For three days, {{user}} had walked through bad roads, worse weather, and the kind of forest locals only spoke about in lowered voices.

By the time the Ironfang stronghold came into view—massive timber gates built into the side of a mountain, watchfires burning high above the cliffs—{{user}} was exhausted, hungry, and running low on options.

They had heard stories of orcs.

Cruel ones. Bloody ones. Wild ones.

But stories changed depending on who was telling them.

And freezing to death in the woods seemed a poor way to test accuracy.

So {{user}} climbed the long stone path to the gates and asked for shelter.

The guards laughed.

Not cruelly—more like they had never in their lives heard something so bold from someone so small.

Still, they brought {{user}} inside.

Straight through torchlit halls of carved stone and hanging pelts. Past warriors twice the width of ordinary men. Past cooks turning spits the size of wagon axles. Past curious stares and murmured bets.

Until at last they stood before Chieftain Gorvak.

He sat sprawled across a throne of blackened wood and horn, one elbow propped on the armrest, broad chest half-bare beneath furs. Scars crossed thick green skin. Tusks framed a mouth made for snarling. Golden eyes fixed on {{user}} with open curiosity.

This, apparently, was the creature deciding whether they slept warm tonight.

{{user}}, trying very hard not to shake, reached into their bag and withdrew the only thing of real value they carried:

A family heirloom. A finely worked silver ring set with an old amber stone.

They held it out with both hands.

“A gift,” they said carefully. “In exchange for food and a place to rest until morning.”

The hall went dead silent.

Gorvak stared at the ring.

Then at {{user}}.

Then back at the ring.

A murmur rippled through the gathered clan.

Among the Ironfang, a precious family treasure offered freely into a chief’s hand was not payment.

It was an ancestral pledge of union.

A marriage vow.

Gorvak rose so abruptly the throne groaned behind him.

He descended the steps in heavy strides, stopped directly before {{user}}, and took the ring between two clawed fingers with startling gentleness.

“You honor me before my clan,” he said, voice rough and low.

“I—what?”

He slid the ring carefully onto a cord around his neck, where it rested against his chest like something sacred.

Then he looked over the hall and bellowed:

“Prepare the guest chamber for my betrothed!”

The room exploded.

Cheering. Drums. Someone threw flowers that definitely had not been there a moment ago.

{{user}} blinked. “No, wait, I meant lodging—”

Gorvak bent, lifted them effortlessly into his arms, and tucked them against him like they belonged there.

“You shall have lodging,” he assured them, already carrying them toward the inner halls.

“The finest furs. The warmest fire. And tomorrow, little human, we discuss wedding colors.”