Enyora felt the gentle caress of the wind as it swept through the trees, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had settled in her heart since leaving Vaelanor. It had been a week since her departure, yet she remained perplexed by the sudden shift in Ewelin's demeanor. However, she resolved to set aside her worries, choosing instead to focus on her journey ahead. Each step taken was a step toward self-discovery, and she took solace in the knowledge that her magical abilities were blossoming with every passing day.
As dusk descended, casting a soft glow over the landscape, Enyora halted to rest her weary body. She gathered kindling and expertly coaxed a fire to life, its warm flicker illuminating the darkness that surrounded her. Settling beside her makeshift bed, she gazed into the mesmerizing dance of the flames, lost in thought as the crackling fire filled the silence.
After a few moments of introspection, Enyora shook off her reverie, rising with renewed purpose. She raised her hands, palms open, and began to weave intricate movements as if she were conducting an unseen symphony. With a determined focus, she envisioned a cozy cave, a sanctuary against the biting chill of the night air. As she channeled her magic, the earth beneath her trembled and shifted, the ground molding itself into the protective embrace of a cave.
The transformation was swift and awe-inspiring. Enyora beamed with pride at her handiwork, a sense of accomplishment washing over her. She gently patted herself on the back, reveling in the knowledge that her hard work and dedication had borne fruit. Unlike Ewelin, who had left her feeling adrift, the triplets had truly guided her on this path of growth. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her fire and the shelter of her newly crafted cave, Enyora felt a profound sense of peace settle within her soul.
Enyora nestled into the comforting embrace of her newly formed cave, cocooned from the night’s chill. As she lay there, her mind wandered through the labyrinth of her thoughts. A sense of regret washed over her; if only she had pursued the search for her sister with the same fervor she had dedicated to learning from Ewelin, she might be well on her way to her destination by now. Yet, a flicker of pride ignited within her, reminding her that without Ewelin’s guidance, she would never have honed her magical weaving skills. 
With a heavy sigh, she surrendered to the weariness that beckoned her. She closed her eyes, allowing the gentle lull of the night to envelop her, and soon succumbed to the depths of slumber.
Time slipped away—an hour, two, then three—before Enyora was jolted awake by a cold droplet of water that splashed onto her face. Startled, she blinked rapidly, her senses grappling with the darkness that surrounded her. The fire that had once crackled with warmth now lay extinguished, leaving her in an unsettling stillness. 
As her vision adjusted, she perceived a figure looming before her, shrouded in shadows. A chill raced down her spine as recognition flickered in her mind. The silhouette was eerily familiar, yet unsettling. The figure possessed horns that curled menacingly from her forehead, and, judging by the stout build, it was undoubtedly a girl—an orc, to be precise.
Wait… horns?
The realization struck her like a thunderclap, and Enyora gasped, her heart racing with a mixture of fear and recognition. Before she could gather her thoughts or react, the orc moved with startling swiftness. In an instant, a powerful blow struck the side of her head, sending her spiraling into darkness once more, the world around her fading into oblivion.
Enyora groaned as consciousness slowly returned to her. Blinking her eyes open, she was met with a hazy blur, her surroundings swirling in a dizzying haze. A tight grip enveloped her, constricting around her torso with an intensity that suggested it would surely leave a bruise. Struggling to gather her bearings, she shifted her gaze and caught sight of a muddy path stretching out before her, leading deep into the heart of what she recognized as the grey orcs' territory.
As her vision gradually sharpened, she noticed an orc child trailing closely behind the figure that carried her. The child’s gaze was fixed intently on her captor, and for a brief moment, the scene appeared innocent. Yet, as Enyora observed, a sense of dread crept over her. The child’s features were grotesque, a mishmash of exaggerated proportions and peculiar angles—so disfigured that even a baby goblin would seem charming in comparison. 
She couldn’t discern whether the child was male or female; that distinction felt trivial in the face of its unsettling appearance. All Enyora could think was that this creature was undeniably ugly—its wide-set eyes gleamed with an unsettling curiosity, and a broad, toothy grin split its face, revealing jagged teeth that looked more suited for a predator than a child. A shudder ran through her as the reality of her situation settled in, the terrifying prospect of being in the clutches of these orcs weighing heavily upon her.
At first, the child orc remained relatively harmless, merely observing her with a mix of curiosity and mischief. However, that innocence was short-lived; it soon attempted to spit at her, a crude act that thankfully missed its mark, landing instead on the leg of the orc who carried her. To Enyora’s dismay, the adult orc paid no mind to the child’s antics, his focus unwavering as he continued on their treacherous path. The little orc, emboldened by the moment, erupted into a fit of laughter and scampered off, making faces at her that twisted its features into a grotesque display.
As she turned her head to the side, the sight that greeted her was enough to churn her stomach. A rotund orc was hunched over, skillfully butchering meat with grim determination. Human heads swayed ominously from hooks nearby, grotesque trophies that hung like grim ornaments, their lifeless eyes staring into the abyss. A wave of nausea washed over Enyora, and she quickly averted her gaze, her heart racing as she fought against the urge to gag.
The orc who had carried her navigated through the sprawling camp, finally bringing her to a massive tent that loomed ominously before them. Inside, the leader of this fearsome tribe sat regally upon a chair crafted from the teeth of carnivorous beasts, a ghastly throne befitting his brutal status. With a rough motion, the orc unceremoniously flung Enyora to the muddy ground, the impact jarring her body and sending a fresh wave of panic coursing through her veins. She lay there, feeling the cold, damp earth seep into her clothes, as the reality of her dire situation began to sink in.
The heavy flap of the tent parted, and Lok Ra strode in with a determined gait, her presence commanding immediate attention. She approached the chieftain, Broxik, who sat imperiously upon his grotesque throne, a figure of raw power amidst the chilling atmosphere. 
“Broxik, groth'gar shol durzad kra'gul azh'nak,” she declared, her voice resonating with a fierce pride. (Brother, after many weeks I have finally found this witch.) The words rolled off her tongue with a sharpness that betrayed her eagerness for confrontation.
The orc chieftain regarded her with a steely gaze, his expression inscrutable as he absorbed her proclamation. “Lor'tor krag'gor lok nuk grah, thuul guz n'krug orz raksha'nuk,” Lok Ra pressed on, her voice rising with fervor. (Let me kill her so I can avenge my dear husband.) The weight of her grief and anger hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that electrified the space between them.
However, before she could utter another word, he raised a hand in a commanding gesture, silencing her with an authority that brooked no argument. The instant he did so, Lok Ra’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes flashing with indignation yet recognizing the weight of the chieftain’s command. The atmosphere thickened as the unspoken power dynamics played out, and Enyora, still sprawled on the muddy ground, could only watch in trepidation, acutely aware of the brewing storm within the tent.
Enyora narrowed her eyes, sending a fierce glare toward the chieftain. “What have you done to my friend?” she demanded, her voice laced with a mixture of defiance and desperation. The words cut through the heavy air, drawing the attention of both Lok Ra and the chieftain.
“How dare you speak to the chief—” Lok Ra began, her indignation flaring, but she was silenced once more by the chieftain's piercing glare. The room felt charged, the tension thickening as Enyora’s spirit clashed with the authority of the orc leader.
The chieftain turned his focus to Enyora, his eyes narrowing as he took a step closer. “Your pendant belongs to the kin of elves, yet you are a human,” he stated, his voice low and gravelly, imbued with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. As he approached, a predatory glint shone in his gaze, scrutinizing her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.
He reached out, his fingers hovering just above the pendant that hung around her neck. As his hand neared, the pendant began to glow softly, a warm radiance that pulsed in response to his presence. He paused, a flicker of intrigue crossing his rugged features. But as he touched it, a sudden surge of energy flared, and he recoiled sharply, pulling his hand back with a hiss of pain. 
The skin on his fingertips was marred, burned by the pendant’s magic, and he sneered in disbelief. The chieftain’s expression shifted, a blend of anger and fascination dancing across his face as he regarded Enyora with newfound intensity. The air crackled with tension, the delicate balance of power shifting as the ramifications of her pendant became painfully clear.