Page 5

Chapter 4

M y 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. I stumbled 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 leading inside 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.”

My heart raced, not just from the effort but from his closeness. The warmth of his breath lingered near my ear, and I couldn't ignore the way his touch affected me—steadying my hand but unsettling everything else.

“Now, lift,” he instructed. “Slowly.”

I did as he said, my muscles straining as I lifted the hammer again, but this time, it felt different—easier, more controlled. Vorgath didn’t release my hand, keeping it steady and making sure I understood the movement.

“Better,” he murmured, his breath warm against the top of my head. “Feel the difference?”

I nodded, swallowing hard, my throat dry, my eyes on our hands. I couldn’t bring myself to speak, afraid that my voice might betray this unexpected attraction, this sudden awareness of him that I hadn’t anticipated.

Vorgath lingered for a moment longer before finally releasing my hand. He stepped back, the space between us widening, but the tension hung in the air, thick and heavy.

“Again,” he commanded.

I swung the hammer down, its weight no longer feeling quite as overwhelming as it had just moments ago. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the forge, and this time, instead of frustration, I felt a spark of something else—triumph.

“Again,” he repeated, his voice as steady as ever.

I lifted the hammer once more, the motion coming a little easier now, the rhythm starting to make sense in my body. I could feel the power in the swing, the way the hammer did most of the work as it crashed down onto the anvil. The sound it made was strong, resonant, like a song I was starting to understand.

“Again.”

I couldn't help it—suddenly, I was laughing. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, surprising even myself. I was doing it. I was actually doing it. The realization filled me with a kind of giddy exhilaration, and I swung the hammer down again, harder this time, just to prove to myself that it wasn’t a fluke.

“Again,” Vorgath said, a little more insistent, but there was a different note in his voice now—a hint of something lighter, maybe even amused.

I looked over at him, my breath coming in quick, excited bursts, and caught the smallest glint of something in his dark eyes. Was it understanding? Or maybe pride? Whatever it was, it made my laughter grow louder, the joy of this moment flooding through me, pushing out the doubt and frustration that had weighed me down earlier. I swung the hammer with all my might, the clang ringing out clear and strong. My arms were burning, my muscles trembling from the effort, but I didn’t care. I felt powerful, like I was channeling all the strength I had into this one simple act.

And despite his stern commands, despite the unyielding expression on his face, I could see it now—the twinkle in his eyes, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth. Vorgath was pushing me, testing me, but he was also watching me succeed, and in that moment, there was a connection between us, an unspoken understanding.

The hammer came down again and again, each swing building on the last, each one a step toward something new, something I hadn’t believed I could do before. My laughter mingled with the sound of metal on metal, and before long, I was breathless, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming rush of finally, finally feeling like I could do this.

“Again,” he said, but this time, his voice was almost gentle.

I turned to look at him, my chest heaving, my face flushed from exertion, and I saw it clearly—Vorgath was smiling. It wasn’t a big smile, just a small, satisfied quirk of his lips, but it was there, and it was real.

And I swung the hammer. Again.

As the day wore on, my initial excitement gave way to a bone-deep exhaustion I'd never experienced before. Every muscle in my body ached, and my hands felt like they'd been through a meat grinder. My clothes—a simple linen dress, its sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and worn leather boots that pinched at my toes—were covered in ash and streaks of soot despite the thick apron Vorgath had given me. My hair, usually tied back neatly, had escaped its braid, strands sticking to my sweaty forehead and neck. But I kept at it, determined to prove to Vorgath—and to myself—that I could handle this.

Vorgath moved around the forge, his presence a constant reminder of why I was here. He didn't hover, exactly, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching, assessing. Occasionally, he'd grunt out a correction or demonstration, his movements fluid and practiced where mine were still clumsy and uncertain.

“Elbow higher,” he'd say, or “Watch your stance.”

I'd nod, adjust, and carry on, trying to ignore the way my arms trembled with fatigue.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the forge, I finally allowed myself to lower the hammer. My hands, calloused from years of needlework but unused to this kind of labor, ached fiercely. The blisters that had begun as tender pinpricks that morning had burst open, leaving raw, angry patches, and I couldn't quite stop them from shaking. I tried to hide it, clenching my fists at my sides, but Vorgath's sharp eyes missed nothing.

He grunted, disappearing into a back room for a moment before returning with a small clay jar.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a nearby bench.

I didn’t argue, collapsing onto the worn wood with a grateful sigh and leaning back against the wall, letting my eyes close for a brief second. The sweat on my brow cooled in the evening air, and I could feel the dust settling on my skin, mingling with the lingering heat. Every muscle in my body throbbed, but the pain felt strangely satisfying, like I’d earned it.

When I opened my eyes again, Vorgath was kneeling in front of me, the jar in one hand. I hadn’t expected him to be so close, and the suddenness of it made my breath catch in my throat. Without a word, he took one of my hands in his, turning it over to inspect the damage. His touch was gentler than I had expected, careful even, his fingers warm and rough but not uncomfortable.

“You should have said something,” he muttered, unscrewing the lid of the jar.

I shrugged, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my shoulders. “I didn't want to seem weak.”

Vorgath's eyes met mine, and I saw, for the first time, flecks of gold in his dark irises. “Admitting pain is not weakness. Ignoring it is foolishness.”

Before I could respond, he dipped his fingers into the jar and began applying the salve to my battered hands. His fingers moved with surprising care, tracing the lines of my palms, smoothing over each blister. The slow, deliberate way he worked made it impossible to ignore how close we were, how intimate this moment felt.

“What is it?” I asked in an effort to diffuse the tension, gesturing to the clay jar that now sat on the bench between us. “The salve, I mean. What's in it?”

Vorgath's eyes remained focused on his task, his large fingers surprisingly deft as they worked the cool ointment into my skin. “Aloe. Comfrey. Witch hazel,” he replied. “Old orc remedy.”

“I didn't know orcs had their own medicinal traditions.”

He glanced up at me then, one eyebrow raised. “There's much you don't know about orcs.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, embarrassment tightening my chest. “You're right,” I admitted. “I'm sorry if I've offended you.”

Vorgath shook his head slightly, returning his attention to my hands. “No offense taken.”

After a pause, he spoke again. “There’s an orc healer in Everwood now. Kazrek.”

I glanced up, surprised. “Really?”

Vorgath nodded. “He was a battlefield medic, but he’s found his place here now, in the peace.”

“Why didn’t I know that?” I muttered, more to myself than to Vorgath. The orcs had played such a pivotal role in the war, yet I realized how little I knew about them, about their culture, their traditions.

“You’ve never needed to,” Vorgath said simply. “But if you do, Kazrek's not far from the Artisan’s Quarter. He’s a good one to know.”

I processed that, turning the thought over in my mind. Orcs were warriors, fierce and solitary—at least, that’s how I’d always heard them described. But here was Vorgath, a craftsman, and Kazrek, a healer. What else didn’t I know?

As Vorgath continued to tend to my hands, I found my gaze drawn to the intricate patterns etched into the skin of his forearms, dark lines swirling and intertwining. Without thinking, I reached out with my free hand, my fingertips hovering just above his skin.

“And your tattoos?” I asked. “Are they also an orc tradition?”

Vorgath's hands stilled, his eyes flicking to where my fingers hovered near his arm. For a moment, I thought I'd overstepped, but then he slowly turned his arm, allowing me a better view.

“They are... reminders,” he said finally.

“I understand,” I said softly, thinking of my own reminders—the empty side of the bed, the forge that stood silent for so long, Elias's eyes that looked so much like his father's. The grief I carried wasn’t marked on my skin like his, but it was no less permanent.

“Pain shapes us,” he said. “It is not to be forgotten but learned from.”

I looked up at him then, really looked. The scars crisscrossing his face, the weariness in his eyes—they spoke of a painful past. I hadn’t asked about his role in the war, hadn’t dared to, but now, sitting here beside him, I could see how much it had cost him, how it lingered beneath the surface. I saw beyond the gruff exterior to the man underneath, someone who, like me, was trying to rebuild a life from the ashes of the old one. The forge, the weapons, even the solitude of his cabin—it was all part of that rebuilding, the same way I was trying to find my own way after everything I’d lost.

It left me with a sense of kinship I hadn’t expected to feel. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

We sat there for a moment, and there was something comforting in the stillness, in the way neither of us felt the need to fill the space with more conversation. It was enough, this quiet acknowledgment of what we both carried.

Then, almost reluctantly, Vorgath turned his attention back to my hands, applying the last of the salve with gentle strokes. The cool ointment soothed my raw skin, easing the sharp sting that had been biting at me for hours.

As he finished, I flexed my fingers experimentally, marveling at how the pain had already begun to subside. “Thank you,” I said, offering him a small smile. “For everything.”

Vorgath nodded as he screwed the lid back onto the jar. “Rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow will be harder.”

I stood as well, wincing as my muscles protested the movement, every ache reminding me of how new this work was to me. “I'll be ready,” I assured him, even though the stiffness in my limbs made me doubt the truth of my own words.

As I gathered my things and prepared to leave, I caught Vorgath watching me, his face revealing nothing.

“Soraya,” he said, just as I reached the door.

I turned back, a flutter of nerves in my chest at the sound of my name on his lips. “Yes?”

“You did well today,” he said.

The praise warmed me, a rare acknowledgment that left me nodding, words of gratitude stuck in my throat.

As I stepped out onto the path that would take me back to town, the sounds of the forest surrounded me—soft rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, and the steady whisper of the wind through the trees. I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders as the warmth of the forge faded into the cool night.

It would be a long walk home, winding through the quiet forest before I reached the outskirts of Everwood. I could already picture my small cottage waiting for me, the soft glow of the charmstone lighting the way, its wards offering a familiar sense of security. Despite the distance, the thought of it brought a small measure of comfort.

As tired as I was, despite the aches and blisters and the lingering uncertainty, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow’s lesson—and whatever else might come with it.