Page 30

LIRIENNE

T he dawn sky over the fortress is a pale wash of lavender and rose, lending a deceptively serene backdrop to the storm of tensions brewing within our small caravan.

Orc warriors stand in uneasy clusters, checking their weapons and eyeing me with open suspicion or contempt.

The War God’s priests huddle around a battered stone altar, muttering incantations for safe passage.

At the far perimeter, Ghorzag looms like a pillar of determination—tall, arms folded, jaw set in a firm line.

It is the morning after the darkest night I can recall. We’re truly doing this , I think, a tremor running through my limbs. We’re leaving on a pilgrimage to decide if I’m a curse or not.

I shoulder my meager pack, swallowing the knot of dread in my throat.

If the War God decrees I’m unworthy, or if the sabotage continues and pins blame on me, it could be my end.

Yet a twisted resolve coils in my chest: I’ll face that fate rather than run again.

If my presence is truly tearing this clan apart, better I learn it now than drag them further into bloodshed.

The priests conclude their final morning rites, snuffing out a row of candles that flicker in the early light.

One by one, the orc warriors chosen for this pilgrimage file out of the fortress gates.

Karzug leads the vanguard, checking the road ahead for threats, while a pair of guards carry the few supplies we can manage on this rushed departure—dried meats, waterskins, basic medical herbs.

The courtyard feels hauntingly empty without the usual bustle.

Only a skeleton crew of orcs remains behind to guard the fortress itself.

I catch glimpses of suspicious eyes peering down from the battlements, watchers whose expressions range from wary to hostile.

They probably wonder if I’ll ever come back.

Ghorzag stands at the threshold, greeting each warrior with a clipped nod.

When I approach, my palms damp with nerves, he meets my gaze, something like quiet resolve shining in his eyes.

He doesn’t speak, but the hint of warmth in his posture tells me he remembers our conversation last night—the vow that he’ll protect me, come what may.

He extends a hand to help me mount the small wagon that carries the priests’ relics. The gesture might seem polite from a distance, but the weight of his grip on mine feels like an anchor—a silent reassurance he won’t abandon me. My heart lurches with a mix of gratitude and dread.

Once the priests are settled, each wearing crimson robes embroidered with arcane symbols dedicated to the War God—we set off.

The fortress gates groan shut behind us, sealing away the only home these orcs have known.

For me, it is the closest thing to a home I’ve had in weeks.

If we succeed, perhaps I can truly belong.

If not… I can’t finish the thought, a chill creeping down my spine.

Morning light gilds the sparse fields and rocky outcrops as our caravan rumbles along a winding dirt road. A hush lies over our group—no lively banter or war songs that orcs might typically share on a journey. The tension is too palpable, an invisible chain binding each warrior’s shoulders.

I walk near the rear, letting the orcs maintain their formation. My mind churns with memories of Rakan’s death, the clan’s fury, and the humiliating cleansing rite that forced me to kneel for everyone’s scrutiny. No more running , I remind myself. I’ll earn the War God’s favor or die trying.

My father’s old crest, a ragged cloth embroidered with a simple leaf—is tucked into my bag.

I brought it to remind myself of why I first came here: to spare my village from further raids, to find a path of peace between orcs and humans.

The plan spiraled into something more personal, more dangerous.

Now, it might all hinge on a temple perched in the wild mountains.

A flicker of motion draws my attention: Ghorzag slows his pace, allowing the orcs ahead to widen the gap until he walks beside me. He speaks quietly so only I can hear, “How are you holding up?”

I force a small, wry smile. “Considering half your clan wants me dead, I’ve been better.”

He exhales, turning his gaze to the distant hills. “We’ll find the truth,” he says, voice rough. “Whether it’s sabotage or divine wrath, we’ll learn it at the temple.”

I wonder if he truly believes the War God will speak, or if he’s simply hoping to buy time until we catch the saboteur. Either way, I nod. “I’m with you.”

His eyes flick to my face, and a subtle tension eases in his shoulders. He offers no further words, but the moment feels like a quiet vow: we face the unknown together.

The first day of travel passes under a glaring sun.

The terrain gradually shifts from rolling plains to rocky inclines, the earth tinged with iron-rich soil.

Jagged outcrops jut from the land like broken teeth.

Our caravan slows to navigate treacherous slopes where a misstep could send a wagon tumbling into a ravine.

By late afternoon, an eerie fog creeps over the road, far too thick for the season. Karzug halts the caravan, scanning the mist. “This shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, tension rippling through his stance. “At this altitude, in this weather? It’s unnatural.”

The orc priests exchange uneasy glances, bone charms jingling. One of them, a lean priest with a silver-streaked beard, recites a brief incantation to ward off malicious spirits. But the fog thickens, swirling around us like a living shroud.

Ghorzag’s jaw tightens. “Slowly,” he commands. “Karzug, take point. Keep your eyes open for a trap.”

We advance at a crawl, wagon wheels grinding against loose gravel. My heart pounds, the enveloping mist choking any sense of direction. Shapes flicker at the edges of my vision—strange silhouettes vanishing when I turn to look. More illusions, I suspect. A hush settles, each breath strained.

Then, without warning, one of the orc warriors lets out a startled cry. I whip around to see him stumbling, eyes wide as though he’s glimpsed something terrifying in the mist.

“What happened?” Ghorzag barks, striding forward.

The warrior, panting, shakes his head. “I—I saw a figure—a tall shape with eyes of flame. But it vanished.”

Unease courses through the caravan. The priests resume frantic chanting, as if to ward off ill omens. Ghorzag swears under his breath. Illusions. My pulse thuds. Someone is complicating our path, feeding the clan’s fear.

The fog persists for nearly an hour, gnawing at our nerves. By the time it finally lifts, the sun has dipped closer to the horizon. We make camp in a small clearing near a trickling stream, exhausted from the slow progress.

As Karzug and a few warriors tend to the horses, I help the priests set up minimal wards against further illusions. My fingers tremble whenever I recall that warrior’s panicked face. If illusions can rattle seasoned orcs, the saboteur is dangerously skilled.

After we build a modest fire, Ghorzag calls a brief counsel. We gather around the crackling flames: me, Karzug, Ragzuk, and two warrior-captains named Harzug and Gurtha. The priests linger at a slight distance, chanting quietly.

Ghorzag’s gaze sweeps the circle. “That fog was unnatural,” he states. “We suspect sabotage, illusions. But we must keep the clan calm. We can’t afford another panic.”

Harzug grimaces. “Many are on edge. The illusions in the fog—some claim it’s the War God testing us, others whisper it’s your bride conjuring more curses.” He glances at me, not unkindly, but worried.

My jaw tightens. “I have no magic,” I say quietly. “I’m as rattled as anyone. This sabotage—these illusions—someone wants us to fail.”

Karzug taps his sword hilt. “I suspect infiltration, possibly allied with dark elves. Magic and illusions are their forte, and they hate orcs enough to meddle in our affairs. If they can discredit Ghorzag by making him appear powerless, they undermine the entire clan.”

A cold chill stabs my spine. Dark elves? I’ve heard they’re cunning and manipulative, known for their magic. If they’re fueling the sabotage, it explains orchard flooding, poisoned water, illusions. And the clan conveniently blames me.

Ghorzag’s fists clench. “We must remain vigilant. We’ll set up double watches tonight. If someone in our party is feeding illusions or signaling dark elf agents, we’ll catch them.”

Gurtha snorts. “And if we don’t? The illusions could get worse, driving us mad.”

I swallow, remembering that terrified warrior. “We have to try,” I murmur, desperation creeping into my voice. I won’t let them destroy Ghorzag’s leadership.

The counsel ends. Orcs scatter to tasks—patrols, camp chores, uneasy attempts at rest. Despite the wards, fear lingers. I doze fitfully, waking at every rustle of wind. Damn illusions , I think. The possibility of them stalking outside our circle keeps me on edge.

Deep into the night, a distinct crunch of gravel jolts me fully awake.

I hear it near the supply wagon. Heart hammering, I creep toward the sound.

There’s no guard visible there. Footprints lead away from the wagon, deeper into shadows beyond camp.

Large, heavy orc prints, possibly in a hurry.

My mind races. A traitor? Gaurbod’s agent?

I bite my lip, torn between fetching Ghorzag or investigating.

The footprints are fresh—I might lose them if I delay.

Clutching a small dagger, I follow the tracks cautiously, weaving between boulders.

The further I go, the more uneasy I feel.

The moonlit rocks shift in my peripheral vision, shadows lengthening ominously.

Stay focused, Lirienne , I remind myself. If this is a trap…

Suddenly, the night air warps. Mocking laughter echoes from behind a boulder—disembodied, malicious. My blood runs cold. Another illusion?