“I do not question the strength of his arm,” Grak says, his gaze sweeping over the assembled clan, a masterful performance of false sincerity. “I question the strength of his spirit. He returns to us, yes. Butwhathas returned? A true Orc, or the ghost of one? He was a beast, a mindless slave to a Dark Elf’s magic. An Orc’s spirit is his honor, his pride. Can a spirit that has been so thoroughly broken ever truly be fit to lead?”
The words are a physical blow, each one striking me with the force of a stone. This is my fault. All of it.
“And he does not return alone,” Grak continues, and his dark, malicious eyes find mine. He points a thick, accusatory finger at me. “He brings with him the very source of his weakness. A human. A creature of no clan, no honor, who he claims is his savior. We are Orcs! We are the Fire Sun Clan! We do not need to be saved by a soft, humanwitchwho has clearly clouded his judgment. She has strange magic in her blood, I can feel it”
A low murmur ripples through the crowd. Fear coils in my gut like a snake.Witch.The word is a brand, as real and as painful as the one on my neck.
“I have made my case,” Grak concludes, turning to the elders. “Is the future of this clan to be entrusted to a broken beast, and his human pet?”
Chief Borin’s face is a mask of stone, but I can see the fury simmering in his eyes. He looks at his son. “Xylon. You have heard the challenge. You may speak.”
Xylon rises. He moves to the center of the hall with a calm, deliberate grace that belies the storm I know must be raging inside him. He does not look at Grak. He looks at his people. The entire clan leans forward, expecting a roar of defiance, a challenge of blood and steel.
He gives them his confession instead.
“I was a beast,” he begins, his voice not a roar, but a deep, steady calm that commands more attention than any shout. A collective gasp whispers through the hall. “Grak is not wrong. For years, I was a prisoner in my own body, a slave to a rage that was not my own. The world was a red haze of pain and fury. The man I was, the Orc you knew, was a distant echo in a relentless storm.”
He lets the words settle, his honesty a shocking, disarming blow. “A chieftain’s strength is in his arm, yes. But if that is his only strength, he is a blunt weapon, not a leader. My time in the darkness taught me a truth that a lifetime of training never could.”
He pauses, and his dark, intense eyes find mine across the hall. The love and trust in his gaze is a fire that warms my frozen soul. “It taught me that the deepest strength is not the power to break, but the power to endure. It taught me that compassion does not signal weakness, but a weapon against despair. I survived, not because of my strength, but because of a single, small act of kindness from another.”
He raises his voice, his gaze sweeping the entire assembly. “Grak asks if I am broken. I ask you, my clan, what is stronger? A warrior who has never known chains, who has never known true despair? Or one who has been to the darkest pit and has clawed his way back, not with rage alone, but with a heart that has learned the value of a single flicker of light?”
He turns to me. “Dina. Stand with me.”
My breath catches. My legs are trembling so badly I do not think I can stand. But his eyes hold me, give me strength. I rise and walk to him on shaking legs, my head held high. I stand before him in the center of this hostile court.
He gently takes my hand, the one with the twine bracelet, and turns me so my back is to the clan. With a touch that is impossibly gentle, he moves my hair aside, exposing the ugly,puckered skin of the slave’s brand on my neck for all to see. A wave of shock and pity ripples through the crowd.
“This is the mark of a slave,” Xylon says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “A mark of chains. Both of us have known them. I ask you again, people of the Fire Sun. Who is more fit to lead you? A warrior who has only ever known the freedom of these mountains? Or a chieftain who understands, in his very bones, the true price and the profound meaning of the freedom we are all sworn to protect?”
He lets the question hang in the air, a powerful, unanswerable truth. He has not just defended himself; he has redefined what it means to be a leader.
Before the elders or Grak can even formulate a response, Xylon turns his cold, focused gaze on his rival.
“Grak’s challenge is about my fitness, my spirit. And so I answer it,” he declares, his voice ringing with authority. “I will not fight you in a simple duel, Grak. Brawling proves nothing. I challenge you to a trial of leadership. A hunt.”
A murmur of anticipation runs through the clan.
Xylon’s lips curve into a cold, predatory smile. “High on the eastern ridge lives a Razorclaw Matriarch. The one whose brood has been plaguing our hunters for two seasons.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “The one you tried, and failed, to kill last year.”
Grak’s face turns a mottled, furious red. The hall erupts in whispers.
“We will hunt it,” Xylon commands. “Let the clan see which of us is the better leader. Which of us is truly fit to protect this stronghold.”
30
XYLON
Dawn breaks over the high peaks, its light the color of a fresh wound. The air in the main courtyard of the stronghold is sharp and cold, thick with a tension that has nothing to do with the weather. The entire clan is here to see us off, their faces a sea of grim, expectant silence. This is more than a hunt. It is a trial. My future, and Dina’s, will be decided on the slopes of this mountain.
Grak stands by the gate, a boisterous, arrogant bull surrounded by his supporters. They are a dozen strong, all of them loud, boastful warriors from the Stonehide and Black Tusk families, their axes and spears gleaming in the pale light. Grak is already drinking from a horn of ale, laughing too loudly, performing for the crowd. He is treating this as a foregone conclusion.
I stand alone. I carry only my father’s axe, its familiar weight a comfort in my hand, and a pack with water and supplies. I do not need a war party. I am a hunter, not a brawler.
My father claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your spirit is your own, son,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble for my ears only. “Let them see it.” I give a single, sharp nod.
My eyes find Dina. She stands near the edge of the crowd, her hands clenched, her face pale with worry. But when her gaze meets mine, there is a fierce, unshakeable belief in her eyes that strengthens my resolve more than any armor. I give her a small, almost imperceptible nod.I will not fail you.
