Page 26

LIRIENNE

I f dawn marks the clan’s anxious anticipation, then dusk brings something far darker.

Late evening shadows stretch across the fortress courtyard, the torches sputtering as though reflecting the clan’s collective dread.

I stand near the main gates, arms crossed tightly over my chest, feeling the chill in my very bones.

The hush in the air carries a strange weight—like every orc has paused, waiting for some sign of hope… or doom.

We are supposed to depart at first light, traveling toward the place the War God claims as His sanctum in a last-ditch effort to dispel the swirling accusations of curses and sabotage.

I’ve spent the day gathering the few belongings I’d dare bring on a perilous journey.

Yet no one approaches my tent with final instructions.

Instead, an eerie stillness has settled upon the fortress, broken only by tense whispers in the corridors.

I spot Karzug hurrying across the yard, his broad shoulders hunched. He looks haunted, eyes darting around as if searching for someone to share terrible news. My pulse quickens. Something’s wrong.

When our gazes meet, Karzug beckons me over, expression etched in concern. “Lirienne,” he says quietly, voice oddly muted. “Come with me. There’s been… an incident.”

A knot forms in my chest. “What kind of incident?”

He swallows hard, hesitating. “An orc youth is found near the western watchtower—dead.”

My heart drops as though a pit yawns beneath my feet. Dead? That single word pounds in my skull, stoking dread. Orc youths might see their share of bruises or training injuries, but dead under suspicious circumstances is practically an invitation for the clan to scream curses. “Who—who was it?”

Karzug grimaces. “A young warrior-in-training, name was Rakan. Some claim they saw him alive only an hour before. Then he turned up with no visible wounds, foam at the mouth… People are saying it’s poison. Or a curse.” His voice trails off.

Poison. My stomach clenches, recalling the sabotage we’ve been battling: fouled water, livestock dying. The clan already sees me as a harbinger of ill fortune. This only adds fuel to the blaze. “Where is he now?”

“In the training yard, near the eastern rampart,” Karzug says, dark eyes flicking to the ground. “Many have gathered. Tensions are high. Ghorzag’s trying to keep order, but… they’re calling for your blood, Lirienne.”

I follow Karzug at a brisk pace, my heart hammering an erratic rhythm.

As we near the training yard, the crowd’s angry buzz reaches my ears—low and ominous, like a swarm of hornets stirred from their nest. Torchlight dances on the fortress walls, illuminating grim-faced warriors, elders, and onlookers.

An undercurrent of panic stokes their voices.

They part slightly when Karzug and I approach, though not out of respect—more out of shock, as if they can’t believe I’d dare show my face. I brace myself, scanning the throng until I spot Ghorzag standing in the midst of it, tension evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

At his feet lies a small, shrouded shape.

The orc youth, Rakan, presumably. My stomach twists at the sight, heartbreak mingling with fear.

Orc children and teens have been the only ones to offer me curiosity without unbridled hostility; the notion that one so young is dead under suspicious circumstances is a blow that feels deeply personal.

Ghorzag lifts his head as I arrive. Our eyes meet, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten. Anguish, anger, and—worse—an undercurrent of disappointment I can’t decipher. Is he disappointed in me, or the clan, or this entire tragic situation?

Several orcs shift, revealing the shrouded body. A few of the watchers hold torches, their flames casting flickering shadows on the youth’s pale face. Foam still crusts at the corners of his lips, telling a silent story of a quick, brutal end. My throat constricts.

One of the elders—an older orc woman with deep grooves etched in her cheeks—rounds on me, eyes blazing. “You!” she hisses, voice thick with rage. “Another death, right before you leave with our chieftain. Is this your doing?”

A wave of murmurs sweeps the crowd, carrying the hateful refrain: Witchcraft. Curse. Human meddling. My pulse thunders. I force my voice to steady. “I have nothing to do with Rakan’s death. I—I’m as shocked as any of you.”

A warrior with a braided beard snarls, “Lies! The War God curses us for harboring you. Rakan’s blood is on your hands.”

Shock pulses through me, fierce and bitter. “That’s not—” But my protest is drowned out by the chorus of angry voices.

The throng presses closer, an oppressive ring of bodies. Torchlight reflects off sharpened tusks and glinting metal. Over the chaos, Ghorzag’s voice rings out, harsh and commanding. “Enough!”

Silence falls, thick with hostility. He stands protectively in front of Rakan’s lifeless form, shoulders squared. “We do not know what happened yet. And you will not lay blame at Lirienne’s feet without proof.”

One orc scoffs. “Proof? She’s the only new factor in our midst. Ever since she arrived, death and ruin follow. That’s all the proof I need.”

A roar of agreement rises, fueling the tension. My heart pounds like a war drum in my ears. I glance at Ghorzag, desperate for a sign of confidence, but the flicker in his eyes is unreadable—frustration, anger, sorrow, all swirling together.

From the peripheral view of my eyesight, I see Gaurbod stepping into view, arms folded across his chest, an eerie calm in his expression. He doesn’t shout with the rest. He doesn’t need to—he’s already sown enough seeds of doubt. The crowd’s fury turns into a tempest, and we both know it.

“Chieftain,” comes a booming voice from an elder near the front, “this is the final omen. The War God punishes us for your refusal to cast out the curse. The clan demands justice!”

A wave of shouting erupts, several orcs brandishing weapons. “Exile her!” they cry, while others snarl, “Spill her blood for the War God!” My stomach churns, dizzy with terror. They want me dead right here, right now.

Ghorzag lifts both arms, commanding silence.

It takes longer this time for the crowd to obey.

When their yells finally subside, he turns, gaze locking on me.

In the dancing torchlight, I see the tension in his face, the faint tremor in his jaw.

My breath catches. He’s hurting too, but… is he doubting me?

He takes a step forward, placing a broad hand on my shoulder.

The crowd stirs at the intimate gesture, interpreting it in a myriad of ways.

“We stand on the eve of our pilgrimage,” Ghorzag says, voice resonating through the yard.

“We’ll seek the War God’s verdict on Lirienne.

Until then, no one raises a blade against her. ”

Several orcs spit or mutter curses. A handful seem relieved by his command. But the majority glares, voices filled with wrathful suspicion. Gaurbod, standing at the back, smirks coldly, as if seeing his plan unfold.

One of the younger warriors points accusingly. “What about the youth we lost? Is that price worthless to you, Chieftain?”

A furious snarl escapes Ghorzag’s lips. “Rakan was my kin as well, all orcs are. His death will be avenged—but not by shedding innocent blood.” He turns abruptly, jerking his head at Karzug. “Remove the body. We’ll examine it more closely for signs of poison or other foul play.”

Karzug hurries to comply, while the crowd grudgingly steps aside. A hush settles, thick as tar, as Rakan’s body is lifted away. My heart shatters at the sight of that young orc, so full of potential, now lost to this madness. Why must everything revolve around me?

Ghorzag’s hand slides off my shoulder, the weight of it vanishing along with any sense of security.

In that fleeting moment, I glimpse something dark in his eyes—disappointment, sorrow, perhaps at the clan’s unstoppable rage or the fact that we keep stumbling from one tragedy to another.

I swallow hard, tears stinging my eyes. He doesn’t blame me… does he?

But how could he not? The entire clan demands my head. If he shows any sign of doubt, that swirling tide of fury will swallow us both.

The crowd disperses slowly, grudgingly, each orc casting me hateful or fearful looks. I stand there, trembling, as though the ground under my feet might dissolve at any moment. Rakan’s death hammers home just how powerless I am to stop this avalanche of suspicion.

I see Gaurbod linger near the courtyard exit, watching me with hooded eyes. There’s no triumph on his face, only quiet calculation. A chill races down my spine. He’s waiting for me to break.

Only Ghorzag and I remain in the flickering torchlight. He turns, arms folded, expression shuttered. The tension rolls off him in waves.

My chest feels hollow. “Ghorzag,” I venture, voice scarcely more than a whisper. “You don’t believe them, do you?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, a pained sigh escaping. “No.” Yet the single syllable rings hollow, not entirely convincing. He opens his eyes, revealing flickers of anguish. “But the clan’s fear weighs heavily. Another death, right before we depart… it’s the worst omen possible in their eyes.”

My lips tremble. “I want to help them, not hurt them,” I say, voice breaking at the end. “Everything I do, it’s never enough. Now a child is dead.” I swallow, tears threatening. “I feel like I’m—like I’m poison to your clan.”

He inhales sharply. “Don’t say that. The sabotage?—”

“What if it’s not sabotage?” I interrupt, the question bursting from me unbidden.

Fear has twisted logic into doubt, gnawing at my sanity.

“What if—somehow—the War God is punishing your people for harboring me? Wouldn’t the sabotage be easier to stage than all these vile curses? Maybe… maybe I am the problem.”