But there are no words. Only the slow burn of poison, the whisper of wind through pine boughs, and the growing certainty that this small rise beneath ancient trees will mark the end of Nelrish of Wintermaw's reign.
The pendant grows heavy against my chest again, though I cannot feel my fingers well enough to know if I've grasped it or if memory simply carries more weight than flesh. Either way, the carved bone seems to pulse with its own warmth—or perhaps that's merely the fever reaching its crescendo.
Above me, snow continues to fall through the darkening afternoon, each flake a small benediction in the gathering dusk. My eyes drift closed, then force themselves open again. Not yet. Not while strength remains to witness my own ending.
Face the sky.
The words echo in my mind, no longer my father's voice but my own. A final command to the body that has served clan and honor for thirty-eight years.
Face the sky, and let death find me as it finds all chieftains in the end—upright, unbowed, and utterly alone.
3
MARA
The sounds of battle fade behind us, swallowed by pine boughs and distance until only the whisper of wind through needles remains. My lungs burn from the sprint, each breath scraping raw against my throat, but I don't dare slow. Not yet. Not while Redmoon's war cries might still echo through these trees.
Eira's weight against my chest has grown heavier with each step, her small body pressed tight against mine as I navigate between towering pines. Snow drifts down through the canopy above, fat flakes that catch in her dark curls and dust my shoulders with cold. Each footfall crunches too loud in the forest quiet, marking our passage for anyone skilled enough to follow.
"Mama." Her voice is barely a whisper against my collarbone. "The trees are scared."
I shift her weight, adjusting my grip as we pick our way over fallen logs slick with moss and ice. The child says things sometimes—odd things that make me wonder if the stories about mixed blood are true. If there's something in her that connects to this broken world in ways I'll never understand.
"Just the wind, sweet girl." The endearment slips out automatically, though my attention stays fixed on the path ahead. We need shelter. Need distance. Need to find some defensible position before full dark settles and the temperature drops enough to kill.
But even as I plan our next move, part of me marvels at how quickly everything changed. This morning I was sorting through our meager supplies, calculating how to stretch winter stores. Now we're fugitives in a forest that belongs to creatures far stronger than us, with nothing but the clothes on our backs, the small pack I grabbed, and whatever mercy the approaching storm might show.
My foot catches on something that isn't root or stone. I stumble, nearly dropping Eira as I fight to keep my balance. She squeaks, small hands fisting in my coat, and I manage to steady myself against a pine trunk rough with bark.
"Sorry, baby. I?—"
The words die in my throat.
At my feet, partially hidden by fallen needles and the gathering snow, lies a body. An orc's body, massive even sprawled motionless among the pine roots. My heart hammers against my ribs as every instinct screamsrun. Leave him. Get Eira away from here. Find shelter and pray this one was alone.
But I don't move.
Something about the scene holds me frozen—the way he's positioned against the tree trunk, back straight despite obvious pain. His eyes are closed, but not in death. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths that mist the cold air. Snow has begun to accumulate on his shoulders and in the silver-streaked hair that's come loose from its braid.
He looks... diminished. Not in size—even unconscious, he dwarfs anything human—but in presence. The threat that should radiate from him feels muted, banked like coals beneath ash.There's something almost peaceful about his stillness, as if he's chosen this place for rest rather than collapse.
"Mama?" Eira shifts in my arms, and I realize I've been staring. "Why did we stop?"
"I..." The practical answer lodges in my throat. Because we found an enemy who could kill us both without effort, if he wakes. Because we should be running.
Instead, I find myself studying the details that make no sense. The way his hunting leathers are well-maintained but not ostentatious. The absence of trophies or scalps that mark the Redmoon warriors. The carved pendant at his throat that catches what little light filters through the canopy—three interlocking circles worn smooth by handling.
This isn't Redmoon. The realization hits with startling certainty. The armor is wrong, the weapons too plain. Everything about him speaks of function over intimidation, pragmatism over cruelty.
Eira wiggles in my arms, her attention fixed on the unconscious orc with the intensity she usually reserves for injured birds or the strange dreams that wake her in the night. Before I can stop her, she's slipping from my grip, small boots finding purchase on the needle-strewn ground.
"Eira, no. Come back here."
But she's already moving, drawn by whatever invisible thread connects her to the world's wounded things. Her steps are careful, deliberate, until she crouches beside the orc's massive form. One small hand hovers over his temple, fingers spread wide.
"He's hurt," she whispers, and I know she's not talking about anything visible. "Inside hurt. Like when the metal tastes bad."
Before I can pull her away, her palm settles against his forehead.
