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Vorgath's lips twitched slightly. “Your grip is improving. But even the most dedicated apprentice needs a day of rest.”

“Well, in that case, my poor, blistered hands thank you.”

Instead of continuing toward the forge, he turned toward the town, and I fell into step beside him. His long strides matched my quicker pace, and together, we made our way down the winding path into Everwood.

“How was Elias this morning?” he asked. “Tired after a late night?”

“Oh, he was full of energy as usual. In fact, he spent breakfast regaling Mrs. Crumble with his own version of the story you toldhim. Apparently, Grokk gained the ability to breathe fire by the end of it.”

Vorgath let out a low chuckle. “A creative child. He reminds me of my brother when we were young.”

I glanced at him, surprised by the casual mention of his brother but pleased that he felt comfortable saying things like that around me.

“He wants to know when you'll visit again to tell him more stories.”

He cut his eyes at me. “What does his mother say?”

I bit my lip to hide the smile threatening to break through. “Well, his mother thinks that could be arranged. Perhaps for dinner again soon?”

Vorgath nodded. “I'd like that.”

“As long as you don’t forget your giant fork,” I reminded him, bumping him playfully with my shoulder and earning myself a small smirk in response.

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath our feet and the distant chatter of birds. I found myself stealing glances at Vorgath, admiring the way the morning sun caught the highlights in his dark hair and made his green skin glow. It was strange how quickly I'd grown accustomed to his presence, how natural it felt to walk beside him.

As someone approached on the path, I instinctively pressed closer to Vorgath, my shoulder brushing his side. His arm came around my waist, pulling me just a little tighter against him. The closeness was electric, my pulse quickening at the feel of his solid frame beside me, the scent of smoke and iron that clung to him filling my senses.

The passerby—a human woman carrying a basket of vegetables—glanced warily at us, offering a murmured “Good morning” before hurrying past. As soon as she was out of sight,Vorgath’s arm slipped away, the brief moment of contact gone as quickly as it had come. The silence that followed felt heavier now, the comfortable ease replaced by tension.

Clearing his throat, Vorgath spoke. “Your form is improving,” he said. “In the forge, I mean. You’re learning quickly.”

I blinked, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” I said. “I never thought I'd enjoy it so much, but it's more than just brute strength. It's... creating. I'm not just making pretty dresses—I'm making things, useful and beautiful things, too, if I get it right. I didn't know how much I needed that.”

Vorgath nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. “Strength comes with time. But the heart for it—that you’ve already got.”

The simplicity of his praise struck something in me. I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died on my lips as we crested a hill and the bustling market of Everwood came into view. The square was alive with color and noise, stalls overflowing with goods from all corners of Alderwilde. The scent of fresh bread and exotic spices wafted through the air, mingling with the shouts of vendors hawking their wares.

I turned to Vorgath, a grin spreading across my face. “Shall we?”

He nodded. “After you.”

The market bustled with life—vendors shouting to sell their wares, children darting between stalls, the clatter of carts rolling over cobblestone. As we wove through the crowd, I noticed how people parted for Vorgath, their glances quick and uncertain. Children stared with wide eyes, their faces torn between fascination and fear, while adults exchanged furtive glances. The war had changed so much, forcing us to see beyond our differences and fight side by side.

But peace, it seemed, was a different kind of battlefield.

I felt a pang of protectiveness, my mind flashing to the orc who had offered me a glimpse of his own vulnerability the nightbefore. It wasn’t long ago that I, too, might have hesitated at the sight of an orc walking down the street. But Vorgath wasn’t just a symbol of the past or of his people; he was a man with his own scars, someone I was beginning to see more clearly with each passing day.

“Mama,” a young elven boy called, tugging on his mother’s sleeve as we passed. “Is he a hero from the war?”

His mother’s eyes widened, and she shushed him quickly, her gaze darting nervously between me and Vorgath. I caught the briefest flicker of discomfort on Vorgath’s face, his jaw tightening at the question. The urge to reach out and take his hand was almost overwhelming, but I held back, unsure if such a gesture would be welcome.

Instead, I squared my shoulders and walked closer to him, my arm brushing his. “What's first on the list?” I asked.

Vorgath glanced down at a small parchment he'd pulled from his pocket. “Bronze tongs from Ruk’s stall,” he said, pointing to a weathered tent on the far side of the square, where large wooden totems and carvings were displayed. “After that, more iron ingots from Olan. And then...”

He trailed off, looking a bit too long at the pastry stand that sat just at the edge of our path. I stifled a grin.

“And maybe a pastry after we’re done,” I suggested, feigning nonchalance.