I withdraw my weapon and step back, allowing his body to fall with the boneless finality of sudden death. Aroundthe perimeter, the last sounds of combat fade into silence as surviving Redmoon warriors recognize the implications of their leader's defeat.
"Surrender!" Korrash's voice carries absolute authority, backed by the implicit threat of immediate execution for anyone foolish enough to continue resistance. "Throw down your weapons!"
The response is immediate and universal—steel clatters against stone as surviving enemies abandon hope of continued resistance. Some raise empty hands above their heads, others simply fall to their knees in postures of submission. The fight drains out of them like water from broken vessels, leaving only the hollow exhaustion of comprehensive defeat.
But I know Korrash's methods, developed through years of frontier warfare where mercy represents potential future threats. His next words confirm expectations.
"No prisoners."
The execution proceeds with swift efficiency—single blade strokes that sever spinal cords, quick thrusts that pierce hearts, the professional elimination of enemies who might otherwise regroup and resume hostilities when circumstances favor renewed aggression. It's brutal but necessary, the kind of absolute solution that prevents future generations from inheriting unresolved conflicts.
Within minutes, the valley falls silent except for the soft sounds of my warriors cleaning their weapons and conducting final sweeps for overlooked survivors. The Redmoon clan ceases to exist as an organized threat, their ambitions and territorial expansion ending here in blood and moonlight.
I stand over Rokkan's corpse, feeling nothing resembling satisfaction or triumph. This represents necessity completed rather than victory achieved—the elimination of cancer that threatened Wintermaw's continued existence. But the personalcost of Sareen's betrayal and the weeks of escalating violence leave bitter residue that success cannot entirely wash away.
Korrash approaches, his scarred features bearing the grim satisfaction of a warrior who's seen justice delivered through superior force. "It's finished, Chief. Redmoon is no more."
I nod, already turning my thoughts toward the journey home and the problems that await resolution there. Sareen's fate. The integration of refugees from destroyed human settlements. The long work of rebuilding after weeks of combat and resource depletion.
But first, a reunion with Mara and Eira. The thought of them waiting in the safety of Wintermaw territory pulls at something deep in my chest—not just relief at their protection, but genuine eagerness to share this victory with people who matter beyond tactical considerations.
"Time to go home," I tell Korrash, cleaning blood from my blade with practiced efficiency.
19
MARA
My stomach churns like a tempest, each wave of nausea building on the last until I press my hand against my mouth to keep from retching. The metallic tang in the air grows stronger with each passing hour, carried on winds that bring sounds I don't want to identify—distant shouts, the ring of metal, things that make my imagination conjure horrors I've only heard whispered about in the bunker's darkest corners.
"Eira." My voice comes out rougher than intended, strained by hours of worry and the effort of keeping my fears contained. "Can you tell anything? About what's happening?"
She shifts in my arms, her small face scrunched in concentration as she tilts her head like she's listening to something beyond normal hearing. Those gold-tinged eyes of hers—so much like her father's, though she'll never know—search the darkness beyond our small circle of safety.
"The air reeks," she finally says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "It tastes like... like when the bunker's metal pipes got too hot. Sharp and wrong."
Blood. She's sensing blood on the wind, though she doesn't have words for what her developing magic is telling her. Theknowledge sits like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. Somewhere out there in the darkness, men are dying. Maybe Nelrish among them.
The thought makes my stomach lurch again, and I have to close my eyes against the sudden dizziness that threatens to topple me from the fallen log where we've been waiting. Hours. It's been hours since he left with his warriors, since Korrash's scarred face disappeared into the tree line with grim determination written in every line of his weathered features.
The two orcs Nelrish left to guard us—Theron and Garek, their names finally coaxed from reluctant lips—maintain their positions with the kind of disciplined patience that speaks to professional training. They haven't touched me, haven't even looked at me directly beyond the occasional glance to confirm my continued presence. Their respect for their chieftain's authority extends to absolute compliance with his commands, even when those commands involve protecting a human woman and her half-orc child.
But their very presence reminds me constantly of what's at stake. If Nelrish doesn't return, what happens to us? Will they escort us safely to Wintermaw territory as he ordered, or will clan politics demand different priorities? I know so little about orc culture, about the bonds of loyalty that hold their society together or the circumstances that might shatter those bonds.
Eira wiggles against my chest, her small hands pushing at my arms with the restless energy of a child who's been confined too long. "Mama, my legs are getting pins and needles."
I loosen my grip reluctantly, allowing her to slide down from my lap though every maternal instinct screams against letting her move beyond arm's reach. She stretches with the unconscious grace of youth, rolling her shoulders and flexing her fingers as circulation returns to cramped limbs.
"Don't go far," I whisper, though she's already learned the boundaries of our small safe zone—the invisible perimeter that Theron and Garek patrol with silent efficiency.
The waiting is torture. Every minute that passes without word feeds the growing certainty that something has gone wrong, that Nelrish's confidence in his warriors' abilities was misplaced. I've lived my entire life in the shadow of violence—first the clan raids that forced humanity underground, then the brutal hierarchy of bunker life where the strong survived and the weak were traded away. But this feels different. Personal in ways that cut deeper than general fear of orc aggression.
When did I start caring so much about his survival? When did the safety of one particular orc warrior become more important than my own self-preservation? The questions circle through my mind like carrion birds, picking at assumptions I thought I'd abandoned when survival became the only priority that mattered.
The sound, when it comes, makes my heart stutter in my chest—footsteps approaching through the underbrush, multiple sets moving with the coordinated rhythm of organized return rather than the chaotic scramble of retreat. I rise from the log on unsteady legs, my hands automatically reaching for Eira as she turns toward the noise with bright curiosity rather than fear.
Shapes emerge from the darkness between the trees, tall forms that resolve into familiar figures as they step into the pale moonlight filtering through bare branches. Korrash leads the group, his scarred features bearing the grim satisfaction of completed business. Behind him, other warriors I recognize from brief encounters, their weapons clean but their clothes bearing dark stains that speak to recent violence.
And then Nelrish appears, whole and unharmed, his storm-colored eyes finding mine across the small clearing with laser focus. Relief hits me, so intense it nearly drives me to myknees. The breath I didn't realize I'd been holding escapes in a shuddering gasp that sounds embarrassingly close to a sob.
