The moon hung low, fat and red, over the village of the Orcus Viridi clan.
It was a rare night. One without war drums, without hunting cries, without the stench of human blood on the wind. The orc camp pulsed with quiet, peaceful life. Fires burned low as the chieftain, Grukk Ironjaw, sat cross-legged outside his hut, cradling something far more fragile than any axe or blade.
A child. His newborn son.
The boy was small — his skin pale green, eyes barely open — and for the first time in many winters, Grukk felt something other than hunger or rage stir in his chest. Pride. Hope. Perhaps even... peace.
