Page 8

GHORZAG

D awn breaks with pale light creeping through the high windows of my private quarters.

I stand near the narrow balcony overlooking the clan’s courtyard, arms folded as I survey the fortress below.

Orcs bustle about—some preparing the morning’s training sessions, others hefting crates of supplies or tending small fires for cooking.

From up here, the scene appears almost orderly, as if the tension roiling within the clan is hidden beneath the routine.

But I can feel the undercurrent of unease like a low, thrumming drumbeat.

My gaze drifts to the far corner of the courtyard, where a cluster of rough tents sprawls in haphazard rows.

Somewhere among them, Lirienne has been taken.

I tell myself the arrangement is only temporary, that I’ll find a more suitable space for her once the initial uproar dies down.

Yet guilt tugs at me, a persistent, nagging bite.

A small, human woman—my mate, supposedly—tucked away in a drafty tent under watchful, often hostile eyes.

It isn’t the alliance I pictured when I first offered the proposal to her people. It feels… precarious.

A firm knock on my chamber door interrupts my brooding. “Enter,” I rumble, pulling away from the balcony’s edge.

The door swings open to admit Karzug, my second-in-command, clad in his usual leather armor etched with lightning insignias. His face is as tight as a drawn bowstring. “Chieftain,” he says by way of greeting, inclining his head briefly.

I gesture for him to speak. “What news?”

He lifts one hand, holding a small wooden carving—a whittled figurine shaped like a raven, but the edges are darkened, scorched by flame.

“We found this near the Eastern Pasture fence, tied to a split beam,” he says, voice tinged with annoyance.

“A sign. Possibly from the priests, or from someone wanting to look like they’re aligned with the War God. ”

My tusks grind together. “I take it the fence was damaged?”

He nods. “Broken during the night. And the water channels that feed into the eastern fields look tampered with—rocks piled, deliberately diverting the flow. Could explain the flooding that’s ruining crops.”

Heat flares in my chest, somewhere between anger and grim satisfaction.

I’ve suspected sabotage for days, but each new discovery makes it harder to ignore.

“So not a natural overflow,” I say quietly, turning the figurine over in my hand.

The scorched wood smells faintly of pitch.

“Someone wants the clan to believe these disasters are divine punishment.”

Karzug’s mouth twitches. “And we both know the clan is more than willing to believe it. Cursing the human woman is simpler than accepting that someone within our ranks could be betraying us.”

My fists clench around the figurine. This confirms the roiling doubt I’ve felt since last night’s confrontation: the omens might not be the War God’s doing, but a deliberate ploy.

But by whom—and why? It could be some misguided orc who loathes the idea of an alliance with humans, or a more sinister outside force, like the dark elves, sowing discord among us.

I exhale, setting the wooden raven on a nearby table. “Have you confronted the priests about this?”

Karzug shakes his head. “Not directly. Druzh is preparing tonight’s rite. You know how he is—he’ll say this sign is yet another warning from the War God. We’ll have no proof it’s otherwise, not unless we catch someone in the act.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. Druzh has preached about these ‘cursed omens’ with fervor, only fueling the clan’s paranoia. “And how are the people responding?” I ask.

His gaze flicks to the floor, then back up.

“Some are panicked, worried about losing more fields. Others are furious. A few talk in hushed tones, questioning your judgment for bringing a human under the War God’s roof.

” Karzug hesitates, then adds, “Gorath’s been stirring up dissent again.

I overheard him telling a group of younger warriors that you’ve doomed us to watch our children starve. ”

I growl. Gorath has long been a thorn in my side—a staunch traditionalist who believes alliances weaken orcish pride. “If he incites open rebellion, you know what to do.”

Karzug nods. “Of course. But I’d prefer not to spill orc blood over rumors.”

“So would I,” I mutter. “Better to root out the real saboteur before the clan devolves into chaos.”

Karzug shifts his weight. “There’s another matter. I saw the shaman’s apprentice, Nagra, slip into the human’s tent earlier. She left in a hurry, looking worried.”

A spark of curiosity rises. “Nagra’s young, but she has sense. Possibly she’s sympathetic. I won’t fault her for that.” A wry twist touches my lips. “At least it means Lirienne isn’t entirely alone out there.”

He studies me a moment, brow furrowed. “If you plan to keep her safe, best do it soon. This evening’s rite could turn the clan even more against her if Druzh claims the bones speak ill.”

I square my shoulders, tension radiating through them. “I intend to stand by my decision. If a handful of runes or bones declare otherwise, I’ll question the interpretation. Let them call me heretic or fool—I won’t cast Lirienne aside to appease superstition.”

A flicker of approval lights Karzug’s eyes. “Then we should be prepared. Some of the more devout might see that as defying the War God’s will.”

I can’t suppress a small snort. “The War God values strength. Allowing my clan to be manipulated by fear is the opposite of strong. If he truly scorns this alliance, let him strike me down himself. But something about these omens reeks of mortal hands.”

Karzug inclines his head. “What’s our next move, Chieftain?”

I glance again at the charred raven figurine on the table.

My thoughts churn. The clan stands at a crossroads—remain locked in old feuds and die a slow death, or try a new path that risks angering tradition.

In my heart, I’ve already chosen. I turn to my second-in-command, letting the quiet flame of resolve show on my face.

“Summon a meeting of the trusted warriors—those who haven’t publicly opposed this alliance. Tonight, after the rite, we’ll compare notes. No more waiting for signs to solve our problems. We find the saboteur, or the conspirators, ourselves.”

Karzug’s mouth curves into a grim half-smile. “As you command. Shall I send a guard to bring Lirienne into the fortress before the rite?”

An image of Lirienne crosses my mind—her slight form standing defiantly in the Great Hall, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resolve.

I recall the hush that fell when she spoke my name without hesitation.

“Yes,” I say. “I want her present. If we’re forging a genuine peace, she deserves to witness how we do things—and to defend herself if needed. ”

Karzug salutes and turns to go. Before he reaches the door, I speak again, my tone softening. “One more thing.”

He pauses, glancing back.

“Ensure no harm comes to her on the way in,” I order. “If Gorath or any of his cronies try to intimidate her, remind them that I’ve forbidden such actions.”

A spark of respect dances in Karzug’s eyes. He gives a curt nod. “Understood, Chieftain.” Then he slips out, leaving me alone with the echo of my own heartbeat and a swirl of conflicting emotions.

The hours leading up to the dusk rite crawl by.

I spend most of them pacing the fortress corridors, checking in with various orc sub-leaders—taskmasters for the farmland, quartermasters for the armory, and a few older warriors who served under my father.

The fortress itself stands as a sprawling testament to orcish might: heavy stone walls, tapestries flaunting old victories, and corridors carved to funnel intruders into kill zones if ever we’re attacked from within.

Despite the imposing architecture, cracks of worry are visible everywhere.

In the storerooms, sacks of grain have been soaked by the incessant flooding, leaving them mildewed.

The armory’s forges face delays because a section of the fortress roof near the smithy still leaks from the last rain, corroding tools.

The sense of creeping crisis weighs on the air like an invisible chain, binding every orc’s mind to the question: Is the War God punishing us?

I grind my teeth. If I believed that entirely, I wouldn’t bother suspecting sabotage.

Yet the more I examine the damage—the deliberate stacking of rocks in irrigation channels, the systematically broken fences—the more I feel sure.

This is the work of an orc or a group of them.

Possibly with outside help. If that comes to light, the clan’s faith in the War God’s condemnation will shatter.

But until then, they’ll keep scapegoating Lirienne.

In the early afternoon, I stop by the training yard, where a throng of younger warriors spar with wooden staves.

I recognize a few as promising recruits—tall, eager orcs with a hunger for skill.

Usually, I’d watch them train, offer critiques on footwork or remind them to keep their guard high.

But today I have little patience for formalities.

“Chieftain,” barks one of the instructors, a muscular orc with a broad chest and a long scar running down his cheek. He bows his head. “Come to test the recruits?”

I shake my head. “Not today, Hrug. How’s morale?”

He hesitates, scanning the sweaty forms of the young fighters.

“Varied. Some are restless, wanting to pick fights with humans or rival clans to prove our strength. Others are uneasy, claiming the War God is turning his face from us. Either way, they’re on edge.

Training helps them vent, but rumor spreads faster than I can break them from it. ”