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“That’s enough,” I finally say, placing a hand on the haft to lower the weapon. “We’re not trying to make you an orc warrior. Just letting you feel what it’s like.”

Relief and disappointment mingle in her expression. She hands the practice axe back, cheeks flushed. “Thank you,” she murmurs, voice breathless. “I— I appreciate you letting me try.”

I incline my head. “Courage isn’t about being the strongest. It’s about facing what you fear anyway.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, softening. A moment passes between us, awareness crackling like static. Then I turn my attention back to the training yard.

“All right,” I bellow, addressing the assembled warriors. “Form pairs! Let’s see standard drills. Practice your timing—listen for your opponent’s breathing, watch their footing.”

At once, the orcs snap into motion. Wooden axes clash against wooden shields, staves thud in practiced rhythms. Lirienne stands beside me, still catching her breath, observing the synchronized chaos.

“They take this very seriously,” she notes, scanning the fighters.

“We must,” I reply. “Life in the clan isn’t gentle. If we don’t hone our skills, we perish. Orcs have survived this long because we won’t be outmatched, not by beasts, not by humans, not even by dark elves.”

She nods, a distant shadow crossing her features at the mention of dark elves—likely recalling the clan’s history of bloodshed against them. “And yet, you’re trying to make peace with humans,” she says softly, as though the contradiction lingers in her mind.

I tense. “Humans aren’t the only threat out there. If forging peace with your kind keeps my clan from bleeding itself dry, I’ll take that chance.”

Her expression gentles. “That’s… admirable, Ghorzag.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with praise. “We’ll see if it holds.”

When the sun crests overhead, the training session ends, and the warriors disperse to cool down or fetch their midday meal. Karzug oversees the distribution of water skins and rations, while Lirienne and I linger near a bench beneath a scraggly oak tree that offers meager shade.

A small group of orc children wanders over, as they often do when training concludes. Their wide eyes fixate on Lirienne—her hair, her smaller frame. One particularly inquisitive child, a boy called Sargu, points to the wooden axe resting in the rack.

“Did you really try to swing that?” he asks, voice high with curiosity.

Lirienne nods, smiling. “I did. I’m not very good at it yet.”

The children giggle, and one girl chimes in, “It’s heavy, right? I can barely lift it, and I’m an orc!”

They crowd closer, asking questions that range from innocent to surprisingly probing:

“Are all humans as small as you?”

“Do humans eat raw meat, too?”

“Why do humans wear such thin boots?”

She answers with patience, sometimes laughing at their wide-eyed astonishment.

I observe from a step away, arms folded, noticing how easily she adapts to their curiosity.

Unlike some older orcs, these children harbor less hostility.

They haven’t been fully shaped by the clan’s wariness or tradition.

At one point, a little girl with pigtails tugs Lirienne’s hand. “Are you really gonna marry Chieftain Ghorzag?” she asks, mischief shining in her eyes.

A hush falls. I tense, cutting a sharp glance at the child, but she stares back with guileless innocence. Lirienne’s cheeks turn pink. She glances at me briefly—our eyes meeting in a flash of shared unease—before replying gently, “I… well, your chieftain and I have an arrangement for peace.”

It is a diplomatic answer, the best one can offer in front of children. Sargu wrinkles his nose. “That means yes,” he announces, much to the others’ delight.

They giggle, and Lirienne musters a sheepish smile. I clear my throat, stepping in. “Enough questions,” I say, though not harshly. “Go get your midday meal, or you’ll miss out.”

With squeals and laughter, they scamper off, occasionally glancing back at Lirienne as if she is the strangest and most intriguing creature they’ve ever encountered. Perhaps she is, in their eyes.

As the children disappear, Lirienne lets out a slow breath, touching the back of her neck. “They’re… enthusiastic.”

I arch a brow. “They’re less jaded than their elders. They haven’t seen decades of conflict.”

She nods, eyes drifting to the fortress walls. “It’s refreshing, in a way.”

A short silence falls, but it isn’t uncomfortable.

I watch her out at the fringe of my sight, noticing how she brushes hair from her forehead, how her fingertips still bear faint stains from yesterday’s herb gathering.

She has integrated small habits from orcish life—like wearing a short-sleeved leather vest for ease of movement—but she is still very much human, an outsider forging her own path.

“You handled that training axe better than expected,” I find myself saying, surprising even me.

She gives a short laugh. “I’m sure the orcs were impressed by my clumsy flailing.”

“You didn’t give up,” I counter. “That’s more than half the struggle.”

A faint blush colors her cheeks at the compliment. “Thank you, Ghorzag.”

Before I can respond, a familiar presence approaches: Ragzuk, the older apprentice to our clan’s aging shaman. He inclines his head. “Chieftain. Lirienne.”

“Ragzuk,” I acknowledge. “Something you need?”

He glances between us. “I came to see if Lirienne might assist with a minor injury—another warrior complained of a sprain after training.” His gaze flicks to her with cautious respect. “Your herbal remedies proved effective last time.”

Lirienne’s expression brightens with purpose. “Of course, I’d be glad to help.”

Ragzuk nods, turning to me. “Do I have your permission to take her, Chieftain?”

I suppress a faint smirk at his formality. He’s making a point that I’m responsible for her safety in the clan. “Yes. Go.”

He leads Lirienne away, leaving me alone under the oak tree. The patch of shade feels oddly emptier without her. I watch them cross the yard, weaving among warriors, some of whom still wear suspicious scowls. But no one interferes. My directive is clear: harming Lirienne would be met with my wrath.

Late afternoon finds me in the fortress’s main hall, conferring with a small group of elders about the latest resource tallies. The conversation is terse—harvest yields have dropped in some areas due to the unexplained floods, and suspicion lingers that “omens” indicate the War God’s displeasure.

“Chieftain,” mutters one elder, tapping a gnarled walking stick on the stone floor. “Our fields continue to rot in patches, and scouts have found strange carvings in nearby trees, as though mocking our clan.”

My jaw tightens. “Have you seen any sign of trespassers? Dark elves, or otherwise?”

“None confirmed,” the elder admits grudgingly. “But many fear it’s a curse. Or sabotage from the human.”

A low growl rumbles in my throat. “Lirienne is not our enemy. She’s helped more than she’s harmed.”

An uneasy silence follows, the elders exchanging meaningful looks. Eventually, one with a braided beard says, “We respect your command, Ghorzag, but you must understand the clan’s fear. It won’t vanish overnight. If these misfortunes persist, more will demand her removal.”

Blood pounds in my ears, but I keep my voice level. “I’ll find the culprit behind these disasters, or prove them natural if that’s the truth. Until then, the clan abides by my decree.”

No one dares openly defy me here, though the tension is palpable. They fear the War God’s wrath more than they trust me. That realization stings, but it also hardens my resolve. I won’t bow to illusions or sabotage.

The elders eventually disperse, leaving me at the middle of the hall’s polished stone floor.

Torches flicker on the walls, their light dancing over tapestries that depict orc victories of old.

I find myself recalling the fleeting flash of Lirienne’s determined gaze, how she faces orc hostility with a quiet inner strength.

She’s braver than most give her credit for.

The clan assembles in smaller pockets throughout the fortress: some around cookfires in the courtyard, others in the main hall, sipping a fermented drink from large clay vessels.

I make my rounds, ensuring disputes are settled quickly.

The presence of sabotage has heightened tempers—every minor spat threatens to escalate.

Eventually, I return to the courtyard’s largest bonfire, where Lirienne sits on a log, awkwardly balancing a wooden bowl of stew in her lap. A few orcs hover at a distance, not quite hostile but not friendly, either. She looks up at me as I approach, relief softening her features.

“Mind if I join?” I ask, though I hardly need permission in my own clan.

She shifts to make room, tucking her legs beneath her. The bonfire’s glow lights her face in warm hues, accentuating the dusting of freckles across her nose. “I was just… observing. Orc gatherings are so different from my village’s festivities.”

I settle beside her, inhaling the stew’s savory aroma. “We have festivals, too, though less frequent since resources have become strained.”

A group of orc women sit across the fire, occasionally glancing our way. One of them, older and thick-armed, gives a slow nod—perhaps acknowledging that Lirienne treated her nephew’s sprained ankle earlier. Small gestures, small cracks in the wall of distrust.

Lirienne’s voice drops. “I noticed the tension today—some orcs still blame me for the floods, don’t they?”

I pause, staring into the dancing flames. “They do. They see you as an easy target, ignoring the evidence that something else might be at play.”

She touches the rim of her bowl, fidgeting. “I keep telling myself if I can show them my sincerity, they’ll accept me. But it’s not that simple, is it?”

“No,” I admit quietly. “Generations of hatred don’t vanish overnight. But you’ve done more than most humans ever have to bridge the gap—treating injuries, learning our ways.”