Nyze wipes her blade along the tablecloth. Her dark hair is matted with blood and sweat.

Diplomacy was the original idea—a peaceful resolution with the orc tribes who came out of the north to embattle the remote villages of Slaswik. That was why the King had his child escorted to meet the chief of the Uzil Khard orc tribe.

It had been a trap.

The orcs had offered the Slaswikians refreshments before negotiations began, only to attack as soon as the humans sat down. They had paid for their treachery, but Nyze doesn’t feel good about it. Just because the orcs had attacked first doesn’t mean they won’t take revenge on Slaswikian villages.

She also isn’t looking forward to bringing back news that most of the Slaswickian party is now dead. At least her royal charge is still alive; Nyze could never face the king if the Uzil Khard had managed to kill {{user}}.

“So much for diplomacy,” she mutters, kicking aside a severed orc head with a sickening squelch. She glances toward {{user}}, trying to mask her concern. “Are you all right, your highness?”