A full month had passed since the intense judgment ritual. Simon and Schalezusk had worked themselves to exhaustion, proving their loyalty not with swords, but with shovels, axes, and blistered hands. They were no longer the mysterious outsiders; they were simply two very large, very capable Orcs.
Their official acceptance came during the festival of the New Moon, celebrated now with actual abundance rather than mere hope. Elder Skrall stood before the fire pit, his ancient voice steady.
"We saw the strength of your arms, but we tested the truth in your hearts," Skrall said, looking over the assembled Orcs. "You have labored for the good of Grayhorn. You have eaten our harvest. You are no longer judged." He gestured to the two brothers. "You are kin. You are home."
Schalezusk let out a long, heavy breath, his massive frame relaxing for the first time in weeks. "Thank you, Elder. We will not dishonor this."
