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GHORZAG

I stand in the Great Hall, arms folded across my chest, as the first light of dawn seeps through the high windows.

The torches still burn, but their flames are pale and wavering, yielding to the glow of a new day.

I scan my gaze over the faces of my gathered clan—some stern, some apprehensive, and others outright enraged.

The tension in the air is a live thing, thick enough to taste. It coils around my ankles and snakes upward, constricting my breath. But I can’t allow them to sense doubt; a chieftain’s composure must be ironclad, no matter how turbulent the undercurrents.

I slowly let my arms drop to my sides, shoulders back, every muscle rigid with purpose. “Bring her forward,” I command, voice echoing against the vaulted stone ceiling.

A handful of warriors stand near the eastern archway, shifting uncomfortably. They glance at one another until one steps forward—a younger orc named Tozu, I believe—then hurries off to fetch our new… guest.

My ears twitch, alert to every muttered curse or scornful whisper from the crowd.

Orcs of every rank are present: seasoned warriors bearing decades of scars, cunning elders with thick braids of graying hair, a few curious acolytes from the temple.

A hush spreads across their number. They all know what’s about to happen, and they’ve come to witness.

I draw a steady breath, letting my gaze linger on the heavy banners that drape the walls.

We chose them—I chose them—to remind us of our clan’s storied past. Crimson cloth embroidered with black glyphs tells of old victories.

One tapestry shows the War God himself in swirling lines, brandishing a mighty blade against some half-forgotten foe.

I remember a vision flickering in the back of my mind: The War God isn’t known for granting direct audience to mere mortals, but sometimes, in the hush before battle, I sense a presence—an acute, burning awareness that guides my sword arm or steadies my heart.

Lately, that presence has felt distant. Perhaps that is why these omens of misfortune spread so easily among my people—too many remember the days when the War God’s favor pulsed like a living shield around us, and they sense it slipping away.

The crowd parts, and my warriors escort Lirienne into the Great Hall.

She looks both determined and uncertain, her hands clenched at her sides as though fighting an inner tremor.

Even in the half-light, I notice how pale she is compared to orcs—her skin soft and fair, dotted with faint freckles.

Her hair, a dusty auburn, frames her face in loose waves.

There’s something about her eyes, though, that draws me.

I expect fear or resentment. Instead, I see a guarded sort of hope.

She wears the same simple dress from the previous night, but I’ve heard she’s been given orc leathers for future use if she wishes.

For now, the rough wool looks oddly out of place amid our clan’s coarse fabrics and plated armor.

Each footstep she takes on the stone floor seems far too light, a whisper where my people’s boots thunder.

I incline my head at her and speak in a voice loud enough for the entire hall to hear. “Come stand with me, Lirienne Marshfield.”

Her gaze flickers across the rows of orcs, all of them waiting for a reason to condemn her or chase her out. She swallows, raises her chin a fraction, and approaches. The hush in the hall thickens.

When she stops an arm’s length away, I turn my attention to the clan. “By now, you all know who this is. She comes from the Marshfield region, the village at the edge of our territory. We have… a compact with her people.”

A ragged chorus of grunts, hisses, and muttered curses ripples through the throng. Several warriors spit on the ground. I can almost hear hearts pounding, tension swelling like a gathering thunderhead.

“Quiet,” I growl, letting a hint of my authority show.

The clamor dies down to a low rumble. “We have lost too many warriors to fruitless raids. Trading bodies for blood. Our fields suffer from unpredictable weather, our resources spread thin by constant skirmishes. We need new ways to secure our clan’s future. ”

A broad orc with twin braids steps forward, arms folded over a battered leather cuirass. “And you think a human bride is the answer?” he snarls, tusks glinting in the flickering light. “This is madness, Ghorzag.”

I recognize him as Gorath, one of the older warriors who served under my father. His voice carries the weight of tradition—the stubbornness that values brute conquest over forging alliances.

I meet his glare head-on. “Madness or not, I will see this through.”

Lirienne shifts beside me. I catch a faint whiff of her scent: something floral and raw, a stark contrast to the musk of the fortress.

She doesn’t flinch, despite the scornful looks.

The tension in her shoulders tells me she’s scared, but the set of her jaw tells me she won’t surrender to that fear.

“And so,” I continue, turning back to the gathered orcs, “I formally proclaim Lirienne Marshfield as my mate—my chosen partner—for the sake of forging a lasting pact with her people.”

The uproar is immediate. A few roar protest, some pound their weapons against their breastplates in frustration. Others simply seethe in silence. One of the orc elders, leaning heavily on a carved staff, shakes his head and mutters something about “cursed unions.”

I lift a hand, palm out. The hall falls silent once more. “I do not make this decision lightly. But we cannot hold onto old hatreds forever if we are to survive.” My words echo, stirring memories of battles fought for no real gain.

At that moment, an imposing figure steps forward from the crowd—Druzh the High Priest, his rich crimson robes draping over a wiry, muscled frame. Age has streaked his hair with silver, and intricate markings denoting service to the War God twist around his forearms. He never minces words.

“Chieftain,” he says, voice resonating like a deep drum, “have you considered the omens? The floods in the eastern pastures? The livestock falling ill without reason?”

A ripple of foreboding passes through the hall. I notice Lirienne’s brows knit together as she glances nervously at me. The talk of omens has been surging for days.

“Speak, Priest,” I say tersely.

Druzh’s sharp gaze darts to Lirienne, then returns to me.

“The War God is not pleased. Our watchers by the river say the waters are rising beyond any seasonal norm. Crops have rotted overnight, and last evening a calf was found dead—no visible wounds, but blood spattered around its muzzle as if it coughed life away.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words hang in the torchlit space.

“We have read the signs, and they are dire indeed. The War God’s disfavor hangs upon us.

You bring a human woman to our midst under a vow of peace, yet the cost may be our clan’s ruin. ”

The hall erupts in a low, collective growl. Fear laced with anger. Some orcs demand to know how to appease the War God, others curse in savage frustration.

I refuse to be rattled. I step toward Druzh, fists clenched. “You interpret these events as the War God’s condemnation of Lirienne?”

Druzh meets my stare without wavering. “The War God demands strength and victory. He scorns weakness. This arrangement could be viewed as a concession… or a betrayal of our proud tradition.”

I feel Lirienne stiffen beside me. Betrayal , he says. The word cuts like a blade because I know that’s how many orcs perceive it: forging an alliance with humans after centuries of conflict.

I draw in a measured breath. “We do not yet know if these misfortunes are truly the War God’s doing or simply cruel turns of fate.

” My voice thunders through the hall, tamping down the rising chaos.

“But heed me: I do not ignore your fears. We will seek clarity. We will consult the shaman further, investigate the matter thoroughly.”

“But should the God of War truly be angry,” comes a trembling voice from somewhere in the crowd, “then no mortal can stand in his way. Chieftain, do not doom us because of a misguided plan!”

Resentment churns in my gut. Do they truly believe I would doom the clan I’ve sacrificed so much to protect?

I glower at them, letting the old discipline from countless battles reassert itself.

“I have fought for this clan’s future since I was old enough to wield a blade. I will not make reckless choices.”

Druzh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “We must perform the rites to ascertain the War God’s will. And soon.”

A heavy silence follows, thick with tension.

The crowd waits, hungry for a definitive answer, an act of appeasement, or a scapegoat.

My eyes flicks to Lirienne. Her pulse seems to flutter at her throat, but she stands firmly, refusing to appear cowed.

Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, the roar of the hall recedes.

“You have my word,” I say finally, lifting my chin. “I will not turn a blind eye to these omens. But nor will I abandon our chance at peace because of rumors and fear.”

That is my decree. It hangs in the air, unchallenged yet bitterly received by many. One by one, orcs begin to back away, muttering under their breath, unsure whether to stand by me or add their voices to the chorus of anger.

I raise my hand again, beckoning my second-in-command, Karzug, forward.

He, too, wears the clan’s lightning insignia, though less ornate than mine.

Tall and lean, Karzug has a sharpness to his features—keen eyes, a confident stance.

He once told me he’d follow me through any storm, no matter how fierce.

“Escort Lirienne from the hall,” I murmur under the fading clamor. “Ensure she isn’t harassed. I’ll remain to address the rest.”

Karzug gives a curt nod. “Yes, Chieftain.”