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The road leads us deeper into the mountains, the air growing thinner. A chill wind tears at our cloaks, but after the terror of monstrous beasts, we press on in stoic resolve. The War God’s temple awaits, an uncertain verdict looming over our heads.

Yet, for the first time since this pilgrimage began, I feel a sense of unity amid the darkness. The second time Lirienne and I share our bodies, we forge something more than fleeting passion—it is a symbol of unity and trust. Whatever trials these mountains throw at us next, we meet them together.

15

LIRIENNE

The jagged mountain peaks loom overhead, dark silhouettes against a storm-swept sky. Our caravan finally emerges onto a plateau high above the treacherous passes we’ve spent days navigating. The air here tastes thin and cold, laced with the sting of altitude and lingering dread. Orc warriors and priests alike pause at the edge of the plateau, gazing at the imposing structure carved directly into the mountainside—a massive archway hewn from ancient rock, adorned with runic symbols that spiral up its flanks.

The War God’s Temple.

My heart pounds as I stand beside Ghorzag, exhaustion pooling in my bones. We have survived monstrous ambushes, illusions, and relentless suspicion. But the moment of truth lies ahead. If this temple confirms the clan’s fear that I am cursed, it might spell the end for me—and possibly for Ghorzag’s leadership. The orcs behind us, battered from the journey, huddle in tense silence, watching as the priests step forward to claim the sacred ground.

A biting wind whips through the plateau, tugging at my hair and cloak. I brace myself, glancing at Ghorzag’s profile. Thoughhe tries to maintain a stoic facade, I sense the currents of worry coursing beneath his calm exterior.He has fought so hard for me, I think, a pang of guilt flashing through my chest.If this temple denounces me…

Karzug catches my eye from across the group, his arm still bandaged from the beast’s attack days earlier. He gives me a grim nod, as though to say he’ll stand by me, come what may. Nearby, Harzug and Gurtha busy themselves dismounting supplies from the exhausted horses, trying to hide the apprehension etched in their faces. The War God’s priests, in their crimson robes, move with reverence toward the colossal archway, bone charms rattling in the wind.

We step forward, each footfall echoing against ancient stone. The temple facade is carved with monumental figures: orc warriors in battle with monstrous serpents, half-forgotten gods looming behind them. Every surface bears intricate runes, some half-eroded by centuries of weather. The orcs believe the War God’s presence lingers here, judging all who dare enter.

A hush settles. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, as if we stand on the threshold of a realm beyond mortal comprehension.

One of the older priests, a tall orc named Drahn, motions for the caravan to halt. His silver-streaked hair shines in the hazy daylight, crimson robes flapping around his gaunt frame. “We must cleanse ourselves before proceeding,” he announces, voice resonant and formal. “This is the War God’s domain. No foot may trespass without proper ritual.”

The orc warriors shift in place, some rolling their eyes, others nodding dutifully. Ghorzag stiffens beside me, clearly eager to get answers but forced to respect tradition. He catches my gaze, brow furrowing.Another rite, his eyes seem to say.Bear with it.I incline my head—what choice do we have?

Drahn raises an ornate staff, and the priests form a circle near the archway. They place small clay bowls at each compass point, filling them with pungent incense that sends up curling tendrils of smoke. The wind threatens to snatch the smoke away, but somehow it clings to the frigid air, forming a hazy ring around us. An undercurrent of incantations buzzes at the edge of hearing, a language older than any orcish dialect I know.

I brace myself as Drahn beckons Ghorzag forward first. The chieftain strides into the circle, shoulders squared, jaw set. Another priest dribbles water on Ghorzag’s hands, reciting a prayer. Ghorzag dips his head in silent acknowledgement, a figure of stoic pride. For a moment, he almost looks regal, it’s like the War God’s domain demands his true authority be laid bare. My chest swells with reluctant admiration. He’s so strong, but he’s carrying such a heavy burden.

Then Drahn turns to me. “Human bride,” he intones, staff clattering against the stone. “Step forward.”

My pulse throbs in my throat. Every orc eye in the party fixes on me, some with open scorn, others with wary neutrality. I glance at Ghorzag, who offers a subtle nod. Swallowing hard, I move into the circle. The incense thickens, tugging at my senses. I half-expect illusions, but no visions assail me—only the solemn presence of ancient stone and a deep, thrumming stillness that prickles across my skin.

Drahn pours a trickle of water over my hands, lips moving in prayer. Even behind his closed eyes, I feel him judging me, trying to ascertain if I belong in this sacred place. The water feels icy, a shock to my numb fingers. For a heartbeat, time seems to halt, as though the temple itself contemplates my presence.

Then the priest inclines his head, stepping back. “Enter,” he says, voice echoing. “May the War God judge you justly.”

Passing under the massive arch, we descend a wide flight of steps carved into the mountainside. Torches placed at intervalscast flickering light across the walls. High overhead, the ceiling soars, ornately carved with swirling motifs of battle and conquest. The War God’s emblem, a stylized blade wreathed in flames, repeats again and again in the stone. We are inside a vast chamber, the floor lined with worn mosaics depicting legendary orc victories.

My breath catches at the sheer scale. Statues of old warlords and priests dot the perimeter, their expressions fierce and unyielding. A hush envelops our group as we advance, each footstep echoing dully. The light from our torches mingles with the faint glow of braziers spaced along the walls, revealing a central dais at the chamber’s far end.

Karzug keeps a watchful stance at the caravan’s flank, while Harzug and Gurtha flank Ghorzag. The priests glide ahead, leading us toward the dais. I stick close to Ghorzag, nerves jangling with every step. If the War God wants proof of my innocence, this chamber is where it will happen.

At the dais’s center lies a massive circular platform of obsidian, etched with runes that shimmer in the torchlight. My pulse kicks as Drahn gestures for Ghorzag and me to ascend.This is it.

Ghorzag’s jaw clenches, but he steps onto the platform first. Then he reaches a hand back to me, a silent offer of support. I clasp it, drawing strength from his presence. The rest of the orcs and priests form a wide ring around us, some kneeling in deference, others standing with bated breath.

Drahn and two senior priests raise their staffs, chanting a low, resonant hymn. The temple seems to vibrate with each syllable, as though ancient power courses through the stone. Incense thickens, filling the air with a pungent, heady aroma. I sway, almost dizzy, but Ghorzag’s hand steadies me.

The runes on the obsidian platform glow faintly—silver light threading through each groove, pulsing in time with the priests’chant. My heart thuds, fear spiking.Is this real magic? Perhaps orcish spiritual energy is stirring, or illusions conjured by sabotage.

Drahn’s voice rises above the chant, echoing through the vaulted chamber. “War God, we implore you to judge this union. See our chieftain’s chosen bride, a human in our midst. Are we cursed by her presence? Show us a sign—accept her, or condemn her!”

The gathered orcs murmur, tension radiating in waves. Ghorzag’s grip tightens on my hand. My throat constricts. If nothing happens, do they decide that silence is condemnation?

Suddenly, a faint tremor rocks the temple floor, like a subdued quake. Torches sputter. Orcs glance at each other, alarmed. The priests’ chant wavers but continues. My stomach flips.Is this the War God’s sign, or sabotage?

Drahn’s staff glows with a faint aura. The runes beneath our feet pulse brighter. I brace for something dramatic—a thunderous voice, lightning from the temple ceiling. But instead, the tremor subsides into an eerie stillness.