Page 12

Chapter 11

W e stepped into the Cozy Hearth Inn and were greeted by the warmth of a crackling fire and the rich scent of roasted meats and fresh bread. The space was cozy, with low wooden beams and walls adorned with old maps and hunting trophies. Long wooden tables filled the center of the room, where patrons laughed and shared meals, while smaller, more intimate booths lined the walls. A halfling woman bustled between tables, her apron dusted with flour, offering quick smiles as she balanced trays of food and drink.

“Soraya!” she exclaimed, spotting me.

Milla was a fellow widow of the war, and we'd formed an unlikely bond in the aftermath. She’d often brought me meals when times were tough, and I’d mended her clothes in return. Sometimes, her stew had been the only thing I’d had to eat for days.

“Back again, and with a new friend, I see!”

I had to grin at her easy acceptance. “Milla, this is Vorgath. He's my… mentor.”

Milla's eyebrows shot up, her gaze darting between us with undisguised interest. “Oh? Well, any mentor of Soraya's is welcome here. Come on, let's get you two settled.”

She led us to a corner table where the chairs—even for someone of Vorgath's size—were crafted to accommodate all kinds of patrons. It was one of the few places in town that went the extra mile to cater to everyone.

“See?” I said, unable to keep the hint of smugness from my voice. “I told you you'd be welcome here.”

“So you did.”

Milla returned with two large tankards of sweet mead and took our order. As she walked away, I caught her throwing a wink in my direction. I felt my cheeks warm, wondering what assumptions she might be making about Vorgath and me—and realizing she might not be entirely wrong.

I took a sip of my mead, savoring the honeyed flavor. It was rich and smooth, with just a hint of spice, brewed with herbs from the local apothecary.

“So,” I said, meeting Vorgath's gaze over the rim of my tankard, “what's the plan for the rest of the day? Back to the forge?”

“If you’re up to it,” Vorgath replied. “Though I’d understand if you’d prefer a break.”

“Not at all,” I said quickly, the eagerness in my voice catching me off guard. I cleared my throat. “Besides, now I have my new hammer to try out.” My fingers drummed lightly on the table where it rested.

“I’m glad you like it,” Vorgath said, glancing down at the tool. “It suits you.”

Before I could respond, Milla returned with our meals. She set down two steaming plates of roasted venison, root vegetables, and thick slices of bread, along with a small dish of spiced apples. The aroma was mouthwatering, and my stomach growled loudly in appreciation.

The tension from earlier in the day had all but dissolved by the time we dug into our food. The conversation flowed easily, centered around lighthearted topics—like the latest mishaps at the smithy and amusing stories from the market.

“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, the laughter 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 something more 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 that grakhul run 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.”

Before I could summon a biting retort, Vorgath reached over and gently covered my hand with his.

“Soraya understands more than you ever will,” Vorgath said, his voice steady. “And she’s right—there’s more to honor than the violence you cling to.”

Dregor took another swig of ale, eyes never leaving Vorgath’s as if measuring whether he truly believed his own words. When he finally set his tankard down, he let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and leaned back.

“Maybe,” he said with mock indifference. “But don’t think for a second that your ‘peaceful’ life here will protect you. The past isn’t like the steel you bend to your will. You can’t reshape it with a few swings of the hammer. It lives, it breathes, and it will come for you when you least expect it.”

“Maybe,” Vorgath repeated, unbothered by Dregor’s theatrics. “But I no longer let my past dictate my future. Can you say the same?”

Dregor shook his head slowly, almost pityingly, and stood up from the table.

“Be careful, Vorgath.” His eyes flicked briefly to me. “The past isn’t something you can run from. Remember that.”

And with that, Dregor turned away, leaving the tavern as abruptly as he had entered, his heavy footsteps echoing in his wake. I watched him go, still gripping the handle of my hammer as if it were a lifeline. As his bulky form disappeared through the tavern door, my gaze wandered to the window, where a familiar figure caught my eye—Thorne Ironsmith.

He stood outside, his arms crossed and his face unreadable as he watched Dregor vanish into the street. For a moment, something flickered in Thorne’s expression—something that made me uneasy. It wasn’t anger or surprise, but a cool, distant calculation, like he was piecing together a puzzle.

When his eyes met mine, he hesitated, the barest flicker of recognition passing over his face before his lips curled into what could have been a smile. Then, without a word, Thorne turned and headed off in the same direction Dregor had gone, leaving a hollow feeling in my chest that I couldn’t quite shake.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it—maybe it was nothing. But after the way Thorne had brushed me off at the forge and his obvious disdain for Vorgath, seeing him now, lingering in Dregor’s shadow, left me with a gnawing sense of discomfort.

“We should go.”

I tore my gaze away from the window to find Vorgath watching me. Around us, the lively hum of conversation had dimmed, the patrons casting nervous glances toward the door as if half-expecting more trouble to follow in Dregor’s wake.

Just as I stood, Milla appeared at our table. “Don’t let him run you off, Soraya.”

I smiled weakly, grateful for her words but knowing Vorgath had already decided. He was on his feet, ready to go. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” I said. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

Milla waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s a good thing he was here.” She glanced at Vorgath with a nod of respect. “He handled it better than most would’ve.”

Vorgath gave a curt nod, already heading toward the door. I followed, the knot in my stomach still tight. As we stepped outside, I could hear Milla behind us, muttering to another patron about how it could’ve been much worse.