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A ripple of intimidation wafts through the hall. Several orcs lower their gazes, uneasy. Even Gorath flinches, though he tries to hide it with a derisive snort. “I hope for your sake you’re right,” he growls. “Because the War God has little patience for arrogance.”

I don’t bother dignifying that with a reply. Instead, I offer a curt nod to Druzh, signaling that the rite’s formal portion is over. The High Priest turns and gestures to his acolytes, who quickly begin gathering the bones and extinguishing the ceremonial incense.

Slowly, the clan begins to disperse, pockets of whispered conversation blooming along the edges of the hall.

The tension feels like a coiled serpent still poised to strike, but no immediate outbreak of violence follows.

I can only hope my public stance steadies some of the waverers. At least for now, I think grimly.

As orcs peel away to return to their quarters or converge in small gatherings, Lirienne lingers near me. I hear the quiet scuff of her boots on the stone floor, and when I turn, her gaze seeks mine.

“That was… intense,” she says softly, glancing around at the still-simmering crowd. “Thank you for defending me.”

Her voice carries exhaustion, but also a flicker of relief. I study the lines of her face, noticing faint dark smudges beneath her eyes, likely from stress and lack of sleep. Despite it all, she hasn’t broken; she stands tall under those hateful eyes.

“You’re part of this clan now,” I say, keeping my tone firm but not unkind. “I won’t let them tear you apart over a half-baked omen reading.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Still… it means a lot. I’m not exactly popular here.”

I nod, scanning the receding orcs warily. “Popularity is overrated. Surviving is what matters.”

She almost laughs, but the tension in the hall stifles it. Then she lowers her voice. “Is it true you suspect something else is causing these… disasters? I’ve heard rumors. An orc who tampered with your fields or water supply, making it look like a curse.”

I let out a slow breath, confirming my suspicions that she’s heard about the sabotage. “Yes. At first, I couldn’t be sure. But now I’m nearly certain. The War God’s wrath doesn’t usually manifest as such precise sabotage. Someone is orchestrating it.”

Her eyes flash with concern. “Why?”

“To force me to abandon this alliance,” I reply, scanning the hall to ensure no eavesdroppers linger too close. “Or to weaken the clan from within. The more they believe you’re cursed, the less stable my position becomes.”

She exhales, glancing at the dais where the stone bowl still stands. “Is there anything I can do? I don’t want to just… hide in a tent and wait for everyone to decide my fate.”

Her earnestness surprises me, warming something in my chest. “Stay alert,” I say finally. “Pay attention to anything unusual—whispered conversations, suspicious movements near your quarters. Report them to Karzug or me. You might notice things the clan overlooks.”

She nods resolutely. “I will.”

A hush steals over us for a moment, tension replaced by a tentative understanding.

Outside, the hallway grows quieter as orcs shuffle away.

Torches on the walls flicker, casting her features in shifting light.

There’s a softness to her eyes that tugs at a guarded corner of my heart—a corner I’ve sealed off since I first took up the mantle of chieftain.

Focus , I scold myself silently. Now is not the time for such distractions.

I clear my throat. “You should return to your tent. I’ll have Karzug or one of my warriors escort you.”

A trace of disappointment flickers across her face—gone in an instant. “Of course. Thank you.”

Before she steps away, a thought emerges. I lower my voice. “If you’d rather not stay in that tent, I can arrange quarters in the fortress. It might be safer.”

She weighs her response carefully, then offers a small, grateful smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. For tonight, I’ll bear with the tent—no sense stirring more gossip.”

I give a curt nod. “As you wish.”

She hesitates, as if she wants to say more.

Then she turns, heading toward the archway where Karzug waits.

I watch her go, that swirl of conflicting emotions following me like a shadow.

On one hand, this is a political move—an alliance.

On the other, I can’t deny the unexpected pull of her presence, the flicker of admiration in how she faces a hall full of enemies without collapsing.

When the hall is nearly empty, I catch sight of Druzh conferring with a pair of elders. Their discussion is hushed, but as I approach, they fall silent. The elders bow stiffly to me, stepping back. Druzh folds his arms, chin tilted.

“I’m relieved you did not interpret the bones as condemning Lirienne,” I say quietly. “It would have made things… complicated.”

He gives me a long, contemplative look. “Do not thank me yet, Chieftain. The War God’s will is far from settled. If these calamities continue, and if we find no proof of mortal sabotage, the clan will demand a heavier sacrifice.”

My jaw tenses. “We will find the saboteur.”

He dips his head, an ambiguous gesture that might mean agreement or doubt. “Let us hope so.”

Much later, the hall stands empty, its torches burned low.

The fortress corridors echo with a quieter hush, broken only by the occasional footsteps of guards on patrol.

My mind whirls from the evening’s events—the half-victory of not condemning Lirienne, the knowledge that sabotage still festers within our walls, and the question of how quickly I can expose it.

I pause in a shadowed alcove, leaning against the cold stone.

A memory tugs: my father, battered and bleeding on the battlefield against the dark elves, his final words urging me to keep the clan strong.

I remember my own vow not to waste orcish lives chasing futile conquests.

This alliance, unorthodox as it is, feels like the only path that might halt the endless cycle of war—if I can keep Lirienne safe and the clan from devouring itself.

I straighten, exhaling a long breath that reverberates in the still corridor.

My path is clear, if treacherous: find whoever is manufacturing these omens, expose them before they goad the clan into turning on me—and on her.

And, the God of War is watching, let him see that orcish strength isn’t always about blind aggression.

Sometimes it’s the courage to break from old patterns and fight for a different future.