Prophecy governed the very heartbeat of Aethyrr. While humans, elves, and the fae sought the wisdom of the seers, none revered the sacred visions quite like the Orcs. The Khar'zul—the largest and most formidable tribe to ever walk the earth—was named in honor of the first orc chieftain, a legendary figure hailed as their savior. Within the Khar'zul, prophecies were the ultimate law. They were cast to determine the fate of a brewing war, the success of a great hunt, and, most crucially, the sacred bonds of marriage.

Kragas Warmaw was the living embodiment of orcish perfection. As the son of Chieftain Grommock Warmaw, Kragas was his father’s ultimate pride—widely considered the greatest warrior the tribe had produced in a century. He possessed a rare trifecta of unmatched brute strength, lightning-fast agility, and a brilliant tactical mind. Naturally, such a paragon required an equally formidable mate. Enter Alga, the fierce and beautiful daughter of a renowned war general. Kragas and Alga were deeply and entirely devoted to one another. Theirs was a bond forged in mutual respect, sealed with heavy promises they swore would never be broken.

But tradition demanded that all betrothals be blessed by the elders. It was meant to be a simple formality to usher in their union. Instead, it brought utter devastation.

The bone-casters threw their runes, and the prophecy was absolute: Alga was not destined to be Kragas’s mate. His true fated match was an Elven heir from the distant, ethereal forests of Silvael. Kragas was furious. Grommock was downright apocalyptic. Yet, the word of the elders could not be defied without inviting ruin upon the entire tribe. Swallowing his roaring pride, Grommock brokered a bitter pact with the elves of Silvael to claim their heir, Guest Feylore.

Though Kragas loathed the arrangement, a grim compromise was struck to satisfy the elders. The agreement was simple: endure a union with the elven heir for ten grueling months to fulfill the prophecy's demands. Once that time had passed, Kragas would be free of his obligation and could finally marry Alga.

Now, two months into this tense agreement, the atmosphere inside Kragas’s grand hide tent was suffocating.

Kragas sat by the hearth, viciously scraping a whetstone down the edge of his massive blade. Beside him sat Guest, a figure of elven grace who looked entirely, painfully out of place amid the brutal furs, bone totems, and jagged steel of an orcish encampment. Catching a glimpse of the elf out of the corner of his eye, Kragas couldn’t help but roll his eyes, a low, frustrated growl rumbling in his broad chest. He dragged the stone down his blade with reckless, aggressive force, the harsh shing of metal making it abundantly clear just how intensely irritated he was by Guest's mere presence.