Wine flows freely as the leaders toast to peace and prosperity. Rytha's excitement radiates from her like heat from forge coals, her amber eyes scanning the Thorran ranks with predatory interest.
"Where is my betrothed?" she asks, her voice pitched to carry just the right note of eagerness. "I confess myself curious about this war hero I've heard so much about."
The Thorran second-in-command, a grizzled orc with iron-gray hair, grins with genuine warmth. "Galthan returns from the eastern borders tomorrow. The man's a legend—took down three raiders single-handed last month. Loyal as winter is cold, fierce as summer storms."
"A prized weapon indeed," Rytha purrs, practically glowing with satisfaction. "Our union will forge strength that echoes through generations."
The orcs around her nod approvingly, already envisioning the power this alliance will bring. But that strange sensation in the wind grows stronger, like distant thunder promising storms yet to come.
2
GALTHAN
The mountain pass cuts through stone like a knife wound, narrow and treacherous beneath our horses' hooves. Mud cakes thick on my boots, the kind that clings like guilt and weighs down every step. Three days of rain have turned the eastern borders into a quagmire, but at least the raiders have moved on.
My war party trails behind me in single file—eight seasoned warriors who've bled alongside me through countless skirmishes. The silence stretches comfortable between us, broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the occasional curse when someone's mount stumbles on loose rock.
"So," Borgak finally speaks up, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. "Tomorrow you meet your bride."
The others perk up like wolves scenting fresh meat. I should have known this was coming.
"Heard she's Vaskyr nobility," adds Threk, spitting into the mud. "Fancy bloodline and all."
"Fancy indeed," Borgak continues, warming to his subject. "Daughter of a chieftain who lets humans sit at his table. Practically makes them part of the family."
I grunt, keeping my eyes fixed on the path ahead. The last thing I need is my warriors questioning Thorran's alliance based on Vaskyr's... peculiar customs.
"Nothing friendly about humans," I say, voice flat as hammered steel. "At least not where we come from."
Jorik laughs, a harsh bark that bounces off the stone walls. "Remember that human settlement we cleared last spring? They begged like children when the steel came out."
"Weak as water," agrees Threk. "No wonder Vaskyr coddles them—probably need the extra hands for women's work."
The familiar contempt in their voices settles something in my chest. This is what I understand—the clear lines between strength and weakness, orc and human, predator and prey.
"Your bride's probably never seen a real warrior," Borgak continues, grinning wide enough to show his gold-capped tooth. "Bet she expects poetry and flower crowns."
"She'll learn different quick enough," Jorik chimes in, his scarred face splitting into a leer. "Our Galthan's got a reputation for breaking things that need breaking."
The others roar with laughter, their voices echoing through the pass like thunder. Threk slaps his knee hard enough to make his horse sidestep.
"You'll be breaking them in soon enough," he crows, and the laughter doubles.
I let them have their fun. Better they think of me as the same iron-fisted warrior who's led them through a dozen campaigns than wonder if marriage might soften their war chief. The alliance needs strength, not sentiment.
The mud squelches beneath us as we continue our descent, and I push thoughts of tomorrow from my mind. Whatever waits in the neutral valley, it won't change who I am.
The arrow whistles past my ear close enough to trim hair. I wheel my mount around, battle instincts flaring to life as more shafts pepper the hillside around us.
"Ambush!" Borgak roars, drawing steel as masked figures pour from the rocks above like angry hornets.
My axe clears its sheath in one fluid motion. The first raider drops from an outcrop directly onto Threk's horse, blade flashing. I spur forward, bringing my weapon around in a brutal arc that catches the bastard across the skull. Bone cracks like kindling, and he tumbles into the mud with half his head missing.
"Form up!" I bellow, but chaos has already claimed us. Horses scream and rear as more arrows find their marks. Jorik's mount goes down hard, pinning his leg beneath its thrashing bulk.
A curved blade slices toward my throat. I lean back, feeling steel part the air where my neck was, then drive my knee into the attacker's ribs. He doubles over, gasping, and my axe takes him in the spine. Blood sprays across my braids as he collapses.
"Behind you!" Threk's warning comes too late.
