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We mount our warbeasts and ride through the cohort to meet the retinue. Orcs stop and make the sign of respect as we pass, before taking their place back in the ranks. When we emerge on the other side of the cohort, all the warriors are back in formation, silently waiting at attention for further instruction.

Guruk is at the head of the caravan, looking older than I remember him. There are more frown lines around his tusks, and a severity in his eyes that I have not seen before. There is no mistress this time sitting ahead of him in the saddle, but instead, Lady Melelea is there, looking as lovely as ever. She is a little more plump with age, her breasts heavier than they were, but time has only deepened her beauty. She looks serene, the consummate princess. The light in her eyes is sad, however. She must be worried about her son. Though Guruk and Melelea are sitting so close together, they do not look happy together. Perhaps they are both taking the departure of their son hard. When Guruk sees me, however, he lightens, a false-looking smile spreading on his lips.

“General Wodred, my old friend. I see that you are keeping my troops in readiness.”

“My King,” I reply, making the sign of respect on my chest. “I only do my duty.”

“That’s what I like about you, Wodred,” the king remarks. “No frills and to the point. No pointless fawning or arrogance. It is why I chose you to train my . . . son.”

He says the last word as if it is foreign on his lips, as if he isn’t used to acknowledging the prince as his own. Salthu’s rumors must be correct, and, for some reason, it makes my heart ache for the orcling.

“Rognar!” barks Guruk. “Come forward.”

I don’t know what I expected. A spoiled princeling, I suppose, from Salthu’s description. Weak and maybe arrogant, since he’s been receiving training since he was young. Someone unteachable and unbearably confident. Someone with a cruel streak like Guruk that he uses to hide his insecurities. But whatever I expected, that is not what I see.

A young orc comes forward, dismounting from a warbeast that should be too big for him with ease. He walks forward cautiously, but with the bearing of a king. He is quiet and wary, his eyes holding too much wisdom for one so young. He’s strong, with a wiry frame and proud horns curling back from his face.

I am speared with the knowledge of what I am looking at. I feared that I would be training Guruk’s son, one with all his weaknesses and foibles. I never considered that I would be training Melelea’s son. Quietly strong, wise, and fair. That is who I am training.

A feeling unlike anything I have ever felt before blooms in my chest. A fatherly feeling of pride and awe. I have no right to feel like a father toward this young orc that is the spitting image of his mother, but I do. I would die to protect him, and I have only just seen him.

“Don’t just stand there like a useless lump,” Guruk sneers. “Introduce yourself to your superior officer.”

Rognar’s face doesn’t change, but something like pain flashes briefly through his eyes. Then he makes the sign of respect toward me and says, “I report for training, General Wodred.”

It is only through years of training that I keep myself from flinching at his voice. It is nothing like the smooth, deep voices of every other orc whom I know. It is a raw and broken voice, rasping and growling. It is clear from those scant words that Salthu was right. No orc with a voice like that would have sibilance.

But I would never make him feel less than because of something that he cannot control. “You are welcome in the Northern Horde, My Prince,” I say evenly. “You’ll be living with the other trainees.”

Rognar inclines his head warily at that, as if still expecting my censure for his voice. When none comes he relaxes a fraction.

“Gunag!” I bark out, calling the name of one of my newest trainees. “Gunag ka Strok!”

“Yes, General!” calls back the young orc, barely older than the prince himself. He jogs forward and stands at the ready next to my warbeast. He is an eager trainee, chomping at the bit to prove himself, as he is from the Outcast Village. He will be a good companion for the prince.

“Take the prince to the trainee’s tent and get him situated. He begins his training immediately,” I order.

Turning back to the prince, I say, “While you are a trainee, you are no longer a prince. You are under my command, and I expect swift obedience. You may not experience the deferential treatment you are accustomed to, but here, as long as you work hard, you will be treated fairly. Is that understood?”

“Yes, General!” the prince barks out in that ruined voice of his.

“Then follow Gunag and I’ll see you at the evening drills,” I say.

Rognar moves to obey, but hesitates just for a moment, turning back. I think for a moment he is looking to be dismissed by the king, but his eyes are only for his mother.

“It’s all right, Rognar,” Lady Melelea says, her voice quiet and encouraging. “Go. I am proud of you.”

Very deliberately, Rognar makes the sign of respect toward his mother and father, but I get the feeling that it is meant for his mother alone. Guruk must have made his disappointment in his son very clear to have so little regard from Rognar.

Guruk does not seem to notice the slight, however, accepting the sign of respect as if it were meant for him. He waves a dismissive hand. “Obey your general, Son. We’ll see you in a few years when you have toughened up.”

Rognar accepts his father’s word stoically, then turns swiftly and follows Gunag into the cohort. Gunag will take him to the trainee tent and then get him in rank.

“Now,” says Guruk, sounding jovial once again. “Shall we feast?”

I incline my head and respond, “Of course, My King. We have prepared a sumptuous meal for you and your retinue. If you’ll follow me.”

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