It was a difficult labor by anyone’s measure. Scorch’s mother had passed down tale of their heritage’s difficulties. Even more so than orcs, Biter women had tremendous problems in labor. Two out of three children would die while entering the Red Desert, while one out of three of the mothers would pass during the process. Despite this, Scorch had endured.

Her first pregnancy had ended barely after it had begun, a blunt blow to her stomach during a skirmish ending the child before it could begin. She managed to bring the second to delivery, only too miscarry.

Her third was in her arms, wailing a high-pitched whine that rattled Scorch down to her bones. The child was healthy, and Scorch had endured. Tired, bloody, beaten, she felt the hot fire of victory; far hotter than she had ever felt in battle. This, this, was what she was put on the Spread Lands to do.

Her child… Her Whelp, was her first sired with Conquer. Her former mate had fallen in battle, and Conquer had been rising in prominence in the Biter clan. He would sire strong children, and so she had entwined their fates together.

He wasn’t in the alcove right now, hadn’t met his child. Her child, her Whelp. It wasn’t his place to be in this holy location, it wasn’t for men. The trek to Free’s Fist was meant to be made by one’s self, though law had been reinterpreted freely over the years until the child-bearer only needed must enter alone.

Scorch had insisted on traveling for the final day and night by herself, for her honor. Conquer had gnashed his tusks and shouted his opinions, but she had had none of it.

She held Whelp tighter, feeling another hot surge of emotion. The midwives weren’t present, Conquer wasn’t present. It was just her and her son. She withdrew her tusks back, and placed her head on Whelp’s, then kissed his forehead, careless of the grime.

They only had those few beautiful moments together, before others would come and interfere, and the moment would disappear in a flash.

“You can’t expect to shelter him all of his life!” Conquer yelled, voice muffled by his chewing. Scorch rolled her eyes. She looked over the platter and picked herself out one of the morsels of dried meat. She settled on the chewiest-looking one and ripped off a shred with her teeth.

Conquer growled. He didn’t like waiting for Scorch to answer, though she greatly enjoyed making him wait.

“I’m not trying to shelter Whelp. He’s different, you know it as well as I do. He doesn’t need to see a battle now, he hasn’t even earned his Name yet!” The meat was tough, dry, well-and-truly burnt. Just how Scorch liked it. She took another bite.

“You raised him to be different.” Conquer said, and the statement rang as an accusation. Scorch could not deny its accuracy, though. Should Conquer have tried to have a say in Whelp’s rearing, Scorch would have denied him, as was her right as the mother. It was, after all, her say as to what should happen to Whelp before he earned his Name.

After, though, was a different story. Scorch understood who Conquer was perfectly well. Ruthless, violent, and bloodthirsty. She chose him because he would protect her and their spawn, and would be ruthless when climbing in authority. The violence had served her and Whelp well, but it would be a different story when Whelp finally earned a Name. Conquer would take over; and Conquer wouldn’t be as kind to their child as Scorch was.

“You raised him wrong,” Conquer accused yet again. “He’s weak, imbalanced. My child is a fool, and it’s your fault.”

“A fool?” Scorch scoffed. “Conquer, you may be disappointed in Whelp, but he is no fool. The child is the smartest orc in the clan. Maybe all of the Spread Lands. You do him, and me, disservice by lying.”

She meant it, meant every word. Whelp was smarter than Scorch, definitely smarter than Conquer. The boy’s eyes shone with a brightness, he understood things that he shouldn’t. Always with a question, always curious.

It was one of the most difficult parts of being his mother. He would never fit in, not with the Biters. Not if he didn’t change. Scorch knew that he would change, in time. Conquer would see to it. She could feel his rage, seething off of him like a fire, an anger as hot as the midday sands.

If Conquer didn’t care as much as he did about custom and rite, Scorch would be on the floor and broken. His anger would eclipse the light of her life, and he would dispose of her. He was stronger than she was, bigger too. If not for tradition and right, he would break her.

But he wouldn’t, and so she would not be frightened.

“He is ours, Conquer. He is mine, and I will raise him as I see fit; and when he’s earned his name, you’re free to bloody him on the battlefield. But no sooner.”

Conquer growled and ripped a chunk of meat off, chewing angrily. Scorch nodded and stalked out of the tent. She wanted to find Whelp.

————

It was unprecedented; combat starting as the sun settled behind the dunes. And yet, the humans were here, weapons drawn. Scorch had gone ahead to ask their intentions, they had told her that they were cleansing the Red Desert. Maniacs, armed with self-righteousness as much as with weapons.

They frightened her. She had headed back, worry rushing her to report to Conquer, so he could rouse the armies. And now they were here, prepared to fight.

She felt a pull at her fingers. Whelp, looking up at her. His beautiful, curious eyes were wide with worry and nerves. She withdrew her tusks slightly, pretending to be less worried for his sake.

“Why are the humans here?” He asked in his small, quiet voice. The question nearly tore her heart in two. How could she explain the evil in the world to her child? How could she tell him that sometimes, people did things purely to harm others. How could she shatter the delusions of childhood, deliver the truth that sometimes, people were bad. Sometimes, people would hate you for what you were.

She couldn’t, she resolved. But she couldn’t lie to him, either.

“You’re too young to understand.” She said. A half-truth, a technicality. He was too young. The truth would hurt him too much, and a lie would hurt her. “Now, head back to camp. We don’t want you to get hurt.”

Whelp all but sprinted back, his over-large feet sending sprays of sand up in the deepening red air behind him. Scorch watched until she could no longer see him, then headed off to the front to see Conquer.

Her mate was in the front of the army, wielding his blood-rusted fist casually in one hand, tusks spread fully forward, ready to maim and gore.

“They don’t want peace.” Scorch said simply.

Conquer grinned. “Good. Neither do we.” He turned to the Biters assembled behind him. “The humans want to challenge us,” he began. “The humans think they can fight us! That they can take what is ours!” The army in front of him raised their voices in answer, rattling their weapons, their shekeres creating a cacophony of sound. Scorch grinned, letting her tusks splay out with the growing energy of her clan.

“Not today!” Conquer bellowed. “The humans have tried to attack us when we are weak! They have tried to ambush us with the coming of the night! They will die, one and all, and serve as an example! Nobody—” the crowd covered his speech with their shouting, and he growled and waited until they settled down. “Nobody will ever try to take what belongs to us again!” He turned to Scorch and nodded. She nodded back, knowing what to do.

Scorch took a deep breath in, then let it out. The cries of the army fueled her, and she used it to locate the well of light within her, the fire of her life. With a force of will, she ignited it. It blazed into being, and brought with it iridescent flames in the sky, brightening the valley beyond the light of day. Scorch fed her anger into it, her frustration. Her hopes and dreams, and love, and it grew in response, hotter and brighter.

She looked at Conquer, who stared her right in the eyes.

“Thank you, my mate. You’ve served well.”

Scorch felt a chill crawl up her spine. Conquer was not the complimenting type. She couldn’t focus on the thought, as her Name glowed above her, wanting her to spur into action. She looked to the battlefield, where fighting had begun as the forefront of both armies had met in the middle. She looked back to Conquer.

His eyes… his eyes were drawing her in, feeding the flame in her. As it grew, her thoughts grew dimmer. With a last glimmer of thought, she recognized the feeling. Free’s Blessing, welling up within her, unheeded, unwanted.

“Go. Fight for our clan. Die for me.” Conquer gently pulled away the broadsword she had been holding and gave her a nudge toward the armies. The rage within her finally pulled her into action, and with a shout she ran into battle, unarmed and filled with a fury that didn’t belong to her.

————

After the surgeons had patched up his father, Whelp came out from his tent to once again look at the bodies. So many, so many dead. The Biters had pulled their ranks back from the battlefield, which under the rising of the morning sun was dyed a deeper crimson than normal.

The bodies were piled up, unceremonious, weapons and armor salvaged if they could be cleaned up and used. Whelp walked through the piles. They were nearly as tall as he was, and they definitely smelled worse.

He looked for Scorch, for the features that he would recognize. It was impossible to tell. The humans had been thorough in their devastation, and though they had lost they had changed the Biters irreparably.

Whelp gave up searching. When Scorch’s light had failed when she — when she had died, everything had gone crazy.

So Whelp did the only thing he could think of, the only thing that made sense to him. The thing that Scorch… his mother, would want him to do. It was his right, as her son, and his right as the son of the chief of the clan.

He asked for help of a few people near him, larger and stronger and less-wounded than the rest. They agreed, as was correct for them to do, though wielding his influence like this made Whelp uncomfortable. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it, he got it because he was Conquer’s son. Regardless, he used it.

When they were finished, Whelp lit the gigantic pyre, setting torch to wood. As he did, he whispered a silent prayer to Free. Let this blaze be a worthy reminder. Let it render the sand underneath unusable, solid, unshifting. A monument. Let this pyre scorch everything surrounding it, and remain here long after we have all gone.

He sat there for the day, letting the heat of the fire dry his tears as they fell.