Page 25

“How’s the stew?” he asks, voice quieter than the wind.

“Better than I expected,” I admit, offering a small half-smile. My nerves flutter under the scrutiny of everyone else, but I cling to the memory of Ghorzag’s unwavering support in the training yard yesterday.

He nods, grabbing a bowl for himself. We eat in silence for a while, yet the silence around us feels thick with unasked questions. Eventually, the normal hum of mealtime resumes, albeit more muted than before. It is a small victory: at least they’re not collectively glaring at me anymore.

As we finish, Ghorzag wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need to check on the orchard,” he says abruptly. “A section of it was damaged by floods—some claim it’s the War God’s wrath, others suspect sabotage. Come with me.”

A surge of nerves dances in my stomach. “All right. I’ll come,” I answer, ignoring a few raised eyebrows from nearby orcs. Ghorzag’s invitation feels more like an order, but also like an unspoken testament that he trusts me enough to include me in clan affairs.

The orchard lies beyond the main fortress gate, nestled on a gentle slope where rows of stunted fruit trees struggle to grow in the rocky soil. Evidence of the recent flooding mars the ground—channels of mud cut through the orchard, some trees leaning precariously where their roots have been partially washed out.

A few orc farmhands—or as close to “farmhands” as orcs allow themselves—inspect the damage. They pause as Ghorzag and I approach. One of them, a middle-aged orc woman with a stern brow, waves us over to a large furrow in the earth.

“This was done overnight,” she says, voice rough from years of fieldwork. “Water poured down from the hillside. Too much, too fast. Lost four saplings and some of the older trees are drowning.”

Ghorzag’s brow furrows. “Any sign that it was sabotaged? A dam broken upstream, or channels dug?”

The orc woman shakes her head. “Hard to say. Could be heavy rain from the mountains. Could be meddling by an unseen hand.”

He folds his arms, scanning the orchard with a hawk-like gaze. I walk beside him, noticing the small rivulets that seem unnaturally directed through the orchard’s center. My father once explained how farmland could be deliberately flooded if trenches were dug in the right places. This looks suspiciously deliberate. But I keep my thoughts quiet, uncertain if the orcs want to hear a human’s opinion.

Ghorzag, however, seems attuned to my hesitation. “Speak,” he says softly, tilting his head so only I can hear.

I clear my throat. “I’m no expert, but it looks like something diverted the water here. Perhaps a small barrier upstream was broken to release the flow all at once.”

He nods, lips pressed thin. “My thought as well.” Then, louder, to the orc woman: “Search upstream for any signs of tampering. If you find fresh cuts in the land or recent digging, bring the news to me immediately.”

She grunts in acknowledgment, gesturing for a few others to follow her as they trudge up the slope. Ghorzag turns back to me, eyes narrowed. “If this is sabotage, we have a traitor—or an outside agent—undermining the clan from within.”

I recall Ragzuk’s hints that mortal hands might be behind the omens. “Do you suspect a rival clan? Or dark elves?”

He exhales. “Possibly. Or it could be a disgruntled orc within our own ranks who hates the idea of peace with humans.” His gaze moves to me, and I see the unspoken complexity in his eyes: by forging a bond with me, he opened the door for those who’d do anything to keep the clan from joining hands with humans.

My chest tightens with empathy. He carries the weight of leadership, of a thousand decisions that could either strengthen or doom his people. “Let me know how I can help,” I offer quietly, meaning it.

His jaw works, tension rippling across his shoulders. Before he can respond, we’re interrupted by a young orc farmhandjogging toward us, breathless. “Chieftain! We found footprints—small, like a child’s or a lighter adult’s—near the creek. They lead away from the orchard. Could be nothing, but… it’s odd.”

I frown, sharing a glance with Ghorzag. Small footprints might indicate a cunning saboteur, or simply a child playing near the water. But in times like these, any anomaly feeds the clan’s paranoia. “Show us,” Ghorzag orders.

We follow the farmhand across a muddied patch of ground to a shallow stream. Sure enough, faint footprints trail along the bank, then vanish into the undergrowth. My heart pounds at the implications—someone has been here, likely orchestrating the flood.

Ghorzag’s eyes darken, fists curling at his sides. “Whoever is doing this… I will find them.”

By late afternoon, we return to the fortress, minds still churning with the orchard’s mystery. Karzug awaits Ghorzag in the courtyard with urgent news of supply inventories, and they stride off together, leaving me momentarily alone by the main gate.

I am about to head toward Ragzuk’s workshop—maybe he has more tasks—when a small voice calls my name. Turning, I see Sargu, the orc boy from earlier, standing shyly a few steps away.

“Lirienne,” he repeats, more softly. “Are you busy?”

I soften my expression. “Not at the moment. What do you need?”

He shuffles his feet, eyes darting around as if making sure no one else listens. “We’re playing a game,” he says, as though admitting a secret. “A running-and-hiding game near the side yard. Could you… watch us? Make sure no one gets hurt?”

A pang of surprise flutters in my chest. The orc children want me to supervise their play? Such a mundane, normal request. “I can do that,” I agree warmly. “Lead the way.”

He beams and scampers off, beckoning me to follow. I trail behind him, weaving between tents and smaller outbuildings until we reach a walled-off side yard where half a dozen orc children play. They dart around crates and stacked barrels, squealing with delight as they attempt to tag one another.

“Make sure no one climbs the high crates,” I caution gently. “It’s too easy to slip.”