I point to the marked locations, tracing the progression with careful fingers. “Supply depot here, destroyed three weeks ago. Patrol ambushed here, two weeks ago. Watchtower burned here, ten days ago.” The pattern becomes clearer as I speak. “They’re systematically eliminating your early warning systems and cutting your supply lines from the south and east.”
Vlorn leans closer, studying the map intently. His shoulder brushes mine, and awareness jolts down my spine. The scent of leather and smoke surrounds me.
“Preparing for siege,” he murmurs.
“More than that.” I point to the pattern again, my excitement growing as the picture becomes complete. “They’re forcing you to rely on northern and western routes only. Channeling all your resources through chokepoints that are easy to cut off when the time comes.”
His amber eyes lift to meet mine. In the dim light, they seem to glow with their own fire.
“You see it.” There’s something in his voice—respect, maybe. Appreciation for intelligence rather than just compliance. “My captains have been studying these reports for weeks, debating strategies and counter-strategies. And you see it in minutes.”
There’s respect in his words. Recognition of capability beyond what my captivity might suggest.
For a moment, we’re not captor and captive. We’re partners analyzing a threat, working together to solve a problem that threatens us both.
Then a horn blast shatters the moment.
Deep. Urgent. A sound that cuts through stone and sleep and everything else. The horn echoes across the fortress from the outer walls, reverberating off the mountains beyond.
Vlorn moves to the window instantly, and I follow without thinking. Below in the courtyard, torches flare to life one after another, pushing back the darkness. Warriors pour from the barracks, weapons in hand, armor hastily donned. Wolves howl from their kennels—a sound that raises every hair on my arms and makes something primitive in my brain scream danger.
A figure staggers through the main gate—human-sized but moving wrong, wounded, one arm hanging useless at his side. He makes it three steps into the courtyard before his legs give out and he collapses face-first onto the cobblestones.
Even from this distance, even through the thick glass of the windows, I hear his voice carried on the night wind. Weak but desperate, words that freeze my blood and stop my heart:
“Everyone’s dead... they’re all dead... Oryx is coming...”
The messenger’s voice breaks on a sob before he goes still, but the words echo in the suddenly silent courtyard.
SIX
ZORAYA
Dawn hasn’t broken when the pounding starts.
Heavy fists against the door, urgent and insistent, dragging me from sleep that was already fitful and incomplete. I jolt awake in the chair by the fireplace, neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle that leaves my shoulder aching. The wolf pelts have slipped to the floor during the night, and cold mountain air bites at my exposed skin through the thin fabric of my dress.
“What now?” I mutter, pushing tangled hair from my face. My mouth tastes of ash and exhaustion, and my body protests every movement after a night spent curled in a chair instead of a proper bed.
The door opens before I can fully stand, and Brakka hurries in without ceremony. The older orc woman looks haggard, more worn than I’ve ever seen her. Her scarred face is tight with worry, dark circles shadowing her eyes. Her usual calm demeanor has cracked completely, replaced by something that borders on panic.
She wrings her hands—a gesture so uncharacteristic that it sends alarm bells ringing in my head. “Girl, get up. Now. The clan lord needs you. Immediately.”
“Needs me for what?” But I’m already on my feet, smoothing my wrinkled dress and trying to finger-comb my hair into something resembling order. Sleep seems impossible anymore, not with enemies at the gates and conspiracies within the walls.
“The fortress defenses. Something’s failing.” Brakka’s voice drops to a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might make the situation worse. “He’s been in the War Tower with the battle mages and the ward-keepers. They can’t fix it.”
Vlorn appears at the doorway entrance, still wearing the leather pants and linen shirt from last night but somehow looking perfectly alert despite what must have been a sleepless vigil. His amber eyes find mine immediately, and in them I see exhaustion held at bay by sheer force of will.
He jerks his chin toward the corridor. “Come. There’s something you need to see.”
No explanation. No request. Just expectation that I’ll follow him into whatever crisis has kept him awake all night.
I grab my sewing kit from where I put it on his table—habit more than conscious thought, but something tells me I might need it. The familiar weight of the leather pouch comforts me in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
“What kind of fortress defense needs a seamstress?” The question comes out sharper than intended as we leave his chambers.
His mouth tightens into a grim line. “The kind that’s been keeping this place standing for three generations.”
