Page 22

LIRIENNE

L anternlight bathes the fortress corridors in a wan glow as I emerge from my tent. My limbs feel sluggish, as though I haven’t truly slept. Even without the constant drumbeat of sabotage rumors and clan tensions, my mind is a whirl of conflicting emotions.

The memory of what happened—of Ghorzag’s fierce embrace, our anger and fear transforming into a fiery connection—hovers at the forefront of my thoughts.

Part of me still can’t believe it has happened.

The rest of me braces for the fallout. He’s the chieftain, I remind myself, and I’m the human the clan blames for every ill.

If anyone finds out about the intimacy we’ve shared, suspicion will only multiply.

As I make my way across the courtyard, I feel eyes sliding over me, some openly hostile, others merely curious.

A group of orc warriors leans against a barricade of stacked crates, weapons clutched in restless hands.

Their low-voiced murmurs cease when I pass, replaced by sneers and sidelong glances. My pulse quickens.

I will not cower, I tell myself, squaring my shoulders. I come here to help forge peace, not to hide. Yet the tension in the air is palpable, pressing down like a gathering storm.

I head toward Ragzuk’s workshop, hoping to check on any new injuries and keep busy. The fortress’s battered hallways and courtyard corners are rife with anxious clusters of orcs, exchanging grim gossip in hushed tones:

“The water problem… definitely the War God’s curse.”

“Or else she’s bewitching Ghorzag to ignore the signs.”

“He has been acting strange lately…”

My stomach knots as I catch snippets of conversation.

Whispers of “human witchcraft” rise among them, echoing more loudly than before.

I heard it in passing recently, but now the accusations are sharper, more pointed.

I grip the strap of my satchel, forcing myself to keep walking.

Let them talk. They don’t know the truth.

Still, a cold sweat breaks out along my temples. Human witchcraft. The idea is laughable—I have no magical powers beyond the herb-lore I learned at home. But to orcs, who believe in curses and the War God’s wrath, such a rumor might be dangerously plausible.

Near one of the side passages, I glimpse an orc woman gesturing emphatically to a group of listeners.

Her voice carries in the still air: “I heard she used her illusions to trap him. Ghorzag defends her at every turn, doesn’t he?

” Another orc spits on the ground in agreement.

The pungent reek of suspicion clings to the hallway like old smoke.

A hollow feeling settles in my gut. If the clan believes I’m using sorcery to manipulate their chieftain, how long will it be before the more militant warriors decide to “free” him by eliminating me altogether?

In an attempt to quell my nerves, I divert to the kitchens—my new routine, where I can at least appear useful. The moment I step through the heavy door, a hush spreads among the cooks. Some set down utensils; others pause mid-chop, eyes sliding in my direction.

I muster my best polite nod. “Good morning,” I say quietly.

No one replies. The tension is thicker than old stew left to congeal.

My cheeks burn. I take a few steps toward the wash basin, intending to tackle the pile of dishes stacked there.

A burly orc male, the one who once sneered at me for potentially “burning the bread,” looms over the sink, arms folded.

“You,” he growls. “Stop.”

I freeze. My heart thuds. “Is there something you need?”

His lip curls, revealing chipped tusks. “We heard rumors. That you’re bewitching Ghorzag, twisting his mind. Some say you’re using human potions or spells so he’ll protect you. Is that what your little herbs and salves really are?”

Blood drains from my face. “No, that’s—I’ve never?—”

“Don’t lie to us,” hisses a female cook from behind. Others murmur in agreement. They form a loose semicircle, as if preparing to corner me. My breath catches. They’re not all hateful, I remind myself, but the suspicion in their eyes is unmistakable.

“I don’t have witchcraft,” I repeat, voice shaking with anger and hurt. “I only know basic healing remedies. Nothing else.”

“Lies,” spits the male cook. “We’ve seen how Ghorzag defends you—more fiercely every day. You must have done something to make him so blind to the War God’s omens.”

Heat flares in my cheeks. If only they knew the actual reason. A swirl of shame, fear, and indignation laces my thoughts. “If that were true, would I be scrubbing dishes and peeling potatoes?” I demand, trying to keep my voice steady. “I want to help. Nothing more.”

The orcs exchange uncertain looks, the tension thick.

One or two seem less convinced of my guilt, but none speaks in my defense.

Finally, the female cook thrusts a wooden ladle into my hand.

“Fine. Stir the stew,” she snaps, pointing to a giant pot.

“And watch your potions. If we see anything suspicious…”

She lets the threat hang, unspoken and deadly.

I swallow hard, managing a jerky nod. My hands shake as I clutch the ladle.

The hush recedes into resentful muttering, but the taste of hostility lingers in the air.

They truly think I have Ghorzag under a spell.

My chest constricts with a wave of helplessness.

I stir the stew mechanically, biting my lip to keep tears of frustration at bay.

Yesterday, working here felt like a step toward acceptance.

Now, I’m an outsider among them again, rumors swirling that I hold the clan’s chieftain enthralled by magic.

The irony—my genuine bond with Ghorzag—only makes it more painful to hear.

They won’t even believe we share mutual respect or something deeper , I think grimly. To them, it must be sorcery.

I don’t stay in the kitchens long. After fulfilling a few minor tasks, I slip out, the tension strangling my every breath.

If I’m going to keep my sanity, I need to find a calmer place to think.

Ragzuk’s workshop, I decide. At least there, the old shaman’s apprentice might not treat me like a plague.

But as I round a corner, I nearly collide with a pair of warriors engaged in heated conversation.

“—Chieftain’s lost his mind—” one snarls.

“—should exile the human—” the other snaps, voice thick with rage. “War God or not, she’s trouble.”

I freeze behind a stack of crates, holding my breath so they won’t see me. My heart hammers. They have no idea I’m here, eavesdropping from mere steps away.

“She’s undermining us,” the first warrior continues, voice echoing in the corridor. “She pretends to help in the kitchens, but I bet she’s stirring curses into our food.”

The other lets out a derisive laugh. “And Ghorzag? She’s twisted him around her finger. She needs to be cast out, or better yet—” He trails off with a vicious grin, letting the implication hang.

My blood runs cold. They want me gone, by force if necessary.

My mind races. Exile is one thing; a sentence to wander the wilds until I starve or am hunted by orcs or worse.

Death, meanwhile, is a permanent solution.

If enough warriors demand it, how would Ghorzag stop them?

The clan reveres strength and tradition, and if they believe I’m truly cursed, they might challenge Ghorzag’s leadership.

Suddenly, a third voice—familiar, arrogant—cuts through the tension like a blade. “Patience. We’ll handle this carefully. The Chieftain’s cousin stands with us.”

I peer around the crates to see that the newcomer is an orc clad in armor bearing faint familial markings—similar to Ghorzag’s, but stylized differently.

His cousin, I realize with a jolt. So there is a rival commander among Ghorzag’s own blood.

He’s tall, with braided hair laced with small iron beads, a cunning glint in his eyes.

His tone turns conspiratorial. “If Ghorzag keeps ignoring the War God’s displeasure, we’ll unite the dissenters. Claim the clan demands her removal. He won’t be able to stand against us all.”

A chill ripples through me. So they plan a coordinated push to oust me. Possibly a direct challenge to Ghorzag’s authority. My throat constricts. He’s your own kin, Ghorzag, and he’s plotting to undermine you.

The trio moves off, their footsteps fading down the corridor. I stay hidden until I’m certain they’re gone, heart pounding with a mix of fear and betrayal. If the Chieftain’s cousin is orchestrating the clan’s hostility, that spells deeper trouble than random sabotage.

I move steadily to Ragzuk’s workshop, shaken. My every footstep feels heavier than the last, my mind replaying those chilling words: Exile. Possibly kill her. Twist Ghorzag around her finger. Fear throbs at my temples like a headache I can’t shake.

I push open the workshop door to find Ragzuk hunched over a table of herbs, carefully sorting dried leaves into neat piles. He glances up, watery eyes narrowing. “Ah, Lirienne,” he says softly, voice raspy with age. “You look… unsettled.”

I draw a shaky breath, shutting the door behind me. “You could say that. Where’s Nagra?”

“Out gathering supplies,” Ragzuk replies, gesturing me forward. “But you’re trembling. Sit.”

I sink onto a low stool, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands. If I tell Ragzuk everything, will that place him at risk? He’s been relatively sympathetic to me, but is he loyal enough to stand against Ghorzag’s cousin if it comes to confrontation?

He must read the turmoil on my face. “I may be old, but I’m not blind,” he says, setting aside his herbs. “What’s happened?”

I force my voice to steady. “Some of the warriors are calling for my exile. They think I’m… using witchcraft to control Ghorzag. I overheard them plotting with someone claiming to be Ghorzag’s cousin.”