Page 23 of Bewitching the Orc Chief

Torain’s expression softened as he watched us together. He set aside his carving tools and picked up the piece he’d been working on. “Want to see what I’ve been up to?”

Miranda leaned forward, eyes widening as she took in the intricate details. The wood seemed to flow like water, clan symbols and personal markers weaving through scenes of leadership and battle. At the center, a familiar face emerged from the grain—our father’s stern features captured in perfect detail.

The air left my lungs. Six months since that cursed duel, and grief still hit as hard as when he fell. It was still too raw, too painful, despite all the pretty words and advice about time healing wounds. This was a wound I couldn’t stop picking at and reopening. Every pleasant memory sank like the blade into his body; every cheerful recollection blew away like his final breath.

Then to see Torain with his blood spilling from his body?—

“It’s beautiful,” Miranda breathed. Her fingers hovered over the surface, not quite touching. “The detail work is incredible.”

“It’s for the memorial alcove,” Torain explained. His usual mischief faded into something more solemn. “Each chief has one, telling their story through symbols. See here?” He pointedto a particular set of markings. “These represent major decisions and turning points in his life.”

I traced the familiar patterns, remembering each moment they represented. The broken ax to represent his choice to end the blood feud with the Shadow Valley clan. The modernization of our family’s personal brewing techniques. The fateful choice to honor human justice over clan autonomy.

The choice that got him killed.

“Some decisions carry more weight than others,” Torain murmured, running his thumb over our father’s features. “But he was never one to back away from a fight.”

I narrowed my eyes at the implications dangling in the air. No, Father had been the sort to meet any challenge on his feet, with his shoulders thrown back. And of course, it made sense for the father of the murderer to act out his upset against the leader of the clan.

That he spoke frequently with Alris was also to be expected. The shaman offered guidance and wisdom from the gods when he wasn’t pushing for isolation over cooperation.

But to hear the doubt creep into my usually cheerful brother’s voice made my own feel less like grief and more real. More suspicious.

And dangerous.

Torain shook himself and plastered on a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In any case, you both are here. That’s Henry huffing his way over to complain about an order of handles he claims breaks as soon as he enters the forge. And this is me shamelessly getting the manager. Or chief. Whatever you want to call yourself, brother.”

Miranda stifled a laugh as he grabbed his jacket and darted off, leaving me to take the brunt of the dwarf smith’s ire.

The sun had begun its descent by the time we closed up shop. News of the clan’s return to Mist & Market spread fast, and ourregular customers had stopped by throughout the day to pay their respects and inquire about orders. Luna and Stella handed Torain a particularly ribald welcome home card featuring a well-endowed pixie that had the tips of his ears darkening. Even Vanin swung past to sneak Miranda a batch of honey ale.

It was the closest I’d felt to normalcy since Father’s death, and it all came crashing down upon our return to Grimstone.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I led Miranda through the gates. Shadows lingered where none had been before, creeping through the trees like reaching tendrils. The usual evening bustle was absent, replaced by an eerie quiet punctuated by hushed murmurs.

Something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

We found what seemed like the entire clan gathered outside our sacred cave. Heads turned as we approached, expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility. Whispers swelled—my name, Miranda’s name, ugly things I pretended not to hear.

“What’s going on?” Miranda whispered, her grip on my hand tightening.

I shook my head, equally confused. “I don’t?—”

A gray blur shot between our legs, fur standing on end. Gus planted himself in front of Miranda, tail lashing as he growled at the crowd. The sound shouldn’t have been threatening coming from such a small creature, but there was something distinctly unnatural about the way it reverberated through the air.

Miranda’s breath caught, her grip on my hand turning painful.

“I need to go,” she whispered urgently. “Now.”

“What’s wrong?” I caught her arm as she tried to pull away. The fear in her scent confused me—this was more than simple unease at facing a hostile crowd. “Miranda?”

“Please,” she whispered. “Just let me?—”

The crowd parted, revealing Alris in his ceremonial robes. Talismans clinked as he strode forward, staff thumping against the ground with each step. But it wasn’t his appearance that made my blood run cold.

It was the group of women following in his wake.

They moved with an eerie synchronicity and grace. Fitting, considering the serpentine symbols adorning their clothing and jewelry. Power radiated from them—dark and ancient and hungry.

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