Chapter 6 Zoraya
SIX
ZORAYA
Dawn hasn’t broken when the pounding starts.
Heavy fists against the door, urgent and insistent, dragging me from sleep that was already fitful and incomplete.
I jolt awake in the chair by the fireplace, neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle that leaves my shoulder aching.
The wolf pelts have slipped to the floor during the night, and cold mountain air bites at my exposed skin through the thin fabric of my dress.
“What now?” I mutter, pushing tangled hair from my face. My mouth tastes of ash and exhaustion, and my body protests every movement after a night spent curled in a chair instead of a proper bed.
The door opens before I can fully stand, and Brakka hurries in without ceremony.
The older orc woman looks haggard, more worn than I’ve ever seen her.
Her scarred face is tight with worry, dark circles shadowing her eyes.
Her usual calm demeanor has cracked completely, replaced by something that borders on panic.
She wrings her hands—a gesture so uncharacteristic that it sends alarm bells ringing in my head. “Girl, get up. Now. The clan lord needs you. Immediately.”
“Needs me for what?” But I’m already on my feet, smoothing my wrinkled dress and trying to finger-comb my hair into something resembling order. Sleep seems impossible anymore, not with enemies at the gates and conspiracies within the walls.
“The fortress defenses. Something’s failing.” Brakka’s voice drops to a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might make the situation worse. “He’s been in the War Tower with the battle mages and the ward-keepers. They can’t fix it.”
Vlorn appears at the doorway entrance, still wearing the leather pants and linen shirt from last night but somehow looking perfectly alert despite what must have been a sleepless vigil. His amber eyes find mine immediately, and in them I see exhaustion held at bay by sheer force of will.
He jerks his chin toward the corridor. “Come. There’s something you need to see.”
No explanation. No request. Just expectation that I’ll follow him into whatever crisis has kept him awake all night.
I grab my sewing kit from where I put it on his table—habit more than conscious thought, but something tells me I might need it. The familiar weight of the leather pouch comforts me in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
“What kind of fortress defense needs a seamstress?” The question comes out sharper than intended as we leave his chambers.
His mouth tightens into a grim line. “The kind that’s been keeping this place standing for three generations.”
We walk through passages I haven’t seen before, heading deeper into the fortress’s heart rather than toward the familiar areas where I’ve spent the past few days.
The corridors here are older, carved directly from the living rock of the mountain rather than built with fitted stones.
The walls bear the marks of ancient tools, and symbols are etched into the stone at regular intervals—protective runes, maybe, or clan markings that speak of rituals I don’t understand.
They seem to watch us pass with hollow eyes.
“You didn’t sleep.” It’s not a question—I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he moves.
He runs a hand through his dark hair, the gesture betraying his fatigue. “No time. Oryx’s army isn’t the only threat we’re facing.”
The admission sends ice through my veins. “What else?”
“The fortress itself is failing.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.
We reach a spiral staircase so narrow that his shoulders nearly brush both walls.
The space forces intimacy whether we want it or not—I follow him up, acutely conscious of how close we are in the confined stone tube.
The steps are worn smooth by generations of boots, slick with condensation that makes each one treacherous.
The air grows thinner as we climb, colder, sharp with the scent of approaching winter.
Halfway up, my foot slips on a particularly wet stone. The sudden loss of traction sends me pitching backward, arms windmilling as gravity takes hold—
Vlorn’s hand shoots out, catching my wrist in an iron grip.
He hauls me upright effortlessly, his strength so casual it’s almost insulting.
The momentum pulls me against his chest, and suddenly I’m pressed against the solid wall of his body, his arm around my waist to steady me, my hands flat against the warm leather of his shirt.
His scent surrounds me completely—smoke and steel and something purely him that makes my head spin. His breathing changes, grows deeper, and his grip on my waist tightens almost imperceptibly.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen on the narrow stairs. His amber eyes look down into mine, close enough that I can see flecks of bronze and gold in the molten depths. Close enough that I can hear his breath stirring the hair at my temples.
My cheeks burn. My pulse jumps. Every instinct screams at me to pull away from this dangerous proximity.
His voice comes out rougher than usual, barely above a whisper. “Careful.”
I push away from him quickly, hands fisting in my skirt. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t comment on my reaction, but I catch the flicker of something in his burning gaze—satisfaction, maybe, or awareness that mirrors my own—before he turns to continue climbing.
The rest of the ascent passes in charged silence.
Finally, we reach a thick door banded with iron, much like the door to his private chambers. Vlorn pushes it open and waves me inside.
I step over the threshold and pause.
The War Tower is circular, ringed with tall windows that offer commanding views of the surrounding mountains. Dawn is breaking beyond the peaks, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, but the beauty of it is lost in the room’s grim purpose.
But it’s what hangs in the center of the room that steals my breath completely.
The Battle Standard of the Iron Warlord.
I’ve never seen anything of its kind. The banner is massive—easily twelve feet long and half as wide, suspended from an iron crossbar by silver chains that gleam in the morning light.
The fabric is as black as a moonless night.
Silver thread traces intricate patterns across its surface—wolf heads with gleaming eyes, protective runes.
It should be magnificent. A masterwork of textile art that would be the crown jewel of any collection.
Instead, it’s dying.
Even from across the room, I can see the damage.
Tears in the fabric, some clean as knife cuts and others ragged as though clawed.
Threads hanging loose or missing entirely, creating gaps in the intricate patterns.
The silver work is tarnished in places, the metal thread gone dull and lifeless.
What should be a continuous flow of protective symbols is broken, interrupted, bleeding power.
I move closer despite myself, my seamstress instincts already cataloging the damage. “How long has it been failing?”
Vlorn’s footsteps follow mine across the stone floor. “Five years since my father died and the last keeper was killed.”
There’s pain in those words, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Loss that still cuts deep, wounds that have never properly healed. I glance at him and see something vulnerable in his expression—grief he’s never been allowed to process, responsibility that sits heavily on his shoulders.
“The keeper was family?” I ask gently.
His jaw tightens. “My aunt. The last of our line who had the gift for ward-weaving. Oryx’s assassins got to her five years ago. Cut her throat in her own workshop while she worked on repairs to this very standard.”
The casual brutality of it makes me flinch. Not just murder, but the deliberate destruction of knowledge, the severing of a bloodline’s attachment to its protective magic.
“She died protecting something more important than her own life.” His voice grows soft with memory. “Died buying time for the fortress to prepare for siege. I can respect that.”
I study his profile as he stares at the failing banner. “You really believe that? That some things are worth dying for?”
He turns those burning eyes on me. “Don’t you?”
The question catches me off guard. I think of my family back in Red Hollow, of my brother trying to shield me from the collectors despite knowing it was hopeless. Of the choice between safety and freedom, between survival and honor.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a position to find out.”
“You might be soon.”
The ominous words hang between us as I approach the standard. The closer I get, the more obvious the problems become. This isn’t just age or normal wear—this is systematic destruction, deliberate and calculated.
I reach toward the fabric, then pause. “May I?”
Vlorn nods, watching intently as I touch the banner with careful fingers.
The moment I make contact, I gasp.
The fabric feels wrong under my fingertips—not just damaged, but actively fighting itself.
Like cloth that’s been woven against its natural grain, forced into patterns that create constant tension.
The silver threads don’t flow smoothly; they catch and snag, their metallic shine dulled by whatever has been done to them.
“Someone’s been sabotaging this for months,” I breathe, tracing the damaged areas with growing horror.
“Look here—these cuts are too precise to be accidental wear. And this pattern...” I point to a section where silver threads have been deliberately rewoven in the wrong sequence.
“Whoever did this understands textile construction intimately. They knew exactly how to weaken the overall structure without making it obvious.”
Vlorn moves closer, close enough that I can sense his breath on my neck as he leans over my shoulder to examine the banner with me. “Sabotage.”