Then, cutting through the crowd's roar, a sound freezes every orc in the valley.
Hoooooooooo.
Low, mournful, unmistakable. A warhorn's call echoes off the canyon walls, rolling across the festival grounds like thunder made audible. The note holds impossibly long, deep enough to vibrate in my chest, ancient enough to wake sleeping gods.
The torchbearer stops mid-motion, flame wavering inches from the pyre. Conversations die. Even the storm seems to pause, rain hanging suspended in the sudden silence.
"What in the War God's name—" someone mutters.
"That's a warhorn," another voice cuts in, sharp with recognition.
Heads turn toward the valley's mouth, tusks gleaming in the firelight as orcs strain to see through the rain and gathering darkness. The horn sounds again, closer this time, joined by a second call from the opposite ridge.
Then a third. A fourth.
I know that sound. Every warrior worth his scars knows the bone-deep call of war approaching. But these horns carry no clan markings I recognize, no rhythm that speaks of Thorran or Vaskyr or any of the tribes gathered for the festival.
"Who would dare interrupt—" Rytha's father begins.
The fifth horn cuts him off, so close it seems to rise from the festival grounds themselves. Orcs wheel in confusion, weapons appearing in hands that moments before held tankards and torches.
The torchbearer still stands frozen beside Thalia's pyre, flame guttering in the wind. His painted face reflects the same confusion rippling through the crowd—celebration turned to battle readiness in heartbeats.
But I'm watching Thalia, and the Harvest Flame roars higher behind her, untouched by rain or wind, casting dancing shadows that seem to move with purpose rather than chance.
The horn's echo dies into silence so complete I can hear my own heartbeat thundering against my ribs. Every orc in the valley stands frozen, weapons half-drawn, eyes scanning the treeline with the wariness of predators sensing a larger threat.
The torchbearer's flame wavers inches from Thalia's pyre, forgotten in his grip.
Then Elder Morvak—Vaskyr's ancient war counselor—staggers backward with a black-fletched arrow sprouting from his throat like some obscene flower. Blood bubbles between his lips as he claws at the shaft, eyes wide with shock. The wet sound of his choking fills the air.
He crumples to his knees, then face-first into the mud with a sickening thud.
For three heartbeats, nobody moves. Nobody breathes.
"Ambush!" someone screams.
The valley explodes into chaos. Arrows whistle from the darkness beyond the firelight, striking orcs in shoulders, legs, chests. Steel rings against steel as blades appear in hands. Voices roar battle cries and death curses in equal measure.
"Get the chieftains to cover!"
"Where are they coming from?"
"The trees! They're in the fucking trees!"
My guards wheel toward the commotion, their grips loosening as instinct overrides orders. Dark shapes burst from the forest—lean, quick shadows that move like smoke given flesh. Not orcs. Something else entirely.
I surge against my chains with renewed fury, feeling the metal bite deeper into already raw wrists. Blood makes the iron slick, but I don't stop pulling.
"Thalia!" I bellow over the carnage.
She's still tied to the post, the torchbearer having dropped his flame to draw his sword. The abandoned torch gutters in the mud, its light dying as rain finally breaks through the storm clouds in earnest.
One of my captors turns back toward me, snarling. "Stay down, or?—"
An arrow takes him through the eye. He drops without another word, his weight yanking me sideways as his death grip on my shoulder loosens.
The remaining guard stares at his fallen comrade, then at the chaos erupting around us, then back at me with dawning horror.
