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With squeals and laughter, they scamper off, occasionally glancing back at Lirienne as if she is the strangest and most intriguing creature they’ve ever encountered. Perhaps she is, in their eyes.

As the children disappear, Lirienne lets out a slow breath, touching the back of her neck. “They’re… enthusiastic.”

I arch a brow. “They’re less jaded than their elders. They haven’t seen decades of conflict.”

She nods, eyes drifting to the fortress walls. “It’s refreshing, in a way.”

A short silence falls, but it isn’t uncomfortable. I watch her out at the fringe of my sight, noticing how she brushes hair from her forehead, how her fingertips still bear faint stains from yesterday’s herb gathering. She has integrated small habits from orcish life—like wearing a short-sleeved leather vest for ease of movement—but she is still very much human, an outsider forging her own path.

“You handled that training axe better than expected,” I find myself saying, surprising even me.

She gives a short laugh. “I’m sure the orcs were impressed by my clumsy flailing.”

“You didn’t give up,” I counter. “That’s more than half the struggle.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks at the compliment. “Thank you, Ghorzag.”

Before I can respond, a familiar presence approaches: Ragzuk, the older apprentice to our clan’s aging shaman. He inclines his head. “Chieftain. Lirienne.”

“Ragzuk,” I acknowledge. “Something you need?”

He glances between us. “I came to see if Lirienne might assist with a minor injury—another warrior complained of a sprain after training.” His gaze flicks to her with cautious respect. “Your herbal remedies proved effective last time.”

Lirienne’s expression brightens with purpose. “Of course, I’d be glad to help.”

Ragzuk nods, turning to me. “Do I have your permission to take her, Chieftain?”

I suppress a faint smirk at his formality. He’s making a point that I’m responsible for her safety in the clan. “Yes. Go.”

He leads Lirienne away, leaving me alone under the oak tree. The patch of shade feels oddly emptier without her. I watch them cross the yard, weaving among warriors, some of whom still wear suspicious scowls. But no one interferes. My directive is clear: harming Lirienne would be met with my wrath.

Late afternoon finds me in the fortress’s main hall, conferring with a small group of elders about the latest resource tallies. The conversation is terse—harvest yields have dropped in some areas due to the unexplained floods, and suspicion lingers that “omens” indicate the War God’s displeasure.

“Chieftain,” mutters one elder, tapping a gnarled walking stick on the stone floor. “Our fields continue to rot in patches, and scouts have found strange carvings in nearby trees, as though mocking our clan.”

My jaw tightens. “Have you seen any sign of trespassers? Dark elves, or otherwise?”

“None confirmed,” the elder admits grudgingly. “But many fear it’s a curse. Or sabotage from the human.”

A low growl rumbles in my throat. “Lirienne is not our enemy. She’s helped more than she’s harmed.”

An uneasy silence follows, the elders exchanging meaningful looks. Eventually, one with a braided beard says, “We respect your command, Ghorzag, but you must understand the clan’sfear. It won’t vanish overnight. If these misfortunes persist, more will demand her removal.”

Blood pounds in my ears, but I keep my voice level. “I’ll find the culprit behind these disasters, or prove them natural if that’s the truth. Until then, the clan abides by my decree.”

No one dares openly defy me here, though the tension is palpable. They fear the War God’s wrath more than they trust me. That realization stings, but it also hardens my resolve. I won’t bow to illusions or sabotage.

The elders eventually disperse, leaving me at the middle of the hall’s polished stone floor. Torches flicker on the walls, their light dancing over tapestries that depict orc victories of old. I find myself recalling the fleeting flash of Lirienne’s determined gaze, how she faces orc hostility with a quiet inner strength. She’s braver than most give her credit for.

The clan assembles in smaller pockets throughout the fortress: some around cookfires in the courtyard, others in the main hall, sipping a fermented drink from large clay vessels. I make my rounds, ensuring disputes are settled quickly. The presence of sabotage has heightened tempers—every minor spat threatens to escalate.

Eventually, I return to the courtyard’s largest bonfire, where Lirienne sits on a log, awkwardly balancing a wooden bowl of stew in her lap. A few orcs hover at a distance, not quite hostile but not friendly, either. She looks up at me as I approach, relief softening her features.

“Mind if I join?” I ask, though I hardly need permission in my own clan.

She shifts to make room, tucking her legs beneath her. The bonfire’s glow lights her face in warm hues, accentuating the dusting of freckles across her nose. “I was just… observing. Orc gatherings are so different from my village’s festivities.”

I settle beside her, inhaling the stew’s savory aroma. “We have festivals, too, though less frequent since resources have become strained.”