Page 16

Chapter 15

T he sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but Stonevale was far from quiet. Lanterns cast a warm, golden glow over the festivities, their light dancing off the polished metal of dwarven inventions and glinting in the eyes of merry-makers. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and the earthy aroma of dwarven ale.

I sat on a wooden bench, my fingers wrapped around a tankard of said ale. The heavy brew settled warmly in my stomach, softening the edges of the world around me. Vorgath sat beside me, his large form a comforting presence in the bustling night.

We'd found a quiet corner of the festival, away from the most raucous celebrations. Elias was safely tucked away in our wagon on the edge of the fairgrounds, sound asleep after a day of wide-eyed wonder and endless questions. Grimble's oldest daughter, Thora, had volunteered to keep an eye on him.

I'd been surprised when the young dwarf had offered. Thora was a curiosity among her kin—more interested in books than tools, with ink-stained fingers and a faraway look in her eyes. She'd waved off my concerns with a wry smile.

“Trust me,” she'd said, pushing her spectacles up her nose, “I'd much rather spend the evening with a sleeping child and a good book than trying to dodge my father's attempts to marry me off to every eligible bachelor in Stonevale.”

So here we were, Vorgath and me, sharing a moment of relative peace amidst the chaos of the fair. The strong dwarven ale made my head spin pleasantly, warmth spreading through my limbs and loosening my tongue. Vorgath tapped his fingers against the side of his tankard—an absent, rhythmic motion I mimicked with my shoe against the cobblestones.

I took a small sip of the ale, letting the warmth bloom in my chest and rise to my cheeks.

“You know,” I began, “I think this ale is stronger than some of the weapons we've forged.”

Vorgath snorted and took a long drink, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Dwarven craftsmanship is unmatched.”

The embers from the nearest brazier crackled, sending dancing shadows stretching long across the cobblestones and painting a soft light across Vorgath’s face, making his scars glow, turning them into silver threads crisscrossing his skin. They were the marks of a life far different from the one he lived now—a life I knew so little about.

“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.

Vorgath, who had been focused on the sky, turned those intense dark eyes on me. “Miss what?”

“The fighting. The war. The life you had before Everwood?”

His expression darkened for a moment, shadows threading through his features. “No…” He shook his head, his gaze focusing somewhere far off in the distance. “I don't miss that.”

“And your brother?” I asked cautiously, aware I was stepping somewhere painful.

Vorgath’s fingers tightened slightly around the tankard, but his face remained impassive. “The last time I saw him, we stood on opposite sides of a battlefield.”

I watched him closely, the weight of his words hanging between us like the thick clouds overhead.

“It didn't matter that we grew up together,” Vorgath continued, talking more to the night air than to me now. “He wasn't my brother anymore. Not the brother I remembered.”

His jaw tightened, his hand flexing into a fist on his knee. My heart ached in response, the pain in his words sharp and palpable.

“What was his name?” I asked.

After a slight pause, he answered, “Gorkath.”

I placed my hand on top of his. “I'm sorry. About Gorkath.”

Vorgath’s hand twitched beneath mine, but he didn’t pull away. For a long moment, he stared down at our hands, his brow furrowing like he was deciding what to say—if there was anything even to say. His fingers flexed, thick and calloused, and I could feel the strength there. The hesitation.

“He made his choices,” Vorgath finally murmured, his voice rough like gravel. “But sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve tried harder. Maybe if I had…”

“You can’t,” I interrupted gently, tightening my grip. “You can't get lost in the what-ifs.” And I would know. I was the queen of what-ifs.

His deep brown eyes flicked to mine, locking me in place. There was so much weight behind that gaze—years' worth of regret, guilt, and the ever-present shadow of someone he couldn't save. The same way I sometimes caught my own reflection in the mirror and found ghosts looking back at me—the ghost of Kald, my husband, gone with barely a trace. The ghost of the life we’d had, buried beneath the ashes of a forge long cold. The ghost of the woman I once was, a woman who thought her heart had frozen alongside that forge.

But it hadn’t, had it?

Not entirely.

Because I was here, with my hand atop an orc’s, at a dwarven festival, feeling entirely too warm for an autumn evening.

I shifted to face him, my body turned slightly toward his. “Vorgath—”

“I don't miss battle,” he interrupted, his voice dipping low. “But sometimes… sometimes I miss losing control. Just… letting go. But I stopped allowing myself that luxury a long time ago.”

Heat spread along my skin, and not from the ale. His confession was raw, unfiltered, and echoed in the hollow places of my own heart. It hurt to see him hold so much of himself back. To watch him wrestle with the restraint he put between us.

But I was the one who had asked for that restraint. I had pushed him away, told him I wasn’t ready. And he—so strong, so patient—had respected that. He’d given me the space I’d needed, held himself back because I had been too afraid to face what I truly wanted.

He was brave—brave enough to let me go when I wasn’t ready, brave enough to offer me his quiet strength even as he battled his own scars. And now it was my turn. I could be brave, too. For him. For me. For the future I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine.

The night folded in closer, the world around us shrinking until it felt like there was only him, only me. I could barely breathe as I asked, “What if you didn’t have to hold back?”

His hand tightened around mine, and I could hear the struggle in his breath, the tiny hitch in his throat. For a moment, he didn't say anything; he just watched me intently before his voice emerged, quiet and rough, like stone grinding against stone.

“I will not touch you, Soraya,” he said.

I blinked up at him in shock, confusion writ across my features. Of course, I had ruined it. The realization felt like plunging into ice water.

I stood so abruptly that I nearly tipped the tankard. “I—I'm sorry. I should just—”

I spun on my heel, heart pounding in my ears. Embarrassment engulfed me, burning hotter than the forge fire we’d tended together, hotter than the molten regret pressing against my ribs. My feet moved on instinct—one step, then another.

Just get away, Soraya. Get away before you make it worse —

But I barely made it a few steps before a massive hand caught my arm.

Vorgath was fast. Too fast for someone his size. He pulled me—gently but firmly—into the shadows of a nearby alley, so quickly that I didn’t even have the breath to protest. Damp stone pressed cool against my back, the noise of the festival muffled beyond the alley’s narrow walls. The smells of night air and cooling metal clashed with the scent of him—leather and forge smoke, the intoxicating, earthy scent of the man who held me now, caging me in with his body.

“You didn’t let me finish,” he growled.

I stopped struggling, though my heart did not. “What else is there to say?” I whispered.

His hand came up faster than I could process, not to my shoulder or wrist, but to the side of my face. His fingers hovered just a hair from my cheek in a way that almost undid me right then. It was surprising just how gentle this giant of an orc could be, the same hand that could bend metal brushing against me as if I’d break if touched too harshly.

“I won’t touch you unless you tell me to , Soraya,” he rumbled, his breath ghosting against my temple. “And unless you tell me how .”