The keep's gates slammed shut with a boom that echoed across the valley, iron bars dropping into place like the jaws of a trap snapping closed. Borg stood on the battlements, his bruised face pale in the torchlight, hands gripping the stone parapet so hard his knuckles felt like they were about to break in two.

The orcs below bustled in frantic chaos—reinforcing the walls with timber braces, piling boulders at weak points, setting extra watches with horns and signal fires. The air was thick with the acrid smell of pitch from freshly lit torches and the sharp tang of fear-sweat from warriors who had just fled like whipped dogs. Borg's orders had come fast and furious:

"Fence us in! No one leaves until dawn! That white-haired bitch is out there!" Borg screamed at the top of his lungs.

The Chieftess had traumatized him. Shava watched from the frontline and could have easily become a casualty, her eyes narrowed as Borg paced the wall, glancing nervously at the dark treeline where she had vanished. The way she had cut down twenty orcs alone—without breaking stride, without a single blow landing on her—had shattered something in him. Axes had whistled through empty air, spears thrust at ghosts, maces swung at shadows. She had danced through them like wind through grass, her broadsword a blur of death that lopped heads, severed limbs, and opened torsos in sprays of hot blood. The ground had turned to mud with gore, the screams of dying orcs a symphony of agony that still rang in Shava's ears.

Borg, the cunning schemer who had just murdered their chief, had screamed retreat first, his voice cracking with raw panic. Shava had never seen him like this—eyes wide, hands shaking, the usual smirk replaced by a haunted grimace. It was for the best, she thought, a grim satisfaction blooming in her chest. If the Chieftess could break him so easily, perhaps there was hope yet.

Shava slipped away from the courtyard, her boots silent on the flagstones as she climbed to a quiet tower room overlooking the valley. She paced the small space, mind racing. If she could find a way to talk to the female orc—the Chieftess—there might be a path to resist Borg. The woman was a legend, nameless and voiceless, but her strength was undeniable. Shava could appeal to her sense of justice, reveal Borg's betrayal of Kragg, his manipulation of the tribes which could prove to be a turning point.

Better yet, challenge him through her. As an orc, the Chieftess had the right to call for a duel or challenge for the title to lead them.

It was too risky—Borg's backers were unknown, his cunning sharp as a blade—but anything was better than Borg ruling through fear and lies. The keep felt like a prison now, fenced in by his paranoia, but Shava would turn it into his tomb if she could.

The Chieftess's existence alone would keep the orcs contained; no one wanted to run into her out there, not after witnessing her slaughter which meant his planned attack on the remaining mines would have to be delayed.

"She's a demon from the peaks," One goblin muttered under his breath.

"Killed twenty without a scratch," Another muttered. It frightened Shava too, the sheer impossibility of it, but in that fear she saw opportunity.

Borg found her in the tower later, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. He didn't knock, just pushed the door open, his face a mask of forced calm. The room was lit by a single candle, its flame flickering in the draft, casting long shadows that made his bruises look like dark voids. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his eyes darted to the window, scanning the dark.

"You seen Kragg?" he asked abruptly, voice rough.

The question caught her off guard, a sharp intake of breath betraying her surprise. She had seen the corpse—Kragg's body slumped in his room, knife in his gut, eyes staring blank at the ceiling. The rum on his breath, the shock frozen on his face.

"He's dead," she said flatly, watching him closely.

"You know that. You were the one who found his body," Shava said with a raised brow.

Borg's eyes met hers for a second, something unreadable flickering there—doubt? Suspicion? He looked like he didn't believe the words coming out of her mouth, like he sensed a lie in the air. But then he laughed it off, a forced bark that echoed hollow in the small room.

"Yeah, yeah. Dead as dirt. Just... making sure." Borg responded.

Shava's skin prickled. Why ask? Did he think Kragg was alive, faking it? Or was this another layer of his game? She reaffirmed it in her mind—Kragg was gone—but Borg's glance lingered too long, his laugh too quick. For a moment, she was convinced he believed Kragg still breathed somewhere which should be impossible.

But then it hit her, she hadn't seen his body and wondered if this was not Borg's doing.

The tension hung heavy, but Borg turned away, staring out the window at the fenced-in camp below. The orcs had barricaded everything: gates reinforced with timber, watchfires blazing high, sentries every ten paces. No one in or out until dawn. The Chieftess had broken something in him, and Shava silently thanked her for it.

"Shava, do you love me?" Borg asked her and this was what one would call terrible timing because why would he be asking such a question.

"I do not," Shava responded because she knew if she lied, Borg would catch onto it but this was the thing about emotions.

All it took was a single thing to change how she felt, she had grown to resent Borg but the arrangement between them went beyond her.

"I see so I can tell you this," Borg said. Turning his head to face her before grabbing her by the neck.

"If you tell anyone what I have done, I have no problem killing you too," Borg threatened.

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