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For a moment, no one spoke, the tension hanging thick in the air. Then Vorgath’s hand squeezed my shoulder gently, a silent acknowledgment, before he released me and stepped forward, standing between me and Thorne.

“It’s settled, then,” Vorgath said, his voice cutting through the silence. “You’ll start tomorrow.”

Chapter 4

My muscles screamed in protest as I tightened my grip on the hammer, sweat trickling down my back beneath the cursed shift I wished I could tear off. Vorgath's gaze weighed on me, silent and watchful, as I struggled to mimic the fluid motions he had demonstrated earlier.

But what had seemed straightforward when he did it now felt like an impossible feat. Frustration bubbled dangerously close to the surface as the forge’s heat pressed down on me, but I refused to give in to the urge to walk away. The hammer was heavy, and the pain in my arms was real, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the future I refused to let slip away.

“Higher,” Vorgath demanded gruffly. “More power behind the swing.”

I nodded, gritting my teeth as I attempted to lift the hammer higher, fighting to keep it steady, eager to be a good student. But as I swung it down, the momentum threw me off balance. Istumbled forward, barely catching myself before tumbling face-first onto the anvil.

Vorgath's eyes narrowed as he watched me struggle, but he made no move to help. “That hammer was not made for you,” he observed.

Pushing a loose strand of hair from my face, I straightened up. My pride stung at his blunt assessment, even though I knew he was right. “It was my husband's,” I replied, unable to keep a hint of defensiveness from creeping into my tone.

For a moment, he was quiet, his gaze fixed on the hammer in my hands. "He is dead," he stated bluntly.

I rolled my eyes at his helpful observation. “Yes, he is.”

“The hammer should have gone with him to Grulthar,” he said without pity or apology.

Grulthar, the Ancestor’s Tree—one of the Seven Sacred Alders, where orc warriors brought their loved ones’ weapons after death as a tribute. But I couldn’t afford such rituals. This hammer wasn’t a relic; it was a lifeline.

“If it had,” I bit back, “I wouldn’t be here today. It’s not like I can afford custom-made tools.”

Vorgath grunted, his expression unreadable. As I stood there, hammer still in hand, I wondered—not for the first time today—if I'd made a terrible mistake.

This morning, when I arrived at Vorgath’s place in the Moonshadow Forest, I wasn’t sure what to expect but was immediately struck by how different it was from the busy, crowded workshops in town. The cabin was sturdy, built from dark stone he must have quarried himself, and the beams supporting the roof were thick and rough-hewn, likely cut from the towering trees nearby.

He’d answered my knock with a grunt, barely sparing me a glance before gesturing for me to follow him around the side of the house. I caught a glimpse of the heavy wooden door leadinginside but got no invitation to enter. Instead, he led me directly to the forge that was tucked just behind the cabin, open on one side so the smoke could escape into the clearing beyond.

The forge itself was an extension of the cabin, sturdy and purposeful. The stone walls were blackened with heat, and thick wooden beams framed the open space. The ground was packed dirt, worn down by his heavy footsteps, with an anvil positioned front and center. Tools hung neatly from pegs on the walls, and I noticed they weren't only orcish. A hammer with a dwarven maker’s mark rested beside a set of fine elven tongs, their delicate etchings standing out against the more utilitarian orcish weapons.

I guess I’d imagined something more primitive. But this place was a blend of worlds, much like the post-war life we all lived in. And it was his. Built by hand, stone by stone, as much a symbol of survival as skill.

Not at all like the stories I’d heard. Then again, what did I really know? I’d never met an orc before Vorgath, and had nothing to go on but my own assumptions. Even Thyri, who I'd filled in on every detail of the encounter at Thorne's forge over dinner last night, had been reassuring about the whole situation.

“Orcs were a large part of the fighting force in the war,” she'd reminded me. “Without them, we'd likely be living under Maldrak's shadow right now. You owe it to him—and to yourself—to give him a chance.”

So I did, but as the day wore on, his standoffish demeanor hadn't thawed. His silence felt heavier with each passing hour, as if he were constantly evaluating me, waiting for me to give up. His expressions were hard to read—frustration? Disapproval? Or maybe this was just how he taught, pushing me to figure things out on my own. Either way, it was hard not to feel dejected, like I was failing some unspoken test.

My heart sank further, frustration gnawing at the edges of my pride. What had I expected? That he’d step in with words of encouragement? That he’d show me some secret technique to make everything easier? No, that wasn’t his way. I could feel his eyes on me, not pitying but assessing. Judging my ability—or lack of it.

“Maybe Master Ironsmith was right,” I said dejectedly, finally letting the hammer clatter to the ground, glad that it at least missed my toe. “I should stick to needle and thread.”

Vorgath straightened up from where he’d been sharpening a blade and tilted his head slightly as he studied me. “Thorne?” he scoffed. “Thorne is never right.”

I swallowed hard, not just from embarrassment but from something else—something about the way he stood there, so sure of himself, his presence filling the space. His arms, thick with muscle and dusted with dark hair, folded across his chest as he watched me. There was a steadiness in his gaze that drew me in, making it hard to look away.

Finally, he reached for the hammer I'd dropped. “Take it,” he commanded, hefting the tool with ease.

I wrapped my fingers around the handle, but before I could pull it from his grasp, Vorgath’s hand closed over mine, the rough calluses on his palm brushing against my skin. His fingers wrapped all the way around the handle and mine, making me acutely aware of just how much larger he was than me. I’d never felt small before—my curves ensured that—but standing so close to him, I felt a new kind of small, a different kind of awareness of my own body.

Vorgath didn’t step back or give me any space to retreat; instead, he gently guided my hand up the handle. His fingers enveloped mine completely, the rough, powerful grip making my own seem delicate by comparison, my pale skin standing out against his dark green.

“Hold it here,” he said. “Balance. Let the hammer do the work.”