I am in the armory, inspecting a newly forged shield, when a large shadow falls over me. I turn. It is Grak. He stands alone, his usual belligerent supporters absent. He is not wearing his armor, and he does not meet my eyes.
“War Leader,” he says in a humbled rumble. He extends his forearms, a formal gesture of submission. “My warriors and I are yours to command. My life is yours to command. I was a fool, blinded by pride. Forgive me.”
I look at him, at the great, brutish Orc who tried to tear my life apart, and I feel nothing but a weary sense of purpose. The clan needs to be whole. Now is not the time for old grudges.
I clasp his forearm, the warrior’s grip of acceptance. “There is nothing to forgive,” I say, my voice hard but clear. “Today, we are all sons of the Fire Sun. We will fight as brothers. You and your warriors will reinforce the southern pass. You will be the first to taste Dark Elf blood.”
A flicker of his old, fierce pride returns to his eyes. He gives a single, sharp nod. “It will be done.” He turns and walks away, a warrior with a purpose, our rivalry burned away in the face of a common enemy.
Amidst the chaos of war preparations, Dina is a point of quiet, unshakable calm. She is not a warrior. She does not know how to wield an axe. But her own quiet strength becomes an essential part of our defense. I am the mind of the war, the strategist. She becomes its heart.
I see her in the makeshift infirmary, her hands, once so hesitant, now moving with a steady confidence as she grinds herbs with the shaman’s acolytes, preparing poultices and medicines. I see her in the kitchens, ensuring every warrior has a full belly and a skin of water, her presence a silent, soothing reassurance. The Orc women, who once saw her as a fragile outsider, now work alongside her, a quiet sisterhood of resilience.
She is not a weakness. She is the foundation on which our victory will be built.
That evening, I find her on the high battlements, looking out at the valley below. The sun is setting, painting the snow-cappedpeaks in shades of blood and gold. I come to stand beside her, and we watch the dying of the light in a comfortable silence.
“I am proud of you, Dina,” I rumble.
She turns to me, a small, sad smile on her face. “I am not doing anything. I am just… helping.”
“You are giving them hope,” I counter, taking her hand. “You are reminding them what we are fighting for. Not just for stone and territory. But for this.” For our home. For our future.
She leans her head against my shoulder, and we stand as one, a chieftain’s heir and his Sun-bringer, watching the last of the light fade from the world. The calm before the storm.
And then it comes.
A single, piercing note from the watchtower high on the western peak. The sound of the war horn. It slices through the quiet evening air, a sharp, terrible cry of warning.
The Dark Elf army is at our gates.
35
DINA
The night before the battle is a thing of heavy, waiting silence. The roaring fires in the great hall are banked to low-glowing embers, the boisterous sounds of the clan replaced by the whisper of the wind through the high mountain passes. Every warrior is with their family, or in the armory, or simply sitting with their own thoughts, caught in this final, terrible calm before the storm.
Sleep eludes me like I am the plague. The bed of soft furs is a mockery of comfort when every nerve in my body is alight with a humming, anxious energy. I slip from the bed and go in search of Xylon.
I find him where I know he will be. On the highest battlement of the stronghold, a solitary, powerful silhouette against a sky littered with cold, indifferent stars. He stands with his forearms resting on the stone parapet, staring down into the dark valley below. I cannot see the enemy army from here, but I can see the faint, malevolent orange glow of their thousands of campfires, a sprawling, sleepless beast waiting for the dawn.
The weight on his shoulders is a visible thing, even in the darkness. He carries not just the burden of command, but the fate of every soul in this stronghold. The weight of his home.
I come to stand beside him, my own hands resting on the cold, rough-hewn stone. We are silent for a long time, the wind whipping strands of my hair across my face. He does not look at me, but I feel the tension in him ease slightly at my presence.
“You should be sleeping,” he says finally, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“So should you,” I counter softly.
He lets out a long, slow breath, a cloud of white in the frigid air. “I have not slept well in ten years, Dina. I doubt I will start tonight.” His gaze remains fixed on the enemy campfires. “I look at them, and I do not feel fear for myself. I have faced death. I have lived in a nightmare. The thought of battle… it does not frighten me.”
He turns his head then, and his dark eyes find mine. In their depths, I see a vulnerability, a raw, aching fear that is far more profound than any battle-terror.
“My fear,” he says, his voice thick with an emotion he has held in check for days, “is of losing this. Of losing you. I have just found you. I have just found myself again. If we fall tomorrow… if they get through…” He cannot finish the sentence. The unspoken horror hangs between us.
I reach out and place my hand on his arm. The muscle beneath his leather tunic is coiled as tight as a steel spring. “I am not afraid,” I say, and the words are the truest I have ever spoken. A lifetime of fear has been burned away by the simple, absolute certainty of my love for him. “Whatever happens at dawn, we face it. As long as I am with you, I am not afraid.”
My quiet strength seems to break something in him. With a sound that is half a groan, half a prayer, he turns and pulls me into his arms. He crushes me against his chest, his armswrapping around me like bands of steel, his face buried in my hair. He holds me, not with the explosive passion of our first night, but with a desperate, trembling need, as if he is trying to absorb me into himself, to keep me safe from the world by making me a part of him.
