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“Word is that Ruka’s youngling got himself stuck in a barrel last week,” Vorgath mentioned, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Took two elves and a half-pint of butter to get him out.”

I laughed, picturing the scene. Ruka was a gnome from the Artisan’s Quarter, known for her magical contraptions—and her mischievous son. “Poor Leniux. He goes to school with Elias. Always climbing into places he shouldn’t.”

“Aye. I’m surprised they didn’t leave him there, just for a lesson,” Vorgath replied, amusement lacing his words.

“Oh, give it a year or two, and they might just start doing that,” I said, shaking my head. “Kids can be a handful. You should have seen Elias's tantrum last week when Mrs. Crumble tried to get him to bathe. Nearly drowned the poor brownie with the bucket.”

Vorgath’s laughter was deep and rich, and absolutely delightful. It was the kind of laugh that came so rarely from him, and it warmed something inside me. I wanted to hear more of it. More of him. Seeing him like this—relaxed, comfortable—made me realize how much of himself he kept guarded. He had walls, not unlike my own, built to withstand the scars of war and loss. But here, in this small inn, those walls seemed to soften.

As we lingered over our meal, I thought back to the Elandor rolls we’d eaten earlier. The warmth, the sense of home they evoked—simple, comforting, a reminder of belonging, and I found myself wondering again—what was home to him? Could he feel it here, in the quiet moments over shared meals, thelaughter of people who had accepted him? And was it too much to hope that maybe home was becoming something more to him than a cabin in the woods?

Maybe it could be us.

“Tell me,” I said after finishing the last delicious bite of my meal, “are all orcs as bad at gardening as—”

Our conversation came to an abrupt halt as a crash echoed through the tavern—the unmistakable shatter of glass followed by a bellowing laugh that set my nerves on edge. Across the room, a hulking orc stood, holding the broken remains of a tankard, its contents dripping off the unfortunate human seated beside him. He tossed the handle aside as though it were worthless, a sneer twisting his lips.

A murmur of unease rippled through the crowd, but what truly set my pulse racing was the way Vorgath tensed beside me. Gone was the relaxed mentor I had been laughing with. In his place was the warrior—calm, poised, and exuding a dangerous stillness.

Vorgath stood, chair scraping against the stone floor. “Dregor Bloodclaw. Is that you?” His voice cut through the din, low and commanding.

The orc turned, his eyes finally locking onto Vorgath, and he barked out a laugh. “Vorgath Steelbane,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Come, sit with us,” Vorgath offered, his tone calm, but there was an edge beneath it, making it less of an invitation and more of a command.

Another humorless laugh. “You’d break bread with your sworn enemy?”

“I have no enemies here,” Vorgath replied evenly, his gaze steady. “Only old friends.”

For a moment, Dregor’s eyes narrowed as if weighing his options, and then, slowly, his grin shifted into somethingmore dangerous—compliance. He strode toward our table, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight as he dropped into the chair across from us.

Up close, this orc was as formidable as a wall of stone. His skin, a mottled deep green, was marred by scars, and his golden eyes gleamed with a wildness that made me grip the handle of my hammer more tightly.

“Well,” Dregor started, his voice raspy, “who might this be?” His gaze landed on me, intense and probing, making me feel small under its weight.

“This,” Vorgath interjected before I could respond, “is Soraya.” The speed at which he cut into the conversation was intentional—protective—and that did not go unnoticed by Dregor, who let out a knowing chuckle.

“A human? Keeping interesting company these days, eh?” Dregor mocked, taking a lewd glug of his ale. “Tell me,drakzul, have you forgotten the thrill of blood for the simple pleasure of—”

“That's enough, Dregor.” Vorgath’s tone was icy, the cold professionalism of someone who knew exactly when a blade had gone too far and needed to be checked.

Dregor leaned back in his chair and grinned, revealing thick tusks. He appeared unconcerned by Vorgath's command, yet something in his eyes glinted with malice. “Ah, did I strike a nerve, then? Or is it just that you’ve gone soft? Trading in war cries for whispers? This peaceful life—among humans, no less—it doesn’t suit you.”

“You mistake peace for weakness,” Vorgath replied, his voice as calm as the still surface of a lake—but I knew still waters could run deep. “It takes more strength to choose a different path, especially among our kind.”

Dregor’s lip curled in disdain as he reached for the tankard Milla had set in front of him before scurrying away.

“That so? Funny, it doesn’t look like strength to me. Looks like fear. Fear that this 'peace' is nothing but an illusion.” He took a long drink, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watched Vorgath over the rim of his tankard. “But then, you’ve always been sentimental, haven’t you? Sparing those who should have been crushed... like your brother.”

I felt the blood drain from my face as I glanced at Vorgath. His shoulders had gone rigid, and though his expression didn’t change, something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

Dregor’s smile widened, knowing he’d found the wound. “That’s right. I remember how you hesitated—how you let thatgrakhulrun off.” His eyes flicked to me, lingering for a beat, and then he repeated, “Grakhul. Traitor.”

The word landed like a challenge, as if Dregor wanted to ensure I understood exactly what he was calling Vorgath's brother, even if I didn't know the whole story. But I couldn't linger on that. I could sense the danger building between them, a tension that teetered on the edge of violence. I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Well, Dregor,” I said, forcing a smile that I hoped masked my nerves. “Forging is tougher than I expected, but you know what? It suits Vorgath perfectly. He’s teaching me everything—and I’m lucky to have him as my mentor. Strong, talented, honorable. You could learn something.”

Dregor turned his eyes on me, amusement flickering at the edges of his smile as if I’d said something laughably naive. “Honorable, is he?” he drawled, his voice thick with skepticism. “Honor doesn't win wars. That's something you soft human folk will never understand.”