The half-orc kissed her once more.

“Let it be done.”

And they wed themselves there upon the cold hard earth, their love bright and alive. The ghost of the rose watched and approved. When the two lovers awoke, it was gone, having long faded with the dawn.

“It will be getting colder,” Qurrah said. “We must get you some clothes.”

“There is a village nearby,” the girl said. “I saw the smoke of their fires.”

“Then let us take what we must. The Sanctuary is still many weeks of travel.”

Q urrah left the forest alone, Tessanna remaining back to linger among the trees. Not far from the forest’s edge was the village nestled beside a small stream that Qurrah followed. He waited there at the stream, feeling certain someone would soon come for water. He expected a woman, but twenty minutes later a gruff man with a bent back approached. He held a bucket in one hand and a worn rake in the other. His face and skin were the color of mud.

The man kept silent as he neared, and outwardly he showed no signs of surprise or worry. Qurrah could sense his fear. It was small and well contained. Surprised by such strength in a simple farmer, the necromancer felt his curiosity climb.

“We have no need for a priest here,” the farmer said, falling to his knees beside the stream. He put down the rake, dipped the bucket into the water, and let it fill. “Not because you worship the lion, mind you. We have little money and even less food.”

“I am no priest,” Qurrah said. The man looked at him, the right corner of his mouth turning upward in a subdued smile.

“Then you’re a murderer, a liar, or a thief. Don’t think we’d appreciate any of those in our village, either.”

Qurrah laughed.

“I come in need of aid, farmer. My lover and I have had many trials and we need supplies for the winter.”

“Your name,” the man asked. He cupped some water with his hand and drank. “Tell me your name, orc-blood.”