Dina’s small hand finds mine, her fingers lacing through mine. Her touch is a warm, solid anchor in the swirling sea of my past. I look down at her, at the quiet strength in her face, and my resolve solidifies. My past is here. But she is my future. I will bring them together.
We walk the final path to the great gate of the stronghold, a massive structure of iron-banded oak set into the living rock of the mountain. Two guards, clad in the familiar hardened leather and steel of the Fire Sun warriors, stand watch. Their faces are young, warriors I do not recognize, who would havebeen children when I was taken. They raise their spears, their expressions hard, challenging.
“Halt. State your purpose in the lands of the Fire Sun Clan,” one of them barks, his voice deep and authoritative.
Before I can speak, the other one squints, his eyes narrowing. He steps even closer, his gaze sweeping over my face, my build, the sun tattoo that is no longer warped and faded but clear and sharp on my shoulder. His jaw goes slack. The spear in his hand wavers.
“By the ancestors…” he breathes, his voice a choked whisper. “It cannot be.” He looks at his companion, his eyes wide with a wild, impossible hope. “It is him. It is the Chieftain’s son.”
The first guard stares, his own disbelief warring with the evidence before him. He looks at my face, at the small tusks that mark my lineage, at the eyes of my father. And then his professional mask shatters, replaced by a grin so wide it seems to split his face.
“SOUND THE HORN!” he bellows, his voice a joyous, thundering thing that echoes through the entire valley. “SOUND THE HORN OF RETURN! XYLON IS HOME!”
The sound of the great horn, a deep, resonant blast that is the heartbeat of my people, answers his call. And with it comes the sound of my people. It starts as a murmur, then a rumble, then a roar. The great gate groans open, and the entire clan pours out, a flood of olive-green skin and joyous, disbelieving faces. Warriors, artisans, shamans, elders… they swarm toward us, their shouts of my name a song I thought I would never hear again.
They clap me on the back, grip my arms, their faces a blur of tears and laughter. The sensory overload is immense, but it is not the threatening chaos of the Urog’s mind. It is the overwhelming, life-affirming chaos of belonging. I search the seaof faces, my heart hammering in my chest, looking for the only one that truly matters.
And then I see him. The crowd parts, and my father, Chief Borin, stands there. He is older than I remember, the lines on his weary face carved deeper, his great black braids now streaked with silver. But his shoulders are as broad as the mountain, his dark eyes holding the same fire of leadership, the same deep, quiet strength. He does not move. He just watches me, his gaze an open wound of grief and hope and a decade of loss.
I move toward him, the crowd falling silent around us. I stop before him, the returned son, the broken warrior made whole. No words are needed. There are no words for this.
He closes the distance in two great strides and pulls me into an embrace so powerful it feels like he is trying to mend my shattered soul with the sheer force of his love. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, just as he did when I was a boy. I bury my face in the familiar scent of his leather and woodsmoke tunic, and a shudder wracks my entire frame. The warrior, the chieftain’s son, the monster… we all break. I let the walls I built inside myself crumble. I am home.
That night, the great hall is a roaring celebration of life. The fires in the central pits leap toward the smoke-blackened ceiling, casting a warm, dancing glow on the feasting tables. The beat of the war drums is a joyous, thunderous rhythm that vibrates in my bones. The air is ripe with the rich, savory smell of roasted meat and the sharp, clean scent of Orcish ale.
I sit at the high table beside my father, with Dina on my other side. I keep her close, my arm a protective shield around her. She is overwhelmed by the loud, joyous, chaotic energy of my people, but she faces it with the same quiet courage she has shown all along.
My father raises a horn of ale. “To my son!” he roars, and the clan answers with a cheer that shakes the rafters. “To Xylon, returned from the darkness!”
When the cheering subsides, he looks at me. “Tell them, my son. Tell them your story.”
I stand, and a hush falls over the great hall. I look out at the faces of my clan, my family, my people. And I speak. I tell them of the Dark Elf’s treachery, of the agony of the curse, of the long years spent trapped in a prison of rage.
And then I tell them of the light.
“In that darkness, there was one person who showed me kindness,” I say, my voice ringing with a conviction that stills the very air. “One person who faced down a monster and saw a soul worth saving.” I turn and extend my hand to Dina. She hesitates, her eyes wide, before placing her small, trembling hand in mine. I pull her to her feet beside me.
“This is Dina,” I declare, my voice booming through the hall. “She is the human woman who broke my curse. She faced down sorcerers and assassins. She is a warrior with a spirit as strong as any Orc in this hall. She is a hero of the Fire Sun Clan!”
A roar of approval, louder than any before, erupts from the clan. They raise their horns to her, they cheer her name, their voices a welcoming tide of acceptance. A fierce, possessive pride swells in my chest, so powerful it aches.
But as my eyes scan the crowd, I see it. A pocket of silence in the storm of celebration. My old rival, Grak, stands with a handful of his supporters, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He is a great, brutish Orc, his face a twisted mask of ambition and contempt. While most of his people cheer, he and his followers do not. They glare, not at me, but at Dina, their eyes filled with an open, venomous suspicion. The joy of my return freezes in my veins. One battle has ended. But I see now, with a warrior’s cold certainty, that another is about to begin.
25
DINA
The great hall of the Fire Sun Clan is a cavern of joyous, overwhelming chaos. After a lifetime spent in the cold, oppressive silence of Lord Jildred’s estate, the sheer volume of noise is akin to a blow to the head. Hundreds of Orcs, their powerful bodies clad in leather and fur, feast at long, heavy tables. Their laughter is a booming, unrestrained thing that shakes the very rafters. The air is ripe with the rich, savory smell of roasting meat, the sharp tang of ale, and the smoke from the great fire pits that burn in the exact center of the hall, casting a wild, dancing light on the laughing faces. The relentless, thunderous beat of war drums is a rhythm that vibrates deep in my bones, a frantic, alien heartbeat.
I am seated at the high table, a place of honor beside Xylon, but I feel as small and out of place as a field mouse at a wolf’s feast. Earlier, two Orc women with kind eyes and gentle hands had taken me away. They had replaced my ragged, filthy slave tunic with new clothes—soft leather leggings, a warm tunic of deep green wool, and a heavy, fur-lined cloak to ward off the mountain chill. They had brushed the tangles from my hair andwashed the grime from my face. At last, I am clean. I am warm. I am not a slave. And I have never been more terrified.
Xylon is a grounding presence beside me, his thigh a warm, solid wall against mine. He seems to feel my unease, his large hand finding mine under the table, his fingers giving a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He is home. He is a prince among his people, laughing and talking with the warriors who come to clap him on the shoulder, a fierce, proud joy radiating from him that makes my heart ache.
The crowd parts, and a figure of immense presence approaches our table. It is Xylon’s father, Chief Borin. He is a mountain of an Orc, his silver-streaked braids adorned with iron rings, his face a roadmap of ancient battles and heavy burdens. He stops, his dark eyes, so like his son’s, studying me with a keen, assessing gaze. I feel a familiar urge to shrink, to look away, to make myself invisible.
But then his stern expression softens. He places a hand, heavy and calloused, on the table before me. "Dina," he says in a deep, resonant rumble that cuts through the surrounding chaos. "The chieftain of the Fire Sun Clan, and a father, thanks you. You brought my son back from the darkness. There is no price, no tribute, that can ever equal such a gift. You are a friend to this clan. You will always have a home here."
His words, spoken with such formal, deep respect, shatter the dam I have built around my own heart. To be thanked, to be offered a home, to be called a friend by a man of such power… it is too much. Tears I thought I had no more of spring to my eyes, and I can only nod, a choked sob caught in my throat.
