The blade clears its sheath with a whisper of metal against leather. My reflection wavers in the polished surface—gray-green skin gone ashen, eyes that should burn blue-gray now filmed with fever. The tusks my father polished smooth have been clenched so tight they've drawn blood from my lower lip.
Weakness.The word tastes like ash. Wintermaw chieftains don't die whimpering in the dirt from some coward's poison. We die facing our enemies, weapons in hand, roaring defiance until our final breath rattles free.
But there are no enemies here. Only pine trees heavy with snow and the growing darkness as my vision narrows. Only the slow burn in my veins and the bitter knowledge that I walked willingly into this trap.
"The old ways are dying, Nelrish. You cling to honor like a drowning man clings to driftwood."
She wasn't wrong. That's what cuts deepest—not the betrayal itself, but the grain of truth threaded through her lies. The world has changed since we fled Protheka. The magic that once flowed through orc veins like liquid fire has guttered to barely glowing embers. Honor feels increasingly like luxury in a realm where survival demands compromise at every turn.
I try to push myself upright, muscles straining against the poison's weight. My vision grays at the edges, breath coming in shallow gasps that fog the cold air. Each exhale feels like giving up ground in a battle already lost.
Reach for it. Reach for the magic.
The thought comes automatically, trained into me by generations of Wintermaw shamans. Magic is birthright. Magic is strength. Magic is the fire that separates orc from the lesser races that scurry through the shadows of this broken world.
But when I reach, grasping for that warmth that’s been slipping year by year, I find only empty space. The connection that once was enough to heal wounds, to give me more strength, is gone. Whether by the poison or simply the final guttering of power too long away from its source, I cannot tell. Though many orcs haven’t been able to wield for some time now.
The knife tumbles from nerveless fingers. The sound of metal striking stone echoes strangely in the pine-muffled quiet, seeming to come from very far away. Everything feels distant now. The cold. The pain. Even the fury that has sustained me through two decades of clan leadership.
She counted on this. Counted on me being too proud to beg for help. Too stubborn to retreat.
Another memory surfaces—her fingers tracing the scars across my chest, mapping the history of violence written in my flesh. She'd known every weakness, every place where pride and honor created gaps in my defenses. Known that I'd drink what she’d given me rather than show suspicion.
Snow begins to fall, fat flakes that drift down like ash from some distant fire. They land on my upturned face, cold pinpricks against fevered skin that melt almost immediately. The contrast should hurt. Instead, it feels almost gentle. A benediction.
My hand finds the leather cord around my neck, fingers closing around the carved bone pendant that bears Wintermaw's mark. Three interlocking circles—past, present, future. The symbol of continuity, of the eternal cycle that binds all things. My father wore this same pendant. His father before him. Back through fifteen generations of chieftains who led the clan through prosperity and famine, through war and the uneasy peace that follows victory.
It will die with me.
The pendant slips from my fingers, the cord still around my neck but the weight no longer resting against my chest. Symbolism, perhaps. Or simply the slow failure of a body that's carried me through too many battles to count.
I manage to drag myself another few feet, bark scraping against the metal plates sewn into my leathers. Every movement costs more than the last, but I refuse to die here on the main path where Redmoon scouts might find me. Refuse to give them the satisfaction of confirmation.
Too proud even now.The thought comes with bitter amusement. She'd laugh at this—Nelrish of Wintermaw, reduced to crawling through pine needles like a wounded animal, still concerned with appearances even as life bleeds out through pores turned fever-bright.
But pride is all I have left. Pride and the determination to meet death on my own terms.
The ground slopes upward here, a small rise crowned with ancient pines whose trunks stretch toward the gray sky like pillars in some vast, roofless cathedral. Between their roots, a carpet of fallen needles provides cushioning for the inevitable.More importantly, gaps in the canopy offer a clear view of the heavens.
Face the sky. Die looking up, not down.
My father's words, spoken on his own deathbed after taking a Bloodfang spear through the lung. He'd lasted three days, long enough to see me acknowledged as his successor by the clan elders. Long enough to pass on the final lessons that couldn't be taught through sparring or shared hunts.
"A chieftain's last duty is to die well. To show them that leadership means accepting responsibility even unto death."
I'd been twenty-two then, still burning with the kind of rage that turns boys into warriors and warriors into weapons. The idea of accepting death—of choosing how to meet it rather than fighting until the final heartbeat—had seemed like cowardice.
Now I understand. Death becomes inevitable the moment we draw first breath. The only choice lies in how we greet that inevitability when it finally arrives to collect what was always owed.
My back finds the rough bark of an ancient pine, trunk wide enough to support my weight as I slowly work myself upright. The movement costs everything, leaves me gasping and shaking, but I manage it. Manage to sit facing outward, toward the valley where Wintermaw's fires burn in the distance.
The poison's burn has spread to my fingertips now, each nerve ending alive with liquid fire. My vision blurs, sharpens, blurs again. The world takes on a strange quality—hyperreal in some moments, dreamlike in others. Colors seem both more vivid and somehow wrong, as if viewed through water or colored glass.
Snow continues to fall, accumulating on my shoulders and in the folds of my leathers. Soon it will cover me entirely, provide a clean white shroud for whatever the scavengers leavebehind. The thought should disturb me. Instead, it brings an odd comfort. Even in death, the world offers its own form of honor.
My breathing grows shallower, each inhalation requiring conscious effort. The spaces between heartbeats stretch longer. Darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision, not the clean black of unconsciousness but something deeper. Final.
I should have words. Last thoughts worthy of a chieftain's death.
