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Despite the swirl of uncertainties, that fleeting image of Ghorzag’s face roots in my thoughts. He’s enormous, intimidating, exuding a quiet authority. Yet, behind the stoic mask, something else simmers. A man (or orc?) weighed down by responsibility, maybe even regret. Some part of me wonders if that faint spark of empathy could be the key to bridging our worlds—or if I’m foolish to hope for such a connection.

Exhaustion eventually overcomes the chaos in my mind. I curl up on the bed, pulling a scratchy blanket over myself. The furs offer a decent cushion against the wooden frame, though I’m not used to their musky scent. My eyes drift shut, replaying every detail of the day—my trembling steps through the towering gates, the clan’s accusatory stares, Ghorzag’s deep voice echoing in the main hall.

And, overshadowing all else, that gnawing question: Can peace truly exist between my people and these orcs?

Somewhere in the uneasy space between wakefulness and sleep, I vow: I will do everything in my power to make it possible.

Outside, a distant horn sounds—a plaintive note echoing into the night. Orcish war calls, I think with a shiver. Or perhaps a signal changing the watch. My heart clenches with both fear and fascination.

Eventually, the crackle of the dying fire lulls me into a fitful doze. And in that half-dreaming state, I hear my father’s voice, remembering him whispering when I was a child:We are all creatures under the same sky. If there’s a chance for understanding, we owe it to ourselves to try.

Eventually, I will find out if that understanding can be forged, or if I’m merely the first casualty in a doomed truce.

For tonight, all I can do is endure the weight of the fortress around me, the chill of foreign stone under my hands, and the flickering hope in my chest that maybe this gamble won’t end in bloodshed.

2

GHORZAG

Istand in the Great Hall, arms folded across my chest, as the first light of dawn seeps through the high windows. The torches still burn, but their flames are pale and wavering, yielding to the glow of a new day. I scan my gaze over the faces of my gathered clan—some stern, some apprehensive, and others outright enraged.

The tension in the air is a live thing, thick enough to taste. It coils around my ankles and snakes upward, constricting my breath. But I can’t allow them to sense doubt; a chieftain’s composure must be ironclad, no matter how turbulent the undercurrents.

I slowly let my arms drop to my sides, shoulders back, every muscle rigid with purpose. “Bring her forward,” I command, voice echoing against the vaulted stone ceiling.

A handful of warriors stand near the eastern archway, shifting uncomfortably. They glance at one another until one steps forward—a younger orc named Tozu, I believe—then hurries off to fetch our new… guest.

My ears twitch, alert to every muttered curse or scornful whisper from the crowd. Orcs of every rank are present:seasoned warriors bearing decades of scars, cunning elders with thick braids of graying hair, a few curious acolytes from the temple. A hush spreads across their number. They all know what’s about to happen, and they’ve come to witness.

I draw a steady breath, letting my gaze linger on the heavy banners that drape the walls. We chose them—I chose them—to remind us of our clan’s storied past. Crimson cloth embroidered with black glyphs tells of old victories. One tapestry shows the War God himself in swirling lines, brandishing a mighty blade against some half-forgotten foe.

I remember a vision flickering in the back of my mind: The War God isn’t known for granting direct audience to mere mortals, but sometimes, in the hush before battle, I sense a presence—an acute, burning awareness that guides my sword arm or steadies my heart. Lately, that presence has felt distant. Perhaps that is why these omens of misfortune spread so easily among my people—too many remember the days when the War God’s favor pulsed like a living shield around us, and they sense it slipping away.

The crowd parts, and my warriors escort Lirienne into the Great Hall. She looks both determined and uncertain, her hands clenched at her sides as though fighting an inner tremor. Even in the half-light, I notice how pale she is compared to orcs—her skin soft and fair, dotted with faint freckles. Her hair, a dusty auburn, frames her face in loose waves. There’s something about her eyes, though, that draws me. I expect fear or resentment. Instead, I see a guarded sort of hope.

She wears the same simple dress from the previous night, but I’ve heard she’s been given orc leathers for future use if she wishes. For now, the rough wool looks oddly out of place amid our clan’s coarse fabrics and plated armor. Each footstep she takes on the stone floor seems far too light, a whisper where my people’s boots thunder.

I incline my head at her and speak in a voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Come stand with me, Lirienne Marshfield.”

Her gaze flickers across the rows of orcs, all of them waiting for a reason to condemn her or chase her out. She swallows, raises her chin a fraction, and approaches. The hush in the hall thickens.

When she stops an arm’s length away, I turn my attention to the clan. “By now, you all know who this is. She comes from the Marshfield region, the village at the edge of our territory. We have… a compact with her people.”

A ragged chorus of grunts, hisses, and muttered curses ripples through the throng. Several warriors spit on the ground. I can almost hear hearts pounding, tension swelling like a gathering thunderhead.

“Quiet,” I growl, letting a hint of my authority show. The clamor dies down to a low rumble. “We have lost too many warriors to fruitless raids. Trading bodies for blood. Our fields suffer from unpredictable weather, our resources spread thin by constant skirmishes. We need new ways to secure our clan’s future.”

A broad orc with twin braids steps forward, arms folded over a battered leather cuirass. “And you think a human bride is the answer?” he snarls, tusks glinting in the flickering light. “This is madness, Ghorzag.”

I recognize him as Gorath, one of the older warriors who served under my father. His voice carries the weight of tradition—the stubbornness that values brute conquest over forging alliances.

I meet his glare head-on. “Madness or not, I will see this through.”

Lirienne shifts beside me. I catch a faint whiff of her scent: something floral and raw, a stark contrast to the musk ofthe fortress. She doesn’t flinch, despite the scornful looks. The tension in her shoulders tells me she’s scared, but the set of her jaw tells me she won’t surrender to that fear.

“And so,” I continue, turning back to the gathered orcs, “I formally proclaim Lirienne Marshfield as my mate—my chosen partner—for the sake of forging a lasting pact with her people.”

The uproar is immediate. A few roar protest, some pound their weapons against their breastplates in frustration. Others simply seethe in silence. One of the orc elders, leaning heavily on a carved staff, shakes his head and mutters something about “cursed unions.”