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Duty. Resolve. Fear. They all churn together, forming the storm inside my chest. I’m no warrior, no cunning strategist. I’m just…

Lirienne Marshfield, a girl who read too many bedtime stories about bridging differences and healing wounds.

But I can’t let cynicism choke out that spark of faith.

If Ghorzag is willing to stand against his entire clan’s outrage, then I can endure the hateful glares for my people’s sake.

I draw in a shaky breath, forcing calm into my limbs. “This arrangement is worth the risk,” I murmur to the empty tent, voice trembling with the weight of my decision. “Because if I don’t try, who will?”

The words settle into my bones with surprising steadiness.

I press a hand over my heart, letting the beat remind me I’m still alive, still capable of choice.

Maybe Ghorzag’s unorthodox leadership can pave a new path.

Maybe I can find allies who believe in peace, like Nagra and Ragzuk—even if they’re too frightened to speak openly.

I exhale slowly, pushing away the frantic fear that gnaws at the edges of my mind. The only way forward is to gather my courage, make myself indispensable, and prove I’m not a curse.

No sooner have I resolved this than the tent flap rustles again. Three visits in one morning—am I that popular? My pulse kicks up, but it’s only Nagra, as promised, balancing a wooden bowl of stew and a few strips of cured meat.

“Still alive, I see,” she teases, though her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She hands me the bowl, the aroma of spiced broth fills my senses, making my stomach rumble. I realize I haven’t eaten a real meal since arriving.

“Thank you,” I murmur, accepting the warm bowl. “I’m grateful.”

She squats on her haunches across from me, studying my face with a directness that makes me squirm. “You look less afraid than you did this morning.”

I shrug, swirling the spoon in the stew. “I’m still afraid. But I’m trying not to let it rule me.”

A flicker of respect crosses her features.

“Wise. Orcs respect those who show courage, whether they’re orc-blooded or not.

” She pauses, fiddling with a small bead woven into one of her braids.

“I heard more talk. The High Priest might push to schedule the initial rite tonight. A quick reading of the bones, or a lesser sacrifice of livestock to glean the War God’s mood. ”

Tonight? My breath catches. That leaves me almost no time to prove anything or gather support. “And if the reading goes… poorly?”

Nagra’s lips thin. “It depends on how the signs are interpreted. Druzh has significant sway. If the signs are inconclusive, Ghorzag can stall. But if the bones show ill omens…” She doesn’t finish, the implication hanging between us.

I force the spoon to my lips, sipping the stew to hide the tremor in my hands. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I welcome the distraction. So soon. My heart hammers, fear clawing at my composure.

“I’ll have to speak to Ghorzag.” The words tumble out before I can second-guess them. “I need to?—”

“Speak to him?” Nagra’s eyes widen, as though I’ve just announced I’ll climb the fortress walls in a single bound. “You can’t just waltz into his quarters and demand an audience. He’s the chieftain.”

My throat feels tight. “Yes, but I’m supposed to be his… bride. That must grant me some right to speak with him, yes?”

Nagra’s gaze drops to the ground. “In theory, the chieftain’s mate is second only to him in rank. But you haven’t been formally recognized by the clan. Many still think of you as a prisoner or a sacrificial lamb. Approaching Ghorzag might draw more suspicion.”

I swallow hard. “I can’t just hide in this tent, waiting for them to decide my fate, either. If they’re performing this rite tonight, I need to at least know what it entails.”

After a long pause, Nagra sighs. “I might be able to help. If you truly want to see him, I can try to slip you a chance later. But it’ll be risky. Some orcs are still fuming from the morning’s uproar.”

My heart leaps at that sliver of possibility. “Please. I’ll take the risk.”

She studies me for a moment more, then gives a reluctant nod.

“Fine. Finish your meal and gather your courage. If fortune smiles on us, I can lead you to Ghorzag before the evening gathering.” She rises to her feet, brushing dust from her leather leggings.

“But be cautious. If we cross paths with Gorath or any of the chieftain’s rivals, your presence might provoke a confrontation. ”

I clutch the bowl of stew like a lifeline. “I understand.”

“Good.” She starts to leave, then pauses at the flap, tossing me a fleeting, sympathetic look. “Do you regret coming here, Lirienne? You must have known it would be hard.”

A wave of conflicting emotions wells inside me—fear, nostalgia, longing for the simplicity of my old life, but also a stubborn spark of determination. “Sometimes I do,” I admit, “but regrets won’t fix anything. I have to see it through.”

She inclines her head, an almost-grin tugging at her mouth. “You might survive, human. You have the right spirit for it.”

With that, she slips out into the daylight, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the stew steadily cooling in my hands.

I lift the spoon again, sipping absently.

I have the right spirit, I repeat to myself, half in amazement.

No one has called me strong or fierce before.

But maybe, in this brutal place, a seed of defiance is blooming inside me.

I press my palm against my sternum, feeling my heartbeat and reaffirming my vow: I’ll do whatever I can to make this arrangement worth the risk—to protect my village, and maybe even to show these orcs that not all humans are their enemies. And that I’m not the scapegoat they think I am.

Outside, the fortress thrums with activity, the clan preparing for the day’s tasks and the looming evening rite.

I set aside my bowl, square my shoulders, and draw in a lungful of the tent’s leather-scented air.

The debate in my mind—the one that pulls me between fleeing and standing my ground—has reached its conclusion: I stay. I endure.

Because if I don’t, everything I’ve sacrificed will be for nothing.