Chapter 3: The Orc Problem

Steam rises from two wooden bowls of porridge on the rough-hewn table. Giroud watches Aya stir honey into hers, creating amber swirls that remind him of the sunset over Emberstone’s red peaks. The morning light filters through the residence’s kitchen window, casting long shadows across the smooth floorboards.

A sharp knock breaks the peaceful silence. Giroud pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping against wood. At the door stands a man in pressed clothes, his boots polished to a shine that seems out of place for a messenger.

“Giroud?” The man’s collar is starched stiff. “Word from Emberstone. The orc problem persists. Several sightings reported north of the town just this morning.”

Giroud’s jaw tightens. The pike should have sent a clear message. “Understood. Thank you for bringing word.”

The messenger bows slightly and turns on his heel, leaving Giroud to close the door with a weary sigh. When he returns to the table, Aya has already abandoned her porridge and stands ready, securing her leather vest.

“More orcs?” Her eyes spark with anticipation, though Giroud notices the slight tremor in her hands - a reminder of her youth despite her growing skill.

“More orcs.” Giroud retrieves his sword from its place by the hearth, testing its edge against his thumb. “Pack light. We ride fast.”

Aya’s already stuffing dried meat and hardtack into a small satchel while Giroud checks his weapon’s edge. The blade catches the morning light - sharp enough.

“Ready?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

Aya nods, slinging the pack over her shoulder. Their half-eaten breakfast sits forgotten on the table as they head for the stables, the morning sun warming their backs.

“Don’t forget our water cannisters,” he says, pointing to them on the kitchen bench.

The scent of hay and horse fills Giroud’s nostrils as they saddle his mount. The stable boy, no older than Aya, watches with undisguised curiosity as they prepare for their journey.

The cobblestones of Whitespire give way to packed earth as they ride east. Wind whips at their cloaks, carrying the first hints of autumn’s chill. Aya leans back slightly against Giroud’s chest, seeking warmth.

“Why do you think the orcs are still there?” she says, her voice carrying notes of both excitement and apprehension.

Giroud adjusts his grip on the reins, considering his response. “They’re raiders from the Charred Vale. Smart enough to organize but wild enough to be dangerous. They’ve been taking livestock and...” He pauses, weighing how much truth to share. “And sometimes people.”

Aya’s shoulders tense. “Like the bandits who attacked my village?”

The question hangs heavy in the air between them. Giroud’s free hand squeezes her shoulder gently. “Similar, yes. Which is why they want us to stop them now, before more innocents suffer.”

They ride in thoughtful silence as the landscape changes around them. The King’s Woods gradually thins, giving way to the rocky terrain of Emberstone. Orange dust kicks up beneath their horse’s hooves, coating their boots and cloak hems.

Thin wisps of smoke against the sky betray the location of the orc camp nestled between two rocky outcrops. Giroud pulls his mount to a halt, scanning the terrain with practiced eyes. The camp lies exposed, the orcs apparently unconcerned about concealment - typical of their arrogant nature.

“Stay on the horse,” Giroud commands softly, his voice brooking no argument. “I mean it.”

Aya nods reluctantly, her hands tightening on the reins. Her big brown eyes track Giroud’s movements as he dismounts, his boots making no sound as they meet the rocky ground. The leather of his scabbard creaks softly as he draws his sword.