Page 17

LIRIENNE

I wake to the hollow echoes of wind murmuring across the fortress walls.

Pale morning light seeps through the small gap in my tent flap, revealing the modest space I’ve come to call my own.

The previous day’s events play over in my mind: my awkward attempts at wielding an orcish practice axe, the children’s unabashed curiosity, the lingering stares of suspicious warriors.

And, most of all, the quiet moments I shared with Ghorzag.

Tension still clings to me. Each passing day reminds me that my presence here is precarious.

Yet, for the first time since arriving, I feel something like cautious optimism.

I glimpsed small signs of acceptance—Ragzuk trusting my healing knowledge, orc children peppering me with questions, and Ghorzag himself inviting me into the rhythms of clan life.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s more than I dared hope for when I first entered these gates as a reluctant peace offering.

With a steadying breath, I rise from the bedroll and lace up my borrowed leather boots.

I tie my hair into a low braid, securing it with a thin strip of hide.

The fortress might be a place of jagged stone and warlike tradition, but I am determined to keep forging connections—especially if it means dispelling the fear that I’m nothing more than a curse in human form.

Outside, the courtyard glows with early morning light. Orc warriors pass by in pairs or small groups, speaking in gruff undertones. Some give me wide berth, as though my very presence might be tainted. Others offer curt nods, which I return politely.

A few orc children are already out and about, chasing each other around the perimeter.

One of them—Sargu, I recall—notices me and waves with the unrestrained excitement only children possess.

I give a small wave in return, warmth blooming in my chest. Their acceptance, though unschooled by adult prejudices, is a tiny ember of hope I cling to.

“Lirienne!” a familiar voice calls. I turn to see Nagra, the shaman’s apprentice, striding briskly across the courtyard, skirts swishing around her ankles.

She wears her usual satchel of herbs slung across her torso.

“Ragzuk wants your help with a small matter. Another warrior’s complaining of a toothache, and he’d like you to take a look. ”

I smile, suppressing a flicker of nervousness. I’m not exactly an expert in dentistry, but maybe my herbal knowledge can at least soothe the pain. “Sure. Lead the way,” I say.

Nagra guides me to a quieter alcove near the eastern wall, where a burly orc with salt-and-pepper braids sits hunched over, hand pressed to his jaw. Ragzuk hovers nearby, examining him with narrowed eyes.

“There you are,” Ragzuk says, spotting me. He gestures me closer, stepping aside to let me inspect the warrior. “He’s complaining of sharp pain near the back molars. Swears it’s worsened since last night.”

The warrior, name unknown to me, grunts in acknowledgment.

His tusks are chipped in several places—likely from countless battles.

I carefully ask him to open his mouth and tilt his head, using the sunlight to glimpse inside.

Sure enough, one of his lower molars looks inflamed, with swollen gums pressing around it.

“I can’t do much about an infected tooth without more advanced tools,” I say softly to Ragzuk, “but I can try to reduce the swelling and numb the pain. A poultice or rinse, maybe.” I recall how my village’s herbalist used clove oil and other astringent leaves to soothe aching teeth.

Ragzuk nods, motioning for Nagra to gather the needed plants from her satchel. As I mix a makeshift rinse, the warrior grimaces but watches me intently. Once I finish, I hand him a small cup containing a bitter-smelling concoction.

“Swish this around gently,” I instruct, “then spit it out. It should numb the ache a little.”

He complies, hissing at the strong taste. After a few moments, he spits into a bowl Ragzuk provides, then smacks his lips. “Tastes like swamp water,” he mutters, but the tightness in his brow eases slightly. “Better than the pain, though.”

Ragzuk looks at me, a faint glimmer of respect in his eyes. “One more warrior who owes you thanks,” he says quietly, low, secretive, for my ears alone.

I offer a modest shrug. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Your efforts aren’t going unnoticed,” he replies. “Even if not everyone admits it.”

A hint of warmth flutters in my chest. Maybe I can carve out a place here after all, I think. I thank Ragzuk and Nagra, then head off to see what other tasks the day will bring.

Later, I find myself in the communal eating area for a midday meal. Orcs sit at long tables, bowls of hearty stew steaming in front of them, hunks of bread and smoked meat piled on rough wooden platters. A riot of voices rings through the chamber, though the volume dips noticeably when I enter.

I try not to bristle under the weight of so many eyes. They won’t all accept you overnight , I remind myself. Focus on the ones who’ve shown even a shred of openness.

Spotting a small space on a bench near the end, I make my way there and slide onto the seat. A few orcs shift uncomfortably but don’t protest. I murmur a quiet greeting, receiving stiff nods in return.

An orcish woman with scars crisscrossing her forearms glances at me sidelong. “Heard you fixed old Hargir’s tooth,” she says, her voice gruff but not hostile.

I swallow a spoonful of stew before replying. “Tried to, anyway. He should see the shaman if it gets worse, though.”

She gives a considering grunt and returns her attention to her food, apparently content with my answer. I let out an inward sigh of relief. A warrior from across the table, face shadowed by an old burn scar, eyes me but says nothing.

As I eat, the conversation around me gradually resumes, though now and then I catch snatches about “omens” and “bad harvest.” Occasionally, my name drifts through the low hum—sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with skepticism.

I keep my gaze on my bowl, focusing on finishing the meal while projecting an air of calm I don’t fully feel.

At length, I notice Ghorzag enter the hall.

His presence commands attention; hushed conversations pause as he crosses toward me.

Without ceremony, he claims a seat beside me, muscles coiled beneath his leather armor.

Orcish eyes shift to watch. The chieftain sitting with the human is hardly a common sight.

“How’s the stew?” he asks, voice quieter than the wind.

“Better than I expected,” I admit, offering a small half-smile. My nerves flutter under the scrutiny of everyone else, but I cling to the memory of Ghorzag’s unwavering support in the training yard yesterday.

He nods, grabbing a bowl for himself. We eat in silence for a while, yet the silence around us feels thick with unasked questions. Eventually, the normal hum of mealtime resumes, albeit more muted than before. It is a small victory: at least they’re not collectively glaring at me anymore.

As we finish, Ghorzag wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need to check on the orchard,” he says abruptly. “A section of it was damaged by floods—some claim it’s the War God’s wrath, others suspect sabotage. Come with me.”

A surge of nerves dances in my stomach. “All right. I’ll come,” I answer, ignoring a few raised eyebrows from nearby orcs. Ghorzag’s invitation feels more like an order, but also like an unspoken testament that he trusts me enough to include me in clan affairs.

The orchard lies beyond the main fortress gate, nestled on a gentle slope where rows of stunted fruit trees struggle to grow in the rocky soil.

Evidence of the recent flooding mars the ground—channels of mud cut through the orchard, some trees leaning precariously where their roots have been partially washed out.

A few orc farmhands—or as close to “farmhands” as orcs allow themselves—inspect the damage. They pause as Ghorzag and I approach. One of them, a middle-aged orc woman with a stern brow, waves us over to a large furrow in the earth.

“This was done overnight,” she says, voice rough from years of fieldwork. “Water poured down from the hillside. Too much, too fast. Lost four saplings and some of the older trees are drowning.”

Ghorzag’s brow furrows. “Any sign that it was sabotaged? A dam broken upstream, or channels dug?”

The orc woman shakes her head. “Hard to say. Could be heavy rain from the mountains. Could be meddling by an unseen hand.”

He folds his arms, scanning the orchard with a hawk-like gaze.

I walk beside him, noticing the small rivulets that seem unnaturally directed through the orchard’s center.

My father once explained how farmland could be deliberately flooded if trenches were dug in the right places.

This looks suspiciously deliberate. But I keep my thoughts quiet, uncertain if the orcs want to hear a human’s opinion.

Ghorzag, however, seems attuned to my hesitation. “Speak,” he says softly, tilting his head so only I can hear.

I clear my throat. “I’m no expert, but it looks like something diverted the water here. Perhaps a small barrier upstream was broken to release the flow all at once.”

He nods, lips pressed thin. “My thought as well.” Then, louder, to the orc woman: “Search upstream for any signs of tampering. If you find fresh cuts in the land or recent digging, bring the news to me immediately.”

She grunts in acknowledgment, gesturing for a few others to follow her as they trudge up the slope. Ghorzag turns back to me, eyes narrowed. “If this is sabotage, we have a traitor—or an outside agent—undermining the clan from within.”

I recall Ragzuk’s hints that mortal hands might be behind the omens. “Do you suspect a rival clan? Or dark elves?”