Page 6

Debate. That’s the word flitting through my mind, that quiet voice urging me to weigh my options.

I came here willingly for the sake of my village, but the magnitude of the clan’s anger makes me reconsider.

Was I truly saving anyone, or had I simply delayed the inevitable?

If these omens continue, if the God of War is as wrathful as they believe, Ghorzag might lose control over his own people.

Then nothing would stop them from pillaging my village out of spite.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the swirl of negative thoughts.

Could I escape? My practical side quickly shuts down the idea.

The fortress walls are high, the surrounding lands teeming with orc scouts.

Even if I did slip away, how many hours would I survive on foot before they tracked me down or a wild beast found me?

And what of the promise I made to my village, the people who count on me to maintain this precarious peace?

That vow weighs heavy on my conscience, reminding me of why I’m here: to prevent bloodshed. If I flee, the orcs could very well retaliate by sending an even larger war band to exact revenge. My escape might buy me a few hours of freedom, but it would likely cost my village countless lives.

Outside, I hear the clang of metal and gruff voices—perhaps a guard changing shift. The muffled stomping of boots on dirt reminds me that I’m surrounded. Truly trapped.

I force my mind back to Ghorzag’s words in the Great Hall.

He stood by me, at least nominally, claiming that we need a new path for the clan’s survival.

He seems so certain, so unyielding in his stance—even with all those hateful glares turned on him.

A kernel of unexpected admiration flickers in my chest. Is he risking his own position and reputation by not denouncing me the moment the crowd clamors for blood? If so, what does that say about him?

He must have a reason. Orcish culture is built on strength, on dominance; so forging an alliance with a weaker, smaller race seems the opposite of typical orc behavior.

Yet, Ghorzag does it anyway. Perhaps he believes deeply that a break in the cycle of violence is possible.

Or perhaps he sees me as a pawn for some grander scheme.

I don’t know him well enough to parse out his true motives.

Torn between my duty and the fear gnawing at me, I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift to the what I left behind: wide fields of barley, neat little cottages.

My sister smiling at me from our front porch, her hair braided in twin plaits.

If I endure the clan’s hostility—if I find a way to survive these suspicious rituals—maybe, just maybe, I can spare everyone that next raid.

Maybe Ghorzag and I can form some sort of real understanding.

But the images in my mind blur, replaced by the memory of orcs roaring in condemnation, Gorath spitting at my feet, and the sneer of that silver-haired warrior who escorted me here. Reality weighs too heavily, overshadowing any naive illusions.

A voice outside the tent startles me. “Human.” It’s a deep male tone, older and raspy around the edges. “Awake, are you?”

I sit up, heart thumping. “Yes?”

The flap lifts, revealing a stooped orc with lines creasing his brow.

He wears a tattered brown robe belted at the waist, and a single bone amulet dangles from his neck.

“I am Ragzuk,” he says. “Shaman’s apprentice to the apprentice, you might say.

” A rueful smile tugs at his lips. “Nagra mentioned you might need extra blankets for tonight. The wind can cut through these tents like a blade.”

I blink, startled by the second visitor in one morning. “I’d appreciate that.”

He shuffles inside and hands me a folded length of wool. “Not the best quality, but it will keep the cold at bay.” He pauses, eyeing me curiously. “You’re smaller up close than I realized.”

Heat pinches at my cheeks. “I suppose I am.”

He grunts, crossing his arms. “Our clan is on edge, in case it isn’t obvious. You’ve heard the talk of curses. The War God is at the forefront of every orc’s mind, especially now that Ghorzag has brought you here.”

My teeth worry at my lower lip. “You disapprove?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he lowers himself onto a small wooden stool near the brazier, like his old bones need the rest. “It is not my place to disapprove or approve. My place is to read the signs, interpret the War God’s will, and guide the clan in spiritual matters.

But the environment is rife with fear. Fear drives orcs to do ugly things. ”

I pull the wool blanket over my lap, the scratchy texture grazing my fingers. “Nagra said something similar. That if the warrior deity is angry, many here will believe I’m to blame.”

He stares at me with tired eyes. “She’s correct.

Truth rarely matters once the clan fixates on a scapegoat.

” Ragzuk drums his fingers on his knee. “But not everyone is convinced. Ghorzag, for one, believes we must uncover the real cause of these disasters, whether they’re divine or man-made.

If it is indeed the War God’s wrath, we will see it in the upcoming rites. ”

I feel a wave of unease roll through me. “These rites… what happens if they declare me cursed?”

His wrinkled face tightens. “Best not dwell on that just yet. Often, such rites are inconclusive, or at least open to multiple interpretations. Druzh, our High Priest, might push for a definitive outcome, but the War God can be subtle—or contradictory. That said, if too many ill omens appear, the clan could demand your banishment… or sacrifice.”

My breath stills, terror lancing through me. “Sacrifice?”

Ragzuk stares at me. “Do not mistake me, Ghorzag isn’t keen on harming you, or we’d not be having this conversation at all. But if the clan unites in their belief that your presence is dooming us, they might override his will.”

The possibility sends my thoughts spinning in all directions. Is it worth staying if I’m in danger of a sacrifice? Could Ghorzag truly protect me?

“I don’t want any more bloodshed,” I whisper, forcing down the lump in my throat. “That was the whole point of my coming here.”

Ragzuk rises slowly, bones creaking. “Then hold fast to that reason. Let it strengthen you when orcs snarl in your face or call for your head. The War God tests not just orcs, but all who stand in his domain.”

He shuffles toward the tent flap. “I must return to my duties, but if you need me, ask Nagra. She’ll find me.”

I nod, trying to hold onto a flicker of gratitude. At least I’m not wholly alone amid a sea of hostility. “Thank you, Ragzuk. I appreciate your candor.”

A quiet snort of acknowledgment, then he steps outside, letting the flap drop behind him. The tent rustles in the resulting draft, edges flapping faintly.

Alone again, I stare at the brazier’s dying embers, mind churning. My sense of entrapment deepens. Run? The question refuses to stay silent, echoing in my mind. But I quell it once more. Running isn’t feasible, not without dooming my village—and possibly myself in the process.

I think of Ghorzag, the way he faced his people and refused to cast me aside. He must have known the scale of the backlash that would follow. And yet he did it anyway. Why?

Despite the dread, a faint warmth stirs in my chest, recalling how he commanded the Great Hall’s attention, how his deep voice resonated with unyielding resolve.

It was a fierce, protective aura, born from genuine belief in saving his clan.

Part of me wonders if he extends that protection to me as well—or if I’m just a means to an end.

I sink onto the bed again, pulling the new wool blanket over my legs. Get it together, Lirienne. If I’m to endure this, I need more than naive optimism. I need a plan.

Thoughts trickle in, maybe I can speak to Ghorzag directly, glean some insight into how he plans to handle the clan’s suspicions.

A quiet prickle of worry tugs at me—would I even be allowed an audience with him?

With the entire fortress labeling me cursed, it might be dangerous for him to be seen granting me favor.

Still, that might be my only chance. I can’t remain silent, hoping the clan loses interest in me.

I need to show I’m not the worthless burden they assume.

Herbal knowledge , a small voice reminds me.

I grew up gathering plants in the forests around my village.

Orc shamans rely on spiritual healing, but maybe I can prove useful in treating mundane ailments.

That idea gives me a slender thread of hope to cling to. If I can demonstrate practical value, some orcs might see me as more than a scapegoat. Better than doing nothing, I reason.

A sudden clamor outside the tent startles me—shouts, the clang of metal. My pulse jumps, and I lurch upright, bracing for the worst. But then the noise fades, replaced by gruff laughter. Likely a sparring match or some warriors blowing off steam.

The aftershock leaves me trembling, adrenaline spiking through my veins.

It’s too easy to imagine them clashing over me, deciding my fate with a slash of a blade.

For all the fortress’s grandeur, life here feels precarious, as if the entire clan balances on a knife’s edge of suspicion and faith in their War God.

I swallow, looking up at the tent’s low ceiling.

Maybe I was a fool to think I could survive in this environment.

But I remember Mara’s face when I said goodbye, the desperation in her eyes as she clutched my hands and asked if I’d ever come home.

I swore I’d try. If forging peace with these orcs can spare Mara, or any of the innocent farmers in my village, from feeling that same terror, I have to stay.