Neer had known she would eventually meet an orc tribe. She had prayed for them to come tearing down Thelma’s walls for years before she understood that wasn’t possible. Considering how much she took after him, she had desperately hoped her father’s side would be more welcoming.

Age and experience tempered her expectations. Then, the Incursion came, and news of the voidlings tearing down the Darkwood and exterminating all settlements within shattered her last hopes. Of the dozen orc tribes that had once thrived within, only a handful were left, and it was unlikely she’d ever meet anyone related to her, given the little care orcs had for familial relationships. Brotherhood forged in the fire of battle was worth a hundred times a blood bond to them.

She also understood something of that. Leonard might not be her sworn brother—he was far too great to lower himself to that, and she’d never dare ask—but they shared an understanding, a trust that couldn’t be inherited. It had to be built through adversity. Gareth was probably the closest thing she had to a sworn brother, for all that the man was too afraid of commitment to bind himself to her in ceremony.

Still, a small part of her, which she believed she had finally buried after earning a name for herself as the General in charge of the Security Forces, had urged her to participate in this mission. She couldn’t deny some longing for her father’s people, if only to finally put those last embers of hope to rest.

Seeing the massive warchief standing in their way stirred something more primal in her. A low growl built up in her throat, and before Neer realized it, she held her weapon at the ready, muscles taut and primed to launch at the first hint of danger. She would not allow her lord and little Oliver to come to harm.

“We are here to participate in the leadership contest, Chief Grakkor.” Leonard’s voice cut through the haze her thoughts had fallen into, bringing her back to reality.

Yes, of course. They know each other. This has already been arranged. Leonard talked to them months ago. Stupid, control yourself.

The mountain of muscle shifted in a less threatening display, appearing pensive. “No human has ever dared ask to lead us. No human would survive the trials.”

“No human before me has received the acknowledgment of the Darkwood’s guardian,” Leonard replied, and Neer could see that the warchief was surprised. Apparently, that hadn’t been discussed before.

Well, fae are notoriously hard to predict. An old one like the dryad even more so. I wouldn’t have been shocked had she decided she wanted to taste us and attacked us mid-conversation, or even if she tried to marry the kid. Even elves—who are barely worth calling fae with how diluted their blood has become—are flighty and impossible to pin down. A true fae like that… It’s a wonder we made it out without wandering for eternity through the forest. I suppose that just shows how great the Grand Marshal is. Not mortal anymore, indeed.

“Very well then. As you have received the honor of being recognized by the one true authority of the forest and by a warrior of good standing as a man worth testing, you’ll be allowed to participate in the trials. Your death will be told at our campfire for years.”

That was weirdly comforting, and Neer now knew enough to realize it was meant as such. Being a war-like people, the orcs probably preferred the guarantee that their name would live on rather than assurances about safety and other nonsense humans so enjoyed.

Grakkor stepped back from his position, his massive form moving through the rushing water without disturbing it. Once he got to shore, he gestured for them to follow. Neer caught his eyes briefly and saw no hostility, only curiosity, but no question about her origin came. The warchief had accepted them, for now.

Leonard began to wade through the river without a word. The current tried its best to pull him along, but his steps were inexorable. Neer followed, watching their surroundings in case of an ambush at their most vulnerable moment. Wide-eyed and cautious, Oliver struggled to keep his footing on the slippery rocks beneath the rushing water. The young squire stumbled once, but Neer’s steady hand on his shoulder kept him upright.

Once they reached the other side, Grakkor turned and began leading them deeper into the forest, his massive cleaver resting casually on his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. Neer couldn’t help but admire the ease with which he moved—every step was smooth and controlled despite his hulking frame. There was a sense of power radiating from him, born of countless battles and the confidence of one who knew his land intimately.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

As they ventured further into the Darkwood, Neer noticed several changes. While it was true that with Nemas’ blessing, they were able to move unnaturally fast through it, the forest had remained wild and untouched. Things were different now. Rough paths were cut through the undergrowth, and here and there, she spotted the remnants of recently felled trees, their stumps raw and bleeding amber sap. The smell of resin and churned earth tickled her nose, mingling with the scent of smoke that drifted from unseen fires.

Then they reached the village.

It was larger than Neer had expected, sprawling out in all directions with hasty construction evident everywhere. Tents of various sizes were erected in every available space. Animal hides stretched taut over wooden frames that still bore the rough marks of recent cutting—evidently not the work of Blessed craftsmen. Makeshift shelters and lean-tos were crammed between the larger structures, while the ground beneath their feet had been trampled into dark mud by countless orcish boots. Clearly, the village had expanded rapidly far beyond its original capacity. Neer’s eyes roamed over the scene, drinking in every detail as if starved.

This was not the ordinary orc village she had expected to find. It was a settlement that had been forced to grow to accommodate several times its population, likely in response to some looming threat. The orcs had prepared for something—whether it was Pollus’s army or the Incursion before that, she couldn’t be sure—but the signs of rushed expansion were unmistakable.

Confirming her theory, Shamans walked along the edges of the village, hunched beneath heavy robes adorned with bones, feathers, and trinkets of power. They chanted in low, guttural tones, voices blending together in a rhythmic hum reverberating through the air and into her bones. Neer recognized the language. Arcane Orcish, an older dialect she had only recently begun studying, having found transcripts in the Luster-Treon library. It was a language reserved for ceremonies, for communicating with the spirits, and without instances of being spoken in daily life for decades, if not centuries.

What little she understood told her that the shamans were trying to appease the forest’s spirits.

Neer’s gaze followed one of them as he moved toward the edge of the village, where the trees had been cut down to make room for the new tents. The air around him seemed heavy with unspent mana, and for a brief moment before the power disappeared as if sucked through a straw, she could feel the weight of the spirits’ anger in the very earth beneath her feet. Cutting down so many trees had disturbed the balance of the forest, and the shamans were working hard to soothe their patrons.

Neer frowned, trying to figure out what this meant for the orcs. The Security Forces had strict protocols when it came to handling land. They respected the boundaries of sacred places, made offerings to the spirits when necessary, and avoided unnecessary destruction. But here… the orcs had been forced to make a difficult choice, sacrificing part of their home to accommodate the growing number of their people. It was a decision born of necessity, not greed, making it all the more painful.

As they approached the heart of the village, a group of orc warriors stepped forward to greet them. They were clad in outwardly crude but effective armor, their bodies thick with muscle and scarred from battle. At their head was a massive female orc, nearly as tall as Grakkor and just as imposing. Her eyes gleamed with intelligence as she looked over the newcomers, sizing them up with a glance.

Grakkor raised a hand, his voice booming. “These are the ones who have been accepted by the Guardian. Sir Leonard Weiss has earned the right to participate in the Trials. I personally vouch for him as a warrior worth testing.”

The female orc nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on Leonard for a moment longer before shifting to Neer and Oliver. “So, this is the human who thinks he can survive our Trials.” Her voice was deep and rough, yet her tone showed a hint of respect. Good, Neer wouldn’t allow any insult, “And his companions… warriors in their own right, no doubt. Grakkor is generous with his larder, but everyone pulls their weight here. You’ll have to work to partake in our food.”

Neer met the female orc’s gaze, eyes hard with resolve. “We have come prepared.” She knew she shouldn’t rise to such a blatant provocation, but this woman was evidently trying to test them. Leonard and the warchief had planned out the trials as a way to legitimately add the orc tribes to the Revolution in a way that all would accept. Given her antagonistic tone, Neer was almost sure this female would also participate in the trials. She had no doubt Leonard would handily win, but any obstacle was unacceptable, and she had just spent months eliminating even the barest hints of opposition. Restraining herself here was more of a chore than she would have expected.

The female orc’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Good. Then prepare yourselves. The opening ceremony will take place tonight, and the morning after that, the Trials will begin.” She gestured toward a large tent that had been set up slightly apart from the rest of the village. “You will rest in the camp until then.”

Grakkor’s scarred lips twitched in amusement, but he began to lead them toward the tent without another word. As they walked, Neer couldn’t help but feel the weight of the orc warriors’ eyes on her. They were evaluating her, judging whether she was worthy of standing among them. It was a familiar feeling, one she had faced many times before. She knew what they were thinking—that she was half-human, an outsider. But she would prove herself, just as she always had.

“Don’t mind Hussa too much. She lost many of her people to the voidlings and doesn’t have a good impression of humans. Too afraid to die, she believes.” Grakkor finally explained, “Many among the new orcs think she’d make a fine chief. She’d allow them to keep living as they always have, without worries for the changes happening outside the forest.”

He stopped there, but Neer could read between the lines. They were seen as outsiders coming to upend life as everyone knew it. It likely meant they had few supporters inside, as from what she had seen, the tribes were already beyond their saturation limit. They wouldn’t want someone who’d take them away from their ancestral lands.

“They’ll follow anyone who wins anyway, right?” Oliver’s voice cracked midway, making the old warchief snort. Still, he nodded, “Yes, orcs respect strength. If someone is recognized by a warrior of high standing—me in this case— they can take part in the trials, no matter their origin. And if they win, it means they have the strength and wisdom to lead the tribe through any adversity. They’ll follow you.”

And that’s the important thing. No matter what they think of us, orcs are fundamentally more honest about their wishes. They want someone powerful to lead them so they might win more and live in prosperity or survive in sufficient numbers to repopulate in bad times. Much better than humans.

Now, if only she could understand why Leonard was looking at her with such exasperation…