Page 19

GHORZAG

T he fortress never truly sleeps anymore. Not with tensions roiling beneath every stone. Evening is a time of temporary respite—when the day’s labors end, and the night guard begins their watch—but in recent weeks, rest has become a fragile thing. It’s almost a month since Lirienne’s arrival here.

My mind whirls with questions of sabotage and uneasy alliances, leaving me prowling the corridors when others try to find sleep.

I am returning from a late meeting with Karzug and a few trusted warriors—another fruitless debate about who might be causing these so-called omens—when an urgent shout breaks through the dim corridors:

“Chieftain!”

I spin, heart pounding. One of the younger orc scouts, face pale with anxiety, sprints toward me, nearly colliding with the torchlit wall in his haste.

“Steady,” I bark, halting him with an outstretched hand. “What is it?”

The scout draws in a gasping breath. “The eastern cistern. We found something foul in the water—an oily sheen on the surface that stinks like rot. It’s—” His eyes flick to me, wide with dread. “Some orcs have already used it for cooking. We suspect it might be poisoned.”

My pulse kicks, a surge of cold anger washing over me. Another sabotage. Another blow designed to stoke fear and chaos. “Show me.”

In minutes, we gather a small band of warriors—Karzug among them—to investigate.

Torches flare in the dark courtyard as we trek past the orchard path and descend stone steps leading to the cisterns.

The air grows cooler underground, lantern light revealing damp walls coated with moss.

A stale, metallic smell clings to the tunnels.

A pair of guards step aside when we reach the sealed entrance to the eastern cistern. One guard looks at me, worry etched into his features. “We only just discovered it, Chieftain. A few orcs complained of the water tasting off during dinner, so we came to check.”

Karzug grimaces. “Any ill effects yet?”

“None reported,” the guard replies. “But the smell is rank.”

I motion for him to open the heavy wooden door, dread twisting in my gut. If the water supply is compromised, we face not only poisoning but also further accusations that the War God’s wrath is upon us. Worse, the clan could turn that suspicion on Lirienne again, no matter how baseless.

The door swings open with a creaking protest. Inside, lantern beams reveal a still pool of water surrounded by carefully shaped stone walls. Sure enough, a greasy film glistens across the surface. The odor of decay hits me like a blow. My tusks grind together. No natural occurrence did this.

I step forward, footsteps echoing on damp stone. Karzug follows, expression dark. “This is definitely sabotage.” His eyes sweep the area, searching for any sign of forced entry.

My jaw clenches. “Someone poured something into our cistern.” Fury coils in my chest. We already had floods in the orchard, livestock dying mysteriously, missing seeds from the granary. Now, this. The saboteur’s boldness grows every day.

We test the water using a long ladle. The foul, oily substance clings to the metal. One whiff confirms it’s rancid enough to sicken anyone who drinks it. I turn to the others. “Seal this cistern. No one uses it until we purge whatever’s in here.”

Karzug snaps to attention. “We’ll do so immediately. The question is how quickly we can clean it—and how long before rumors spread that we’re cursed.”

“Rumors are likely already spreading,” I say grimly.

From the side, I see the scout from earlier shuffle nervously. “Chieftain,” he ventures, “some orcs are claiming it’s yet another sign that the War God condemns the human’s presence.”

A growl rumbles in my throat. “Enough. This is no divine act. We have a traitor or an infiltrator undermining us.” I force the words out, though part of me realizes how few orcs want to hear it. Blaming Lirienne—the convenient outsider—is so much simpler.

Karzug lays a hand on me. “We’ll do our best to contain the panic,” he says quietly, “but you know how they are. They’ll talk.”

I nod. “Let them talk. I’ll handle it.”

But how, I wonder, when every sign of calamity is pinned on her?

I leave Karzug to organize a cleanup crew, trusting him to keep the clan calm for a few hours. My own mood is a storm of frustration and concern as I climb out of the underground cistern tunnels and step into the torchlit courtyard. The fresh air does little to quell the heat in my blood.

I need to warn Lirienne, is my first thought.

She has a right to know this new sabotage will likely raise suspicions against her yet again.

Part of me hates that her name might be linked to every misfortune.

Another part boils with resentment at the possibility that her presence truly brings a curse upon us.

No , I admonish myself. I can’t waver now.

I’ve seen enough evidence to suspect mortal interference, not divine wrath.

Her tent is dark. Only a faint glow seeps through the flap—a single lantern, perhaps.

I hesitate at the threshold, mind swimming with the memory of how I pinned an aggressive orc to the corridor wall just a day ago, stopping him from harming her.

She is still not entirely safe here. A protective impulse flares, tangling with something deeper, more complicated.

I raise a hand and rap softly on the wooden post. “Lirienne.”

After a moment, her muffled voice answers. “Come in.”

Inside, the lantern casts gentle shadows across her tent’s canvas walls, revealing her kneeling by a small table strewn with plants and bandages. She looks up, eyes widening at my grim expression. Concern flashes in her gaze. “Ghorzag? You look—what happened?”

I step forward, the enclosed space feeling smaller than ever. “Our eastern cistern has been fouled. Tainted with some rancid substance. Could be poison.”

Her eyes widen. “Poison?” She rises, the faint rustle of her clothes underscoring her alarm. “Are orcs sick?”

“None yet,” I say, raking a hand through my hair. My beads clink softly. “But if word spreads that our water is unsafe, panic will follow. That cowardly saboteur has struck again.”

She exhales shakily. “But why poison the water? That affects everyone here, including the saboteur.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Some might not care if it weakens us. Or they might have an antidote prepared for themselves. All I know is this will feed the clan’s fears that you are behind it.

” The words land heavier than I intend, but frustration ripples through me.

I refuse to blame her, yet I can already hear the rumors.

Her posture stiffens. “And do you believe them?” she asks in a quiet, hurt tone.

A flash of guilt pricks my chest. “No,” I say, voice strained. “But the clan does. Or at least a sizable portion that’s swayed by superstition.”

She shakes her head, hair catching the lantern’s glow. “I’m doing everything in my power to help—treating wounds, assisting in the kitchens. It’s never enough.”

My temper, already frayed, ignites. “No matter what you do, they see only an outsider,” I reply, not meaning to sound accusatory. “Every day, I fight to keep them from turning on you. But each new disaster—” I break off, fists clenching at my sides.

She squares her shoulders, eyes flashing. “I never asked you to protect me if it’s such a burden, Ghorzag.” The tremor in her voice betrays how deeply the situation cuts.

A growl builds in my throat. “You think this is easy for me? Leading a clan that fears the War God’s anger, trying to prove sabotage, all while you?—”

“While I what?” she demands, stepping closer, indignation flaring. “Live at the mercy of orcs who might kill me at any moment? Try to be useful while half the clan hisses curses behind my back?”

Our gazes lock, tension crackling in the confined air.

Torchlight flickers across her features, highlighting the defiance in her wide eyes.

My anger wars with an overwhelming surge of protectiveness.

She’s braver than most orcs I know, daring to stand up for herself even when she’s dwarfed by orcish power.

She is not the enemy, I remind myself, but frustration batters me from every side. The sabotage. The clan’s suspicion. My own inability to end this crisis swiftly. My chest tightens as I struggle to form words.

Our raised voices fill the tent, the argument swirling from sabotage to the deeper undercurrents of mistrust and fear. At one point, my tusks bare in anger, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, she glares at me, chin tilted high in a show of stubborn resilience.

“You accuse me of bringing chaos,” she says, cheeks flushed, “yet you’re the one who demanded this alliance. You pushed for peace, so stop blaming me for the consequences!”

“I’m not blaming you,” I grind out. “I’m blaming the saboteur. But you—” My breath comes in ragged bursts. Words fail as raw emotion wells up, frustration knotting my throat. This is impossible.

She exhales a trembling breath, tears glimmering in her eyes.

“I’m trying, Ghorzag. I’m trying so hard.

” That vulnerability cuts through my anger like a blade.

Suddenly, the reality of how precarious her position is—caught between orcish hostility and her own desire to save her village—slams into me.

I stare at her, chest heaving. My pulse hammers. She stands so close, her mouth parted with unspoken words, and I can’t tear my gaze away from the softness of her lips or the faint sheen of tears threatening to spill.

The tension builds to a breaking point. Anger, fear, and an undercurrent of something pulsing deeper—some gravitational pull we’ve been fighting for weeks—collide in a flash of reckless urgency. I hear myself growl low in my throat before I reach for her.