Borgo woke beneath a ceiling that was not a ceiling at all.
Above him, branches intertwined like ancient fingers, heavy with garlands of crimson flowers and braided leaves that smelled of iron, sap, and smoke. The air was thick—warm, pulsing—alive with drums somewhere far away, their rhythm slow and deep, like a heartbeat borrowed from the earth itself.
His head throbbed.
When he moved, the world tilted violently, and memories struck him in broken flashes—
black wings tearing the moon,
bone shattering beneath his hands,
a scream that was not entirely his.
Borgo sat upright with a sharp gasp.
Blood.
He could still taste it.
His hand flew instinctively to his chest, then to his arms. The armor was gone. His body was wrapped in coarse cloth and leaves, his wounds sealed with dark resin and ash. Fresh garlands rested across his shoulders like ceremonial chains.
His eyes widened.
"Aurun—"
The name tore from his throat as he staggered to his feet. Panic cut through the haze, sharp and immediate. He spun, searching the clearing—expecting silence, death, aftermath.
Instead, he froze.
All around him, orcs filled the forest.
Not in mourning.
Not in battle.
They were laughing.
Some danced barefoot in the dirt, tusked faces split in wild joy. Others drank from horned cups, their deep voices raised in song. And scattered among the trees—unhidden, unashamed—orc men and women clung to their partners, bodies pressed together in open intimacy, as natural as breathing, as ancient as the forest itself.
Borgo stared, unable to reconcile the sight with the blood still echoing in his bones.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
Before he could take another step, the ground trembled gently—not with threat, but with reverence.
A figure approached.
He was tall, impossibly thin, bent with age, his beard so long it brushed the soil with every step. His skin was pale—human pale—creased like old parchment. A towering, crooked wizard's hat sat upon his head, stitched with sigils so old they seemed to shift when stared at too long.
He bowed.
Low.
Deep.
Until his beard kissed the earth.
"Hail," the man said, his voice slow, measured, echoing like wind through hollow wood. "Hail, King of the Crimson Forest."
Borgo's mouth opened.
No sound came.
The man straightened, eyes bright with a knowing gleam. "They celebrate your crowning," he continued calmly. "As is custom."
Borgo swallowed. "Crowning?"
"You slew the Guardian," the old man said simply. "By law older than bark and bone, the one who defeats the Lord of the Forest becomes its king."
Borgo staggered back a step.
"No," he breathed. "I didn't— I was protecting—"
"And," the man added gently, "by the same law, you have claim to his bloodline."
Borgo's pulse thundered. "Where is Aurun?"
The question cut through everything.
The old man sighed.
"He is where he belongs."
Borgo's breath caught. "If you mean—"
"Alive," the man said, raising a hand. "Resting. Guarded."
Relief crashed into Borgo so hard his knees nearly buckled. But it lasted only a moment.
"Then take me to him."
"First," the man said, turning, "the blade must fall."
Before Borgo could protest, he was guided—almost carried by the tide of orcs—toward a great fire pit where massive cuts of meat roasted on iron spits. Drums thundered. Cheers rose.
The old man pressed a blade into Borgo's hand.
"A king opens the feast."
Borgo's grip tightened.
When he struck the meat, the crowd roared.
But Borgo felt only dread.
If Aurun could eat… then Aurun could breathe.
He dropped the blade.
In a blur, Borgo seized the old man by the collar and slammed him against a tree, forearm pressing into his throat.
"Where," Borgo growled, eyes wild, "is the boy?"
The old man did not struggle.
Only lifted one trembling finger and pointed.
A hut.
Small. Secluded. Lit with soft firelight.
Borgo released him and ran.
Inside, the air smelled of herbs and clean water. Aurun lay on woven bedding, pale but breathing. Beside him sat the Orc Princess.
She was not armored. Not regal.
Just a woman kneeling quietly, changing a cloth, her movements gentle.
She looked up once—met Borgo's eyes—then stood and stepped past him without a word.
Borgo collapsed beside Aurun, pulling him close.
Aurun stirred.
A faint smile curved his lips.
That was enough.
Later the night Borgo went to the chamber the orcs arranged for their king.
It was not stone nor timber, but living wood curved inward like ribs, its walls faintly warm, veins of sap glowing dimly beneath the bark. Firelight flickered in shallow bowls along the floor, throwing shadows that moved like watching spirits. Outside, the forest sang—low chants, distant drums, the murmur of bodies celebrating life with a ferocity born only after death has been faced and survived.
Borgo lay still upon the woven bed, staring at the ceiling where roots knotted together like the thoughts he could not untangle.
He had slain a lord.
He had taken a crown.
He had crossed a boundary no man returned from unchanged.
Guilt pressed against his chest harder than any blade.
Then the door opened.
No announcement. No guards. No challenge.
She entered as one enters a shrine.
The Orc Princess moved with a quiet certainty, bare feet touching the floor without sound. Her red skin caught the firelight like burnished copper, her long hair unbound, falling down her back in a dark river. She did not look at him at first. She closed the door. She knelt.
The forest seemed to still.
Her voice, when it came, was low and steady, ritual-bound rather than pleading.
"This is not desire," she said. "Nor comfort. This is balance."
Borgo did not answer.
"I must take your blood," she continued. "So the forest may remember him. So my brother's line does not end with your blade."
Her eyes finally met his.
There was no hatred there.
Only grief sharpened into resolve.
Borgo's hands trembled. He should have spoken. He should have refused. He should have stood, walked out, rejected this crown, this law, this night.
But grief is a weight that bends the spine, and exhaustion hollows even the strongest will.
When she leaned closer, the scent of her wrapped around him—earth after rain, smoke from sacred fires, the metallic echo of blood remembered. It pulled something loose inside him. Something feral. Something broken.
He did not stop her.
Nor did she rush.
Their closeness unfolded slowly, like a ritual older than language. Her hands traced the scars across his chest—marks of battle, of survival—lingering not with curiosity but with recognition. His breath hitched when her forehead rested briefly against his, tusk brushing skin, a gesture that felt like mourning and promise entwined.
When their bodies finally met, it was not gentle, nor was it violent.
It was necessary.
The forest answered.
Leaves rustled. Drums softened. Firelight dimmed as if averting its gaze.
Borgo closed his eyes and let himself fall—not into pleasure alone, but into release. The rage that had driven him. The grief that had hollowed him. The betrayal he carried like a wound that would not close. All of it spilled out in breath and heat and motion, until there was nothing left but the raw truth of being alive and unguarded.
The Orc Princess did not look away.
She bore his weight, his sorrow, his hunger, as one bears a storm—knowing it will pass, knowing the land will drink deeply and remember.
When he finally cried out, it was not her name he spoke.
It was no name at all.
Only pain, and longing, and the sound of something inside him breaking open.
Later—how much later he did not know—they lay entwined beneath the slow pulse of the forest. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breath steady. His fingers curled uselessly into the woven bedding, as if afraid that if he let go, he would disappear entirely.
She spoke once more, quietly.
"It is done."
And with that, she rose.
She dressed without ceremony, without shame. At the door, she paused—not turning back, not looking at him—only allowing herself a single breath that trembled.
Then she was gone.
Borgo lay alone.
Outside, the forest grew old with night.
Somewhere beyond the trees, destiny shifted its grip—
tightening,
patient,
waiting for its king to understand the price of blood.