

A rumble of discontent sounds from a few corners. One orc with a heavily scarred face turns and spits on the ground, but no one openly challenges the chieftain.

He takes a slow breath, as though steadying himself against the tension. “War has cost us many lives. If forging an alliance can spare our warriors and secure our future, then I will see it done.” His statement is direct, lacking flowery diplomacy. Yet there’s a hint of conviction that resonates in his tone.

A wave of uncertainty passes through me. Alliance. A word that sounds so formal, so structured—yet I’m fully aware it means I belong to him in some capacity. Like property exchanged in a bargain, though he’s dressed it up with the notion of forging peace.

I can’t stop myself from speaking: “I—I want peace, too.” My voice trembles, but I force each syllable out. “I came here willingly so fewer lives would be lost on both sides.”

He turns his gaze on me, the light illuminating the deep scars that rake across his forearms. “Your bravery is… acknowledged,” he says after a moment. Then, as if snapping back to official duty, he commands: “Karzug, see to her lodging. She’ll remain under guard until the formalities are completed.”

The warrior with the lightning insignia nods. “Yes, Chieftain Ghorzag.”

So that’s his name: Ghorzag. It rolls through my mind, carrying unfamiliar weight.

Karzug beckons me forward, and I follow him toward a side corridor. I can’t resist a final glance over my shoulder. Ghorzagis staring after us, but his expression is unreadable. It’s neither pity nor cruelty—just an intense, measured gaze that makes my cheeks flush for reasons I can’t name.

Is this how my life is going to be now? A captive in an orc stronghold, pinned under the scrutiny of a chieftain who’s duty-bound to accept me, but whose people loathe everything I represent?

I swallow hard and tighten my grip on the strap of my satchel.

Karzug leadsme through winding corridors lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Orcish architecture is as imposing inside as the fortress walls suggest—tall, vaulted ceilings, stone floors, heavy iron doors. Along the way, I catch sight of other orcs milling about. Most gawk at me brazenly, some snarl softly under their breath. A few younger ones simply blink, as if unsure what a human woman is even doing in their midst.

My entire body is tense, coiled like a spring. We finally stop in front of a thick wooden door banded in iron. A guard stands watch, an orc with pale gray skin and wary eyes. Karzug inclines his head toward the guard, who grunts once in acknowledgment.

“This will be your quarters,” Karzug says without meeting my eyes. He pushes the door open, and I peer inside.

The room is larger than I expect, with a single narrow bed against the far wall. A thick tapestry hangs to the side, depicting what looks like a stylized orc warrior standing victorious over a battlefield. A small fireplace crackles in the corner. It isn’t a dungeon, at least. More like a decent guest chamber if I ignore the iron bars on the window.

Karzug ushers me inside. Before I can thank him or question him, the guard steps forward. “Hand over any weapons.”

I shake my head slowly, opening my empty palms. “I have none. Truly.”

Suspicion flickers in his gaze, but he waves me inside.

“Do not wander,” Karzug says sharply, standing in the doorway. “You have not been cleared to roam freely. There are places in this fortress not meant for your eyes.”

My chest tightens. “I understand.”

“Someone will bring you food,” he adds grudgingly, “and fresh clothes, if you wish. Orc garments will be more practical than… whatever it is you’re wearing.”

I glance down at my simple homespun dress, patched and faded. Indeed, it isn’t suited for a place like this. “Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod and steps back into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear a heavy latch slide into place. And just like that, I’m alone.

I move toward the fireplace, wrapping my arms around my torso. My breath catches as I survey my new living space. It’s better than a prison cell, but not by much. The thick walls muffle the fortress’s noises, reducing them to a low hum of voices and clanking metal.

I force a deep inhale, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside me. “Be strong,” I whisper to myself. “For the village, for Mara.” My sister’s face flashes in my mind—soft freckles, wide brown eyes, tears that welled the night I left.

That memory solidified my resolve. My greatest fear was that I’d be mistreated here, or killed outright once the orcs decided they had no further use for a human bride. But the chieftain, Ghorzag, hasn’t struck me as bloodthirsty. Stern, yes. Dangerous, undoubtedly. But there’s a hint of weariness in his eyes, as though he, too, is carrying burdens.