Page 5

LIRIENNE

T he morning sun has barely begun its climb when two stern-faced orc warriors appear at my chamber door.

Without so much as a greeting, they gesture for me to gather my belongings—what little I have—and follow them.

The corridor we walk through is gray with predawn light, torches flickering and guttering in their iron sconces.

It feels like the whole fortress holds its breath, tense and watchful, after Ghorzag’s announcement in the Great Hall.

I keep my head high, shoulders squared, trying not to show the nervous fluttering in my stomach.

Orcs cluster in small groups as we pass, their voices low and brimming with malice—or curiosity.

A young orc woman glares openly, arms crossed over her leather vest, while an older warrior spits on the ground near my feet, snorting in contempt.

I try not to flinch. You volunteered for this , I remind myself, my father’s calm admonition echoing in my head.

This is for your village—for Mara, for everyone you left behind.

The fortress corridors lead us to a large courtyard that opens onto a dusty expanse dotted with rough-hewn tents.

Some of the tents are constructed around thick wooden posts, others lashed to the fortress walls.

The orcs seem to favor these outlying areas for communal gatherings or temporary housing for visiting warriors.

At this early hour, most of the tents stand quietly, though a few snoring shapes are visible through open flaps.

One of the warriors escorting me—a tall female orc with braided silver-streaked hair—jerks her chin at a brown, tattered tent near the far corner. It has a battered hide flap in place of a door, and sturdy cords secure it to wooden stakes driven into the packed earth.

“In,” she growls.

I open my mouth to protest—wasn’t I supposed to remain in the fortress?—but the question dies in my throat. The woman’s eyes flash with the promise of retribution if I resist. Realizing I have no choice, I clutch my meager satchel and step inside.

The tent’s interior is dim, lit only by a few cracks of morning light filtering through a gap in the hide flap. The earthy smell of raw leather mixes with the faint tang of charcoal from a small brazier in the corner. In place of a bed is a low wooden frame piled with furs. Nothing else.

I hear the shuffle of boots behind me, then the flap drops.

Darkness encloses me like a stifling cloak, broken only by the sliver of daylight peeking under the canvas.

My throat tightens, memories of the fortress cell returning in a rush.

They really have no idea what to do with me , I realize.

Or maybe they do—and this is part of their plan to keep me isolated.

I inhale, letting the musty scent settle in my lungs until my racing heart finds a steadier rhythm. At least it’s not a prison cell , I try to reassure myself. And it could be worse. They haven’t harmed me, yet.

Placing my satchel on the ground, I kneel to inspect the fur bedding.

It’s coarse, but not filthy. Possibly the orcs think this arrangement more “traditional” than a fortress chamber.

Or maybe the fortress’s rumor mill is so rife with speculation that Ghorzag decided I need to be out of sight.

My mind races, piecing together possibilities.

“Lirienne.” The unexpected voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

I spin around, heart pounding. An orc woman peers at me from behind the flap, her dark eyes luminous in the tent’s gloom. She looks younger than the female warrior who led me here, with a slender build and a small pouch slung across her chest. She lifts the flap higher to let in more light.

I try to steady my breathing. “You… startled me.”

She inclines her head in apology. “I am Nagra, apprentice to the clan’s shaman. I saw them bring you here.” She steps inside cautiously, her gaze darting around as if ensuring no one else lurks in the shadows.

My pulse still skitters from the sudden surprise. “Is there something you need?”

Nagra wets her lips, as though choosing her words carefully. “I wanted to check on you.” She pauses, then adds with a trace of wry humor, “And to ensure you’re not about to run screaming into the hills.”

I manage a dry laugh. “I appreciate the concern. But if I tried to run, I doubt I’d make it ten steps beyond these gates.”

The orc apprentice nods, eyes flicking to my left wrist. “They haven’t chained you or forced a guard to hover over your shoulder, but the clan is… watchful. Many blame you for the War God’s disfavor.”

I tighten my grip on the edge of the makeshift bed. “I heard. They think I’m a curse.”

She sighs, stepping closer so we can speak in softer tones.

“The clan is scared. We’ve been experiencing these bad signs for weeks—flooded fields, rotting crops, livestock succumbing to strange illnesses.

Our High Priest, Druzh, claims it’s the War God’s anger.

And now you arrive, forging a taboo union with our chieftain.

” Nagra’s shoulders slump. “It’s the perfect storm.

Everything that’s gone wrong is pinned on you. ”

My face flushes hot. “That’s hardly fair. I’ve been here less than a day.”

“Fairness doesn’t matter when people are desperate.

” She exhales. “I’m only an apprentice. My mentor is the official shaman, but he’s grown old and sleeps through half the day.

He tries to glean the War God’s will from the bones and runes, but…

the clan wants a scapegoat, something to blame for their troubles. ”

I run my fingers through my hair, pulling it aside to let the cooler air reach my neck. “So, because I’m a human—an outsider—I’m the easiest target for their rage.”

Nagra offers a half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s how it often goes. Orcs don’t like external meddling, especially from a people we once fought on sight.” She hesitates, searching my face with keen curiosity. “Why did you come, then? Knowing you’d be stepping into a den of hostility.”

The question churns in my chest, dredging up guilt and pride and fear all at once.

My father’s gentle voice slips into my thoughts, reminding me of the farmland I left behind.

“My village was threatened with a devastating raid,” I explain, voice tight with emotion.

“They needed a volunteer to appease the orcs. I… I couldn’t let them force some unwilling girl into this. ”

Nagra’s eyes soften. “So you sacrificed yourself.”

“In a way, yes.” I force a shaky breath. “But part of me also believed, or hoped, that this alliance might do some good—spare lives on both sides. Perhaps bring a chance for peace.”

Her expression shifts, as though my words strike a chord. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”

I huff a small laugh. “Probably both.”

She places a hand against the wooden pole supporting the tent’s roof.

“Bravery and foolishness often wear the same face, as the War God’s legends say.

In any case, you’ll find few allies here.

Orcs are a proud people, and Ghorzag’s decision to…

marry you, for lack of a better term, has ruffled many tusks. ”

My heart flutters at the memory of Ghorzag’s imposing figure in the Great Hall—the quiet authority he wore like a second skin. “He said it was for the clan’s future. Does he truly believe that?”

Nagra nods. “Yes. Ghorzag isn’t reckless. He’s never been. He’s more open-minded than most, but that’s also what troubles the elders. They think he’s letting the clan slip from the War God’s favor by entertaining alliances with humans.”

She pauses, then drops her voice to a whisper. “There are rumors that a pilgrimage or a rite will be performed soon, to determine whether you are truly cursed in the War God’s eyes.”

A chill skitters down my spine. “A rite?”

“An invocation, perhaps. Druzh and the priests will demand signs—something from the War God to confirm or deny your presence here. If they deem you a curse, the clan might insist on your removal—” Nagra’s eyes dart downward, as though reluctant to speak the darker possibility.

I swallow. Removal. Exile. Or worse.

Silence stretches. I clench the folds of my dress in my fists, frustration building behind my ribcage. I can almost hear my younger sister’s voice calling me a dreamer, the one who always believed in gentleness. Now, I wonder if I’ve strolled into a lion’s den blindly.

“Thank you for warning me,” I manage, voice wavering. “I’m not sure there’s much I can do, though.”

Her dark gaze flicks around the tent, then returns to me. “Survive. That’s what you must do. Show them you’re not weak, that you won’t be easily broken. If His divine favor remains, the truth might surface eventually.”

If , I repeat inwardly, the uncertainty stinging. If .

With a final nod, Nagra turns to leave. “I’ll bring you food later, if no one else does. I can’t promise it’ll be good, but it’ll keep you alive.”

I muster a small smile. “I’d appreciate that.”

As she slips out, the hide flap falls back into place, leaving me alone in the dim light.

Her visit is a kindness I haven’t expected; the flicker of compassion in her eyes reminds me that orcs aren’t mindless beasts or identical in their hatred.

There’s nuance here—factions within the clan that might side with or at least pity me.

But will that pity be enough to save my life if the War God’s priests condemn me?

I set my satchel in a corner and crawl onto the wooden bed frame, settling onto the scratchy furs. Each hair prickles against my ankles. The tent feels claustrophobic, but it’s better than being marched through a corridor of hostile stares.