Page 11

LIRIENNE

T he new day’s light filters through the thin canvas walls of the tent, sending dappled shadows across my face.

I stir, blinking awake to the realization that my bedding is too coarse to ever be mistaken for the soft straw mattress of my home.

I can’t pretend I’m anywhere else but here—in the midst of an orc fortress, an outsider precariously balanced on the edge of acceptance and hostility.

I exhale a shaky breath and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

My mind swirls with lingering tension from the previous night’s rite.

The High Priest’s ambiguous reading of the bones spared me from outright condemnation, but it leaves the clan teetering on a knife’s edge.

“A crossroads,” he called it—one that could tip into catastrophe with the slightest nudge.

As I stretch, the tent flap rustles. Nagra’s familiar silhouette appears, blocking the early morning sun. “You’re awake,” she greets, her tone gentler than the typical orc gruffness.

I press a hand to my chest to quell my startled heartbeat. “I am.” A rueful smile graces my lips. “Not much chance for deep sleep under these circumstances.”

Nagra steps inside, letting the canvas fall behind her. She carries a small bundle of cloth that smells faintly of roasted grains and something sweet. “I brought breakfast,” she says, handing it over. “Figured you’d need your strength today.”

My mouth waters at the scent. Gingerly, I unwrap the cloth to find a piece of dense, nutty bread drizzled with a bit of honey, and a small wedge of dried fruit. A wave of gratitude washes over me. “Thank you.”

She shrugs, as if to brush off any notion of kindness. “Eat. Then, if you’re feeling up to it, Ragzuk wants to see you.”

I recall the older apprentice, though he seems more like a half-shaman in his own right. My heart gives a faint lurch. “Why does he want to see me?”

Nagra folds her arms. “You’ve been asking how you can help.

He thinks he has a task for you—something about gathering herbs for a wounded warrior.

The official clan shaman is too old to traipse around the outskirts, and Ragzuk’s knees won’t carry him far these days.

” She pauses, then adds, “It’s not a trick, if that’s what you’re wondering.

This warrior’s been complaining of an infected cut that the usual salves can’t fully fix.

Ragzuk believes some local plants might help. Your knowledge could prove useful.”

I take a bite of bread, the taste brightening my mood for a moment. “I’d be happy to help,” I say, swallowing carefully. “I do know a bit about herbs—back in my village, I used to gather them for our local healer. She taught me which ones can disinfect wounds.”

Nagra’s lips curve into a small smile. “Then maybe you can do some good here, show the clan you’re not just a burden. Finish eating. I’ll wait outside, and we can head to Ragzuk together.”

I step out of the tent to find the fortress courtyard already bustling with morning activity.

Orc warriors lug crates of supplies, blacksmiths stoke their forges, and a few younger orcs spar in a makeshift ring.

Each clang of metal sets my nerves on edge, but I remind myself that not everything here revolves around me. Orcs have daily lives and chores, too.

Still, I feel stares prickling my back as Nagra leads me along a winding path between tents. Some orcs openly glower, others mutter under their breath. A few merely regard me with guarded curiosity, as though unsure if I might sprout fangs any moment.

We soon reach a low stone structure attached to the fortress’s eastern wall, near a small herb garden enclosed by crude wooden fencing.

Inside, the building is dimly lit, smelling of dried flowers and pungent spices.

Bundles of leaves dangle from the rafters, swaying gently in the draft.

Earthy mortar and pestle sets line a wooden workbench.

Ragzuk sits on a three-legged stool in the center of the room, poring over a stack of thin, tattered parchments. He glances up at our approach, his wizened face creasing into something like a smile. “Ah, Lirienne, good to see you in one piece.”

I muster a wry grin. “I can say the same to you.”

He chuckles, a raspy sound. “I heard you endured quite the spectacle last night. Druzh can be dramatic when invoking the War God’s will.”

Nagra casts me a sidelong glance, then slips away, presumably to handle other tasks. I step closer to Ragzuk, eyeing the parchments. They are covered in scrawls—orcish runes, maybe notes on different healing techniques. “Nagra said you needed my help with an injured warrior?”

He nods, setting the parchments aside. “Yes. One of our scouts has a nasty gash in his calf. He claims the standard poultices aren’t helping, that the wound remains hot and inflamed.

” Ragzuk shrugs. “I suspect it’s infected more seriously than we realized.

The official shaman can recite plenty of incantations, but his knowledge of practical treatments is… lacking nowadays.”

An unexpected surge of purpose threads through me. “I’ll do what I can. But I might need specific herbs—ones that help draw out infection. In my village, we used goldenseal or something similar.”

Ragzuk taps a crooked finger against his chin. “Goldenseal… I’ve heard of that. Don’t think we have it in the fortress garden. You’ll likely need to search outside the walls. There’s a glen to the east where the soil is damp and warm. Suitable for such plants.”

Outside the walls. My pulse kicks. The notion of leaving the fortress, even briefly, both thrills and alarms me. But if it means helping and proving my worth, it’s worth the risk. “All right. I’ll go. Should I—?” I hesitate, glancing around. “I might need a guard or escort, right?”

Ragzuk gives a short nod. “Traditionally, yes. You’re still under scrutiny here.

Ghorzag made it clear that no harm should come to you, which means you won’t be permitted to wander alone.

” He pauses, eyes flickering with subtle amusement.

“But it seems he’s assigned a certain protective detail to you anyway. ”

“Protective detail?” I echo, heart thudding.

Ragzuk angles his head toward the door. “Go on out and see.”

Puzzled, I follow his gesture, stepping back into the courtyard.

Sure enough, standing by the rough wooden fence of the herb garden is Ghorzag himself, arms folded across his broad chest. He cuts an imposing figure, as always—forest-green skin glinting in the sunlight, the swirling tattoos on his arms partially visible where his leather vest parts.

He is speaking in low tones with Karzug, who nods and then strides off, leaving Ghorzag alone.

For a moment, I freeze. We’ve barely exchanged words outside the ritual last night, but my memory conjures the steadfastness in his gaze when he publicly defended me.

The vow that no one would harm me under his watch.

A flush of warmth courses through me, swiftly followed by awkward uncertainty.

What do I say to the orc chieftain who has effectively claimed me as a bride for political reasons?

Gathering my courage, I approach, carefully skirting a cluster of rowdy orc soldiers who practice with axes near the wall.

Ghorzag notices me instantly; his gaze flicks my way, and I sense tension coiled in his posture—like a predator ever ready to pounce.

But there is no hostility in his eyes, merely a guarded curiosity.

“You’re out early,” he rumbles, voice low.

I clasp my hands together to keep them from fidgeting. “I came to see Ragzuk. He says there’s an injured scout who needs certain herbs not found in the fortress garden.” I glance over my shoulder at the towering walls. “So it appears I’ll need to venture beyond the gates.”

His brow furrows. “And you’re going alone?”

I shrug, heart hammering. “I was told I shouldn’t wander unescorted, but… I do want to help. This is my chance to prove I’m not just a burden.”

He lets out a slow exhale, eyeing me with a mix of assessment and something else I can’t name. “I’ll take you,” he says at length. “No one else has time or the inclination, and I don’t trust half the clan to keep their tempers in check if you’re out of sight for too long.”

My nerves tighten. He personally wants to escort me? The notion simultaneously comforts and unsettles me. “That’s… fine. Thank you,” I manage, trying not to sound too breathless.

An orc blacksmith hammers at an anvil nearby, sending sparks flying, as if punctuating the tension between us. Ghorzag jerks his head toward the main gate. “We should go now, before it gets too hot. The glen’s about half an hour’s hike east if we take the direct path.”

He starts walking, his strides long and confident.

I hurry to keep pace, noticing how orcs in the courtyard pause what they’re doing to stare.

Some look at us with blatant disapproval, others with faint curiosity.

I can practically taste the rumors swirling in the air: The chieftain leading his human bride out of the fortress?

But Ghorzag doesn’t seem to care. He moves through the fortress with single-minded purpose, and orcs part before him like he’s a force of nature. I swallow my nerves, grateful for his commanding presence—at least no one dares harass me with him around.

Crossing the fortress gate feels like stepping into another world.

Where the courtyard teems with noise and the pungent smells of orc life, the landscape beyond is a rugged stretch of rolling hills and patches of wind-swept grass.

The early sun gilds the horizon, casting the land in warm hues.

My chest loosens, as if I can finally breathe without stone walls pressing in.