Page 38

LIRIENNE

W e emerge from the War God’s temple into crisp morning air, the sun just beginning to crest over the jagged peaks.

The entire mountainside seems to exhale with us, as if relieved that the harrowing night is finally over.

My heart still throbs with echoes of fear and elation that pounded through me only hours ago.

Standing near the temple’s towering archway, I glance behind at the ancient carvings—a silent testament to the cosmic power we have just witnessed.

My knees feel unsteady as the magnitude sinks in: a swirl of orcish chanting, Gaurbod’s enraged accusations, Ghorzag offering his own life in my stead, and finally the War God’s flaming pillar that saves us both.

Even now, my mind struggles to piece it all together.

He saved us. The War God… truly intervened.

Ghorzag’s strong presence at my side keeps me anchored in reality.

He has an arm wrapped around my waist, as though still guarding me from an invisible threat.

The orcish warriors step out onto the stone ledge, battered from the confrontation but alive and—if the awe in their eyes is any sign—irrevocably changed by what they witnessed.

A hush clings to the mountaintop plateau.

Some orcs rub at their eyes, as though trying to banish the remnants of flames dancing on the temple’s runes.

Others exhale shuddering breaths, exchanging looks of mingled relief and reverence.

The priests—headed by Drahn, their oldest member—move forward in a solemn line, crimson robes flapping in the chill wind.

Drahn lifts his carved staff, bone charms clacking.

His cheeks are damp with tears, whether from awe or exhaustion or both.

“By the War God’s own hand,” he says, voice trembling with significance, “we have witnessed the sign of acceptance. Let all here bear witness: The War God approves of this union.”

A ripple of shock and relief courses through the crowd. Some orcs let out gasps, others close their eyes in silent thanks. Ragzuk, the old shaman’s apprentice, murmurs a prayer under his breath, his shoulders quivering as though a massive burden has slid free.

Karzug, still nursing the wound in his arm, offers me a nod of cautious respect. “It seems… we were mistaken,” he says quietly, glancing at the other warriors. Then, more openly, he declares: “The War God has spoken, and the clan can no longer deny what was shown.”

My lips part in a silent exhale. No longer a scapegoat. The weight of that realization leaves me almost dizzy. I squeeze Ghorzag’s forearm, meeting his gaze. He stares back, exhaustion darkening his eyes, but behind it glows a fierce triumph.

He inclines his head, turning to address the assembly. “You have your sign,” he says, voice resonating across the plateau. “We stand here—Lirienne and I—unharmed, spared by the War God’s flame. Let no one call her a curse again.”

Some orcs in the crowd bow their heads in agreement, still reeling from the temple’s quake and the radiant fire that burst forth.

Others, though reluctant, wear hesitant acceptance on their faces.

The strangling grip of suspicion that once bound them is loosening.

Ghorzag casts his gaze around, letting the significance settle.

In that hush, my chest constricts with relief—finally, an end to the constant dread that someone would bury a blade in my back.

A commotion draws our attention. A cluster of orcs drag Gaurbod forward, his hands manacled. Dried blood crusts on the side of his head, remnants of the blow Karzug dealt to knock him out. He wavers on his feet, rage and humiliation twisting his features. A bitter sneer mars his bruised mouth.

“Release me!” Gaurbod snarls, struggling against the iron cuffs. His braids hang in disarray, eyes dull with defeat. A faint tremor of hatred radiates from him when his gaze lands on me, but I hold his stare, refusing to shrink as I once might have.

Karzug tightens his grip on Gaurbod’s arm. “We’ll bring him to the clan’s main camp for judgment,” he says, glancing at Ghorzag. “It’ll be up to our laws to decide his punishment for sabotage, murder, and dishonoring the War God’s temple.”

A hush falls, orcs exchanging uneasy nods. The memory of Rakan’s tragic death sharpens my anger. He orchestrated everything—Rakan’s poisoning, illusions that terrorized the clan, attacks that nearly tore us apart. Now he stands, battered and bitter, forced to face the consequences of his treachery.

Ghorzag steps closer, his expression cold but steady. “You lied, manipulated, and spilled orcish blood for your personal gain. We’ll let the clan see the truth you tried to hide. Let them decide your fate.”

A flicker of unspoken pain crosses his face—Gaurbod is family, after all—but the orc chieftain’s resolve remains firm. Gaurbod spits at the ground, but no one flinches. The War God’s sign has left him powerless; his allies have scattered, or bent the knee to Ghorzag’s renewed authority.

The priests form a half-circle around us, staff ends scraping the rocky floor. Drahn inclines his head solemnly. “Chieftain Ghorzag,” he says, “shall we perform any further rites here, or do we depart immediately?”

Ghorzag runs a hand over his scarred chin, tusks tightened in thought.

“We came seeking the War God’s verdict, and we received it,” he replies.

“We have no reason to linger.” Then he casts me a quiet look of concern.

“We’re all exhausted, battered by betrayals and battles.

The sooner we return home, the sooner we can heal. ”

A mix of relief and weariness flows through the orcs at those words. The journey here has nearly broken us in body and spirit, but the temple’s dramatic intervention offers closure. Ghorzag’s decree stands—we leave behind the War God’s domain. For once, I sense no murmur of dissent.

Drahn gives a nod, staff ornaments rattling softly. “Then the War God’s temple is satisfied. Let us go in peace.”

A few priests make final gestures of reverence toward the carved images along the temple entrance, muttering final prayers.

Then, with Gaurbod in chains and the orcs forming a protective circle, we begin the trek down the winding path that brought us to this lofty realm.

My heart feels a thousand pounds lighter.

We descend through the same treacherous passes we navigated before, but the atmosphere feels starkly different.

Where once illusions lurked in every shadow, now the mist seems to have receded.

My skin no longer prickles with the haunting sense of being watched by unseen eyes.

Even the orcs, though weary, carry an undertone of renewed confidence.

At midday, we pause at a rocky ledge overlooking a broad valley.

Distant clouds that once loomed ominously now begin to part, shafts of sunlight piercing the gloom.

It is like the final piece of a puzzle sliding into place—false omens giving way to clear skies, as if the War God’s intervention has banished the sabotage’s lingering shadows.

Karzug joins me at the ledge, cradling his bandaged arm.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, nodding to the valley below.

The swirling clouds that once blanketed the terrain are pulling back, revealing green pockets of forest and winding rivers glinting in the sun.

“We’ve never had such a sudden break in the weather. Almost feels… symbolic.”

I exhale, gratitude welling in my chest. “It does.” A sign that the enemies are gone, that Gaurbod’s sabotage can no longer twist the clan’s faith.

Behind us, Ghorzag instructs the priests to rest, letting them tend the orcs wounded during the final temple confrontation. Most have superficial cuts or bruises; nothing like the life-threatening ambushes from days earlier. Even in exhaustion, a note of cautious optimism hums through our party.

I catch Harzug’s eye. He manages a curt smile—a rare sight for such a hardened warrior. “We lost no one in the temple,” he says, as if marveling at the fact. “And now the War God has accepted you. Surreal.”

“Surreal,” I echo, voice tinged with relief and awe. My mind replays the moment Ghorzag threw down his ax at the temple, offering his life if the War God demanded blood. The memory still sends a jolt of heat and fear through me. He was ready to sacrifice himself, and yet we both stand here alive.

When we resume our descent, Ghorzag falls into step beside me. Our shoulders occasionally brush, a comforting reminder that we can walk openly together now, free of the clan’s muttered curses. After so much turmoil, the simplest gesture—our arms touching—makes my heart flutter.

“So,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, “the War God took pity on us, or else recognized our genuine bond. Either way, we have his sign.”

I glance at him, heat blossoming in my cheeks. “It’s still hard to believe. I worried we’d face total condemnation.”

His eyes shifts to me, intense. “I told you I’d give my life for yours if that were the price.”

A lump rises in my throat. “You did. And yet we both survived. Thank you.” The words feel insufficient. How do you thank someone for offering up his own life?

He shakes his head, mouth tightening. “I’d do it a thousand times,” he says, echoing the vow he made in the temple.

I reach for his hand, and though we walk through a caravan of watchful orcs, he lets me lace my fingers with his.

If any whisper or judge, I hardly care. The War God’s sign overrides all doubt.