The Long Day

The forest held its breath. The faint scent of wet earth and pine lingered in the cool morning air.

In the stillness of early morning, beneath a canopy of dew-laced branches, two warriors prepared not only for a night that would change everything—but for the perilous path that would take them to the enemy camp itself. They studied maps scratched into the dirt, cross-checked trails, and watched the sun rise through the mist-laced trees. Every movement was deliberate, every word measured. Gor'ka took the lead, relying on memory and instinct to track the orcs' path through the forest. Leopold followed close, absorbing every detail, his axe balanced across his back. Though the ache in his ribs still flared with every breath, he pressed on. They didn't speak of fear. They didn't need to. Their silence held strategy—and resolve.

They had risen before the sun crested the horizon. Mist hung like ghosts between trees, and the ground was damp from a recent rain. Gor'ka scouted the surrounding area, eyes sharp, every movement deliberate. A dull ache throbbed in her shoulder where an old wound had reopened slightly during training the day before, and her calves burned from the constant crouching—but she ignored the pain. She was used to it. It was the language of her life. Leopold, still favoring his wounded side, tended to their few supplies—dried meat, water, cloth bindings, weapons. Her curved dagger gleamed in the pale light. His axe—reclaimed from a fallen foe—rested across his knees. He looked at it for a moment longer than necessary. The weapon felt oddly balanced in his grip—both foreign and familiar. Was it a tool, a symbol, or a burden? Part of him recoiled at the sight, but another part—haunted by the memory of his father's bloodied hands after the last stand at Hadrith Pass—accepted its weight in silence. Whatever it was, it would serve its purpose tonight.

They spoke little. Their quiet was not distance, but a shared readiness for what lay ahead.

Throughout the day, they rotated watch and rest. When Gor'ka slept, Leopold sharpened his weapon, moving slowly but precisely. His breath came evenly, but a storm churned beneath his ribs.

At midday, they shared a quiet meal beneath an old oak. Gor'ka finished first and sat back, eyes half-lidded.

"You will be ready," she said, voice calm. "I've seen the fire in your eyes." She placed one hand briefly over the scar on her side, where an old wound from her first battle still throbbed in the cold.

He wanted to believe her. But as he lay down for rest and she resumed her patrol, doubt crept in like a shadow.

Later, as twilight bled across the canopy, Leopold sat alone on a stone. He had just finished tying a strip of cloth around his forearm—an old habit from training days from the old Leopold, meant to center the mind. The gesture felt grounding, a bridge between the world he came from and the one he now fought in. Gor'ka was nearby, cleaning her dagger. The whetstone sang with each pass.

A dull ache ran through his muscles, but it wasn't pain that troubled him.

What if I become him again? That thing I buried?

The voice answered, unbidden and familiar: You must.

A shiver ran down his spine.

It's not bloodlust, he told himself. It's necessity.

He thought of her. Of Gor'ka. Her fire. Her certainty. Her choice.

She had bound herself to him by old rite and will. And now, she was willing to risk herself again for their survival.

He couldn't let her face this alone.

Just for tonight, he repeated. The words tasted like iron on his tongue, bitter and final.

And then, I bury him again.

As the sun began its descent behind the treetops, the final preparations took shape. They moved with quiet urgency. Gor'ka repacked their supplies, making sure nothing rattled or gleamed. Leopold checked the edge of his axe, testing it against his thumb. A bead of blood welled up. He wiped it away with a leaf. The sting was real. Grounding.

They had tracked the likely position of the camp throughout the afternoon, navigating fallen trunks and mossy boulders, reading the patterns of bent grass and snapped branches. Near dusk, they paused at a high ridge overlooking a stretch of trees cloaking the ravine where smoke now rose.

"There," Gor'ka said, pointing. "They rest."

They shared one final meal—a few scraps of dried meat—but this time, Gor'ka broke a twig between her fingers as she ate, the small crack sharp in the quiet. Leopold methodically ran a whetstone along the edge of his axe, the rasping sound steady, controlled. Around them, the forest creaked and sighed with settling roots and distant birds. Somewhere beyond, the low murmur of orcish laughter drifted through the trees, sharp against the hush of the wild.

As night drew close, Gor'ka applied mud across his neck and arms, tracing the lines with practiced care. Leopold did the same for her. The chill seeped into their skin, but they welcomed it. It made them disappear.

"Time?" he asked.

She nodded. "Soon. I'll draw them east. Toward the old creek bed."

"You'll be exposed."

"I'll be bait." She grinned. "But I'll also be faster."

They walked together for a time, creeping closer in the dark until they could see flickers of torchlight through the trees. The sounds were louder now—boasting, grunting, metal striking wood. Gor'ka crouched low, scanning the perimeter.

"You stay at the ridge. Wait until they pass," she said. "Three should come after me. When they do, make them bleed."

Leopold gripped his axe tighter. "You'll come back?"

"I always do."

She leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. Her heart pounded in her chest, not from fear, but from the raw gravity of this moment. She closed her eyes briefly, thinking of her mother, who had once done the same before her last stand. This was her vow, her promise—her way of saying goodbye without letting go. Her breath was steady. Her voice low and tender in Orcish.

He swallowed. "What did you say?"

"That we will find each other again. In this life… or the next."

She slipped into the darkness.

Leopold climbed the slope to the ridge. He crouched low, nestled between roots and moss. The fire below glowed like an open wound, hungry and waiting.

He breathed in. Out.

Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl called once—then fell silent.

The forest held its breath with him.