Page 28

GHORZAG

I stand beneath the sputtering torchlight in the main hall, my armor half-fastened, fists clenched at my sides.

Around me, the fortress pulses with the echoes of unrest. Orc warriors stride hurriedly through corridors, faces grim.

Advisors mutter in low voices. Even the stone under my boots seems to hum with tension.

The clan teeters on the brink of chaos—and I feel every tremor in my bones.

Just hours ago, a young orc named Rakan was found dead, apparently poisoned.

Even as I force the clan not to lynch Lirienne on the spot, the outcry nearly turns into a riot.

The demand for her exile—or her blood—beats at me from all sides, so loud I can scarcely think.

Sabotage, I tell myself. A cunning plan to break the clan’s unity and place the blame at Lirienne’s feet.

But the clan sees only “omens,” further proof that the War God punishes them for harboring a human bride.

I exhale, pressing a hand to the cold surface of the great stone table at the hall’s center.

My breath comes in ragged bursts. Control, I remind myself, but the swirling anger and grief inside me refuse to settle.

Everywhere I look, I see only suspicion, distrust… and the shadow of my father’s failures.

The night has deepened to a point where the torches burn low, their flames snapping at the slightest draft.

Huddled at the far end of the hall are a handful of my loyal warriors—Karzug, Harzug, and a few others—exchanging worried words about the morning’s imminent pilgrimage.

Beyond them, I hear echoes of orcs shouting in the courtyard.

Word of Rakan’s death spread too quickly, stoking fury among the clan’s easily provoked members.

It is near midnight, yet none of us have any hope of true rest. Dawn will bring the official departure for the War God’s temple: a trek meant to prove or disprove Lirienne’s cursed presence.

That is the official reason, at least. In truth, I feel the tension coiling like a loaded crossbow.

Many in the clan see the pilgrimage as an opportunity to press for Lirienne’s exile—even final judgment.

Should any further tragedy strike on the journey, they’ll claim it’s the War God condemning her. The thought turns my stomach.

Karzug notices me staring. He peels away from the others and crosses the hall, armor scraping. “Chieftain?” he asks, voice subdued. “You look like you’re about to fight a war.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Aren’t we? The clan stands on the knife’s edge, ready to mutiny if I don’t bow to their demands to cast out Lirienne. Our enemy is fear, Karzug—a fear so deeply rooted it drowns reason.”

Karzug nods, face grim. “You said you suspected sabotage. But none have been caught, and that leaves the clan no tangible foe to blame. So they blame her.”

A muscle in my jaw ticks. “We have no choice but to endure the pilgrimage. If the War God himself can’t quell their superstition, then no mortal logic will.”

He holds my shoulder. “The clan follows you, Ghorzag, even if some are too afraid to show it. At dawn, those loyal to you will stand by your side.” His gaze flickers with uncertainty. “But the rest—like Gaurbod’s faction—may cause trouble.”

I grit my teeth. “If Gaurbod tries anything on the road, I’ll personally see he pays.” Cousin or no cousin, I won’t let him turn my clan into a lynch mob.

Karzug leaves me to confer with the others, the clank of his armor receding.

I stand alone in the cavernous hall, the worn tapestries on the walls rustling in a stray breeze.

My eyes drift to the largest tapestry: a scene depicting my father leading orcs against dark elf raiders.

It is woven in colors of deep crimson and obsidian, capturing a moment of triumph.

But I know well the truth behind that threadbare illusion.

I can still recall being a boy, hiding behind stone pillars, watching as my father roared about our clan’s unstoppable might.

He believed no enemy could best us, that the War God’s favor guaranteed victory.

Yet he died in a disastrous battle against cunning dark elves—surprised, outmaneuvered, trusting too easily that brute force alone would crush them.

Even now, I can see him sprawled in the mud, mortally wounded, telling me with his last breath to protect the clan. His blood staining the earth, his eyes filled with regret. He was strong, but not wise enough. He let pride overshadow caution, and we paid a heavy price.

Now, as I clutch the table’s edge, that old fear wells up: Am I repeating his mistakes?

By clinging to Lirienne, a human, am I letting personal feelings blind me to the clan’s best interest?

My father’s downfall came from hubris, from ignoring threats he deemed beneath him.

But sabotage and the clan’s terror are no lesser foes, I remind myself. And Lirienne is no enemy.

Yet doubt gnaws at the edges of my resolve. The clan’s near-mutiny forces me to question whether I’m ignoring the majority’s will. Perhaps a lesser orc chieftain would cast Lirienne out to appease them. But the thought twists my gut. I can’t do that. Not now.

My breathing turns shallow, and I lean against the table, eyes squeezing shut.

Images of Lirienne surface unbidden: her tear-streaked face when I found her after Rakan’s death, the warmth of her body pressed against mine in a desperate moment of longing.

My heart pounds at the memory of that night we shared in her tent—anger, fear, and desire tangling into a potent knot.

I let out a ragged exhale. I’ve fallen for her.

The realization is as terrifying as it is undeniable.

A human bride was meant to be a mere political arrangement, a tactic to secure peace.

But she is far more than that—spirited, compassionate, determined to help my clan despite the hatred thrown at her.

Every time I picture the clan turning on her, cold dread lances through my chest. So it’s not just about forging alliances or preventing bloodshed.

I care for her beyond reason. That admission hammers at the fortress of my orcish pride, making me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I’ve never known.

How do I reconcile that with my duty to the clan?

I open my eyes, the tapestry coming into focus again. My father’s memory looms. He died believing he was invincible, ignoring the warnings of cunning foes. Am I ignoring warnings, too—clan warnings that Lirienne is a liability? Or am I seeing truth where they see illusions?

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. If my father’s ghost could speak, perhaps he’d demand I rid the clan of any risk.

But he once told me that orcs should adapt to survive, that the world changes, and our greatest strength is the will to change with it.

Perhaps that’s the lesson he never fully learned, I think with hollow irony.

A faint commotion drifts in from the courtyard—more shouting, the clank of weapons.

The clan is restless, on the verge of riot.

My decision is clear: I will not cast Lirienne aside, no matter how many demand it.

I’d risk repeating my father’s mistake if it means forging a truer peace.

Or failing that, I’d fail on my own terms—defending the woman who dares to stand by me despite every threat.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. The War God might judge me for defying orcish tradition, but I’ll face that judgment head-on. Better than living as a coward who betrays his own heart.

A soft knock on the hall’s side door announces Ragzuk’s arrival.

The aging shaman’s apprentice steps inside, robes swishing.

His eyes flick to me, concern etched in his lined face.

“Chieftain,” he says, voice low. “I’ve spoken with the priests.

They insist on leaving at first light. They also insist Lirienne partake in certain cleansing rites before we go—prostrations, if you will. ”

My tusks grind together. “Cleansing rites,” I repeat flatly. More humiliations they want to heap on her. “And if she refuses?”

Ragzuk sighs. “Then the priests might interpret her reluctance as an admission of guilt. I fear it would turn the clan’s hostility explosive.”

I close my eyes, wrestling with the urge to break something. “Fine,” I say at length, voice taut. “We’ll endure their rites. But I’ll not have her subjected to public humiliation. Let them see I stand with her.”

A flicker of relief softens Ragzuk’s gaze. “I’ll make the arrangements as discreet as I can. The priests know you’re dangerously close to losing patience.”

I allow myself a terse nod. “Thank you, Ragzuk.”

He lingers, studying me. “Ghorzag… you bear this clan’s weight on your shoulders, as your father once did. Don’t let the clan’s fear overshadow your judgment. If you see sabotage, trust your eyes.”

A pang shoots through me at the mention of my father. “I will. But the clan demands a sign from the War God above all else. So let them have it.”

Ragzuk nods, turning to leave. “I’ll ready the priests. Rest if you can.”

Sleep is impossible. Instead, I spend the remaining hours of night quietly selecting a small band of warriors to join the pilgrimage—those I trust not to turn on me if Gaurbod incites violence.

Karzug helps finalize the list, crossing out names of any orc who showed open hostility to Lirienne or who fraternized too closely with Gaurbod.

By the time we finish, we have about a dozen orcs—enough to defend ourselves from raiders or beasts, but not so many that sabotage from within would be hard to contain.