Under The Mountain

Chapter One

Centuries ago, it was common to worship all the gods together.

The human god of wisdom, Vireon — he who sought peace with cunning words.

The werewolf god of family, Carethas — he who stood beside his kin, guarding them with tooth and claw.

The fae god of beauty, Sylion — he who graced his worshippers with beauty and fertility.

All three were loved, worshipped, and revered for eons.

But the fourth god, Dravak — the orc god of war — was shunned by all but his own kind. Cruel and reckless, Dravak had no use for family, beauty, or wisdom. He glorified bloodshed, urging his orc followers to pillage, raid, and take what they believed should be theirs.

Eventually, the gods turned on each other. They shattered the realm and divided the world. Followers were split among their chosen gods, most living only among their kind. Worship of other gods faded. Borders closed. And over time, truth was buried beneath lies. Now, only twisted legends remain.

But that fourth god — the dreadful one no one dared even whisper about — was the only one bouncing around Brinna Halewyn’s mind.

She rode her bay mare along a narrow dirt path winding through a dense pine forest. The crisp scent of evergreen and damp soil had briefly lifted her spirits — until she remembered her husband.

Poor Alfred. A respected soldier from a long line of guards. A good man, people said. A good soldier. A good husband.

Or so she kept telling herself.

But had he truly been good to her?

He was always gone, always silent, never said more than a mumbled “Good morning” before disappearing for the day.

He never hit her, though. Not like the bruised women she sometimes saw in the market.

He never forced himself on her, either — unlike the husbands the other wives whispered about during tea. They spoke of grabby hands and unwanted advances. Brinna had never experienced that.

Not that she minded. No respectable woman would admit to wanting a man more than once a day. No — proper marital duties were done quietly, at night, in the dark.

Yes. That was enough to convince her. She was a respectable woman. She had married a good man.

She grimaced. She wasn’t married anymore, was she? She was a widow. And in three more summers, she’d be twenty-five — old enough to be a spinster.

Twenty-five. The age the world declared a woman past her prime.

Everyone knew a woman’s fertile years lay between eighteen and twenty-five. Beyond that, she was overlooked. Dismissed.

Old men, already with heirs, might still consider a spinster — but only if they had no other options. And even then, they preferred a younger, more fertile bride.

It had never worried Brinna before. She’d been betrothed to Alfred since she was eight. A solid match — a tanning family marrying into a soldier’s. Not a rare climb, but a proud one.

Her parents had always thanked the gods for her beauty, believing that’s what secured the match. Never mind the low bride-price.

She’d been a fair woman, they said — thick chestnut hair to her waist, sharp cheekbones, deep ocean-blue eyes.

She hardly felt beautiful now. Trudging through a forest like a wild gremlin. Her braid caught with pine needles and twigs, her skirts dusted with mud.

But at last, there it was. The barracks.

A towering stone structure, rising above the trees. Ancient gray stones mottled with moss and ivy. A heavy wooden door centered on its face, flanked by rows of narrow windows — soldiers’ quarters, no doubt.

Two guards stood at attention outside. Both wore green tunics under polished silver breastplates. One looked far too old for a soldier, the other barely more than a boy.

As Brinna rode closer, both men stared at her — motionless. As if shocked.

She squared her shoulders. This was no time to falter. She opened her mouth and spoke: “I am here to meet with Commander Edwin. Regarding my husband’s passing. Sir Alfred.”

The younger guard glanced at the older man, who simply stared — until, at last, he cleared his throat.

“You rode all this way alone, woman?” he asked, craning his neck to peer into the empty woods behind her.

“I assure you I can manage a simple journey, sir.” She smoothed her skirts, a flicker of smugness rising at the assumption she couldn’t follow a road or handle a horse.

“Of course, Widow Halewyn. I meant no offense. It’s just... the orcs. They’ve been slipping into our lands more and more.”

Brinna froze. No one had warned her about orcs. Not once. Had she known, she would never have set foot in this blasted forest without a guide. Or protection.

Not that she could afford either.

Her cheeks flushed. “I had no idea it had gotten so bad here. My husband... he never spoke of work. Not when he came home.”

The guard gave her a sad look. “Some find it best to forget what happens out here.”

“Of course,” she echoed, unsure what else to say. Questions about her husband started to rattle in her head.

Brinna quickly dismounted, handing the reins to the guard as the younger one ushered her forward. The massive wooden doors yawned open like the mouth of some slumbering beast, and she stepped through, her boots clicking against the stone. She doubled her pace to keep up, her eyes scanning the lifeless, barren interior. The stone walls were cold, stripped of color or warmth, and though she knew over three thousand men were stationed here, the place felt abandoned—hollow.

A strange hush wrapped around her like a damp cloak.

The young guard came to an abrupt stop, and Brinna nearly collided with his back. He knocked twice, sharp and firm, on the heavy door before them—darkwood with a small brass plaque engraved with the name Vexmoor.

After a moment, the door creaked open to reveal a stout man with thinning red hair and a deep-set frown that curled instantly into a smile.

His hazel eyes slid over Brinna like oil.

“Ah, soldier Alex. What have you brought me?” he asked, his voice too smooth.

Brinna resisted the urge to recoil as his gaze lingered.

“Sir Alfred’s widow,” the young guard said quickly, flushing as he cast her a sidelong glance.

The man—Commander Vexmoor, she assumed—paused at the mention of her husband. His expression twitched, then smoothed into a wide, toothy grin. His teeth were stained yellow from tobacco.

“Widow Halewyn,” he said slowly, deliberately. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Brinna kept her face composed. “I’ve come to collect my husband’s remaining wages.”

She spoke evenly, ignoring the unease roiling in her gut.

“Of course. Come in—we’ll discuss the details privately.” Vexmoor stepped back and gestured her inside.

The moment she crossed the threshold, a wave of smoke hit her. The air was thick with it, curling around the rafters like ghosts. Her stomach churned. She’d never been around much tobacco—certainly not like this—and it clung to her throat like ash.

She settled stiffly into a wingback chair near the hearth while Vexmoor poured himself a drink. The fire popped and hissed, but offered no warmth.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he lowered himself into the chair across from her.

“Your letter gave me only three days. I didn’t have a choice,” Brinna replied, her tone clipped.

She’d barely slept since receiving the notice. Not only had Alfred died, but she had mere days to retrieve his belongings and pay. Just three days to return to the place where he’d lived… and died.

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t cried. Not yet. She’d been too focused on how she would feed herself, how she would survive. But now, sitting in this smoke-choked room with a stranger, the full weight of it pressed down on her.

Vexmoor nodded, sipping from his glass. “We thought it best to get you here quickly. Before the sickness caught you too.”

“The sickness?” she repeated.

A faint memory tugged at her—Alfred’s last visit home. He’d been quiet, distant. Complained of headaches. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her.

She’d been too focused on timing—on trying to conceive. On making sure he left her with something more than loneliness.

She blinked hard. This wasn’t the time.

Vexmoor leaned back, staring into the fire. “Frankly, we’re surprised to see you in such good health and spirits.”

“I don’t understand. He wasn’t sick when I saw him last,” she said slowly.

He shrugged. “You know how those things go. Starts as a rash, and if left untreated, well…” He trailed off, avoiding her gaze. A red flush crept up his neck.

A rash?

Brinna’s mind raced, cycling through what little she knew of disease—fungus, poison, infection. None of it made sense.

“I’m going to need you to explain,” she said finally. “He didn’t have a rash. Just a headache.”

Vexmoor swirled his drink again. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without looking at her, he muttered, “His… s****l disease. He caught it fornicating with other men in the barracks. Some of whom have since passed.”

The words struck her like a slap.

Brinna went still, the sound of the fire dimming beneath the rush in her ears. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, the walls squeezing inward.

In that moment, everything she thought she knew unraveled.