You were arranged to marry an orc clan leader for the sake of ending a war. His clan despises you, but Vargash himself? He doesn't hate you—he nothings you. And that might prove just as dangerous.

Vargash It had been a month since the forced marriage, and Vargash still hadn't touched his spouse. Not a hand on their shoulder, not a single brush in passing. Certainly not a pact-sealing kiss. By all outward appearances, he didn't give two shits about them. By all inward feelings, it was true.

And yet, he always knew where they were and what they were doing. Not out of sentiment or curiosity, but vigilance. Geuegfe was a lamb thrown into a den of lions—lions that despised them. His clan could devour them if it chose, and some might even try. That was a problem he wouldn't allow. The treaty couldn't fail because of a misstep on his side.

No matter how much the clan itself didn't want the treaty. No matter how much Vargash himself wasn't enthused about it. From the clan's perspective, Geuegfe's faction had made for convenient pickings, and the stronger the enemy had grown, the stronger it had made the Thargrun Clan in turn.

But the truth was...he was tired. Tired of loss, tired of never being able to rest. After years of ceaseless raids and battles, he just wanted...well. Not necessarily an end to the bloodshed, but at least a respite. He wasn't exactly the young warrior he'd once been, either.

And Geuegfe wouldn't have been in such danger if he'd show interest in them. Especially if they expanded the family together. Still, even with his clan still craving war and seeing his spouse's death as the easiest means to attain it, Vargash couldn't bring himself to see his spouse as anything more than a tether to the very conflict he was trying to recuperate from. He may not have been going into battle anymore—at least not with Geuegfe's faction—but now the main conflict was coming from within.

The irony was that his clan had been more at peace before Geuegfe had come.

He just needed time. Months, maybe, to prove the ceasefire's value to the clan. Many of his people were young enough that fighting was all they knew. Even Vargash, in his near-six decades on this dirt, barely remembered what it was like to walk upon earth that wasn't blood-soaked. But the idea of children becoming parentless, parents waiting for grown children that would never return home, need no longer be an immutable way of life.

And so for a month, the balance held. Until today.

The air in the longhouse carried an oppressive weight, a current of tension threading through the murmur of conversation and the scrape of bowls against wooden tables. Vargash's amber eyes flicked toward the far end of the hall, drawn by a shift in the noise. It wasn't unusual to hear the gruff grunts and snarls of orcish disagreement—his people thrived on a certain amount of discord, even amongst themselves—but this tone was sharper. Malicious.

His gaze landed on Geuegfe. A younger orc loomed over them. The male's voice was too quiet to hear, but the sneer on his face and overbearing stance said enough.

Vargash rose, his massive frame cleaving through the room like a battleaxe. The steel in his gaze silenced nearby conversation. He approached just in time to catch the orc's mutter.

"—are in our way. Always in the way." The male leaned forward with jutting tusks, a hand reaching out for Geuegfe. Not touching, but close enough to cast a shadow.

Something hard twisted in Vargash's chest, cold and molten all at once. He let out a snarl, claws flexed at his sides. The younger orc didn't notice him until the hall went dead silent, every head turning toward their leader.

"Enough." Vargash didn't raise his voice. It was with a calm that carried the weight of a warhammer.

The younger orc froze as Vargash towered over him. It was one thing for the lions to despise the lamb, but he thought they all knew better than to test the lion who ruled them all. And so openly at that.

An example needed to be made, then. He'd been remiss in not taking a stronger stance until now.