Page 11 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he blood-forge leaves me hollow for three days. Though it is nowhere the severity it usually is.

My wrist throbs where I opened the vein, the ritual scars along my tusks ache like fresh wounds, and every movement feels like pushing through thick mud.

It's always this way after a major working—the price of shaping stone and metal with nothing but will and lifeblood.

But this exhaustion runs deeper than usual, settling into my bones like a winter cold that won't break.

I should be planning the next raid, reviewing our defenses, checking weapon stores. Instead, I find myself sprawled in the main room of my longhouse, watching Thali dart between the kitchen and the human's quarters like a moss-green whirlwind.

"She likes the shells better than the stones," my sister announces, dropping into the chair across from me with the boneless grace only children possess.

Her amber eyes shine with excitement as she arranges her latest treasures on the wooden table—smooth river rocks, fragments of colored glass, and several spiral shells she must have collected from the stream beds.

"Does she." The words come out flatter than intended, but Thali doesn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

"Yes! And she knows things about them too.

Like how the big ones make sounds when you blow through them, and how some shells used to be alive.

" She picks up a particularly large specimen, holding it up to catch the lamplight.

"She told me stories about creatures that live in the water and build houses out of their own bodies. "

I grunt acknowledgment while studying my sister's animated face.

In the eight years since our parents died, I've seen her excited about new weapons, successful hunts, even the occasional pretty bauble some trader brought through camp.

But this enthusiasm feels different—warmer, more open.

Like she's finally found something that speaks to the part of her that isn't being shaped into a warrior.

The thought should please me. Should make me glad that she has someone to talk to besides blood-soaked clansmen and their endless discussions of violence. But instead, it sits in my gut like undigested meat, heavy and wrong.

"Where is she now?" I ask, though I'm not sure why the question matters.

"Getting dressed. I brought her new clothes today—well, not new, but cleaner than what she had. Human clothes are strange, Korrath. So many layers and ties and?—"

"Thali."

My sister stops mid-sentence, recognizing the tone that means she's wandering too far from the point. It's a voice I've used with her since she was barely walking, the one that says focus without crushing her spirit entirely.

"Right. Um, she should be ready soon. I thought maybe we could show her the rest of camp? She's been in that room for almost a week."

"No." The response comes without thought, automatic as breathing. "She stays in the longhouse."

"But—"

"She needs to stay here, Thali."

"I thought you said she wasn't a prisoner."

"Well, if that's what you need to see her as to keep her here, then she is."

Even as I say it, the words taste strange in my mouth.

Because if Selene is just a prisoner, why did I take her from Varok instead of letting him have his prize?

Why do I find myself listening for her voice through the walls, tension coiling in my shoulders whenever too much time passes without some sign that she's still breathing?

Thali's face scrunches into the stubborn expression I know all too well—the one that usually precedes her most spectacular acts of defiance. But before she can marshal her arguments, the door to the human's quarters opens and Selene emerges.

The sight of her stops whatever protest was forming on my sister's lips. Stops my own thoughts dead in their tracks.

She's cleaned up since that first night, hair braided back in a style that reveals the sharp angles of her face.

The clothes Thali brought fit well enough—a simple brown tunic and dark pants that don't hide the lean muscle beneath.

But it's her eyes that catch me, gray-blue like storm clouds, scanning the room with the careful attention of someone mapping escape routes and potential weapons.

Those eyes find mine for a heartbeat before sliding away, but the impact lingers like a physical blow. There's fire in that gaze—not the broken terror I expected, but something hotter and more dangerous. Something that recognizes me as a threat while refusing to submit to that recognition.

"See? Much better," Thali says, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension crackling through the air. "Now you look like... well, like you instead of a wild thing dragged in from the rain."

Selene's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but something close to it. The expression transforms her face completely, softening edges that seemed carved from stone and revealing glimpses of the woman she might have been before whatever hell she escaped from.

"Thank you," she says, and her voice carries that same careful quality as her gaze. Each word measured, tested for hidden traps before being released. "The clothes are... comfortable."

She doesn't look at me again, but I feel her awareness like heat against my skin.

She knows exactly where I'm sitting, knows that my attention hasn't wavered from her since she entered the room.

The knowledge should be uncomfortable—being watched by prey tends to make most humans either cower or attempt something foolishly brave.

Instead, she moves with fluid grace to examine Thali's collection of shells and stones, her focus apparently captured by my sister's treasures while somehow managing to keep me in her peripheral vision. It's a masterful display of situational awareness disguised as casual interest.

"This one's particularly beautiful," she says, lifting one of the spiral shells with fingers that don't quite shake. "Where did you find it?"

And just like that, Thali launches into an animated description of her morning expedition to the creek beds, complete with dramatic reenactments of her near-tumble into the water while reaching for the perfect specimen.

She gestures wildly as she speaks, her words occasionally rushing together with excitement.

I should be watching my sister—should be cataloging this new enthusiasm, this glimpse of the child she still is beneath her warrior training.

But my attention keeps drifting to the human, studying the way she listens with complete focus, how she nods encouragingly when Thali stumbles over difficult words, the careful patience in her responses.

She's playing a part. Has to be. No one survives whatever she's been through without learning to manipulate their captors, to find weak points and exploit them.

Thali's obvious affection represents the perfect leverage—a child's emotions are easily bent, easily used against those who care about them.

But watching her now, seeing the way her eyes soften when Thali laughs, how her guard drops just fractionally when faced with genuine enthusiasm... either she's the most accomplished actress I've ever encountered, or there's something real happening here.

Dangerous thinking.

I shift in my chair, the movement drawing both sets of eyes toward me. Thali's gaze holds simple curiosity—she's grown used to my brooding silences, accepts them as part of my nature. But Selene's attention lands like a physical weight, searching my face for clues about my intentions.

For a moment, we stare at each other across the space that separates predator from prey. Her chin lifts slightly, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as her version of drawing a sword. She won't back down from this silent confrontation, won't give me the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

There. That fire I glimpsed in her eyes burns brighter now, defiant and unbroken despite everything she's endured. Most humans learn to hide such emotions around orcs—we tend to view defiance as a challenge that needs crushing. But she either doesn't understand that truth or simply doesn't care.

The realization should infuriate me. Should trigger the same violent response that any challenge to my authority demands. Instead, I find myself... intrigued. Wondering how long that fire will last before reality grinds it down to ash and memory.

Wondering if I want to be the one to extinguish it, or if some part of me hopes it burns bright enough to survive.

"Korrath?" Thali's voice cuts through the strange tension building between Selene and me. "Can I show her the forge? Just the outside part where you work on small things?"

"No."

The word comes out harder than intended, sharp enough to make my sister flinch. But it has the opposite effect on Selene—her eyes narrow slightly, like she's filing away this information for future use.

She's smart. Too smart for someone who's supposed to be a broken refugee grateful for basic kindness.

"She's not leaving the longhouse," I continue, moderating my tone for Thali's sake. "Not until I say otherwise."

"But she's been good," my sister protests. "She hasn't tried to run or... or hurt anyone. And she tells such interesting stories about the outside world, about places with great waters that stretch to the horizon and?—"

"Thali."

The single word carries enough warning to silence further argument, though I can see rebellion simmering in her amber eyes. She'll push this again later, when she thinks I'm in a better mood or distracted by clan business. It's what she always does when something matters to her.

What disturbs me is realizing that the human has already learned this pattern too.

I catch the slight tightening around Selene's eyes, the way she files away this exchange for future reference.

She's reading the dynamics between Thali and me, mapping the territory of our relationship like a scout preparing for invasion.

She's dangerous. The thought should be followed by action—a knife between the ribs, a quick trip to the execution pit. Simple solutions to complex problems. But my hands remain still, and the moment passes without violence.

Because beneath the careful calculation and obvious intelligence, beneath the defiance that should be crushed before it spreads, there's something else.

Something in the way she looks at Thali—not with the calculating interest of someone planning manipulation, but with genuine warmth.

As if my sister's enthusiasm touches some part of her that still remembers what innocence looks like.

Or she's better at this game than I thought.

The uncertainty gnaws at me like an infected wound.

I pride myself on reading people quickly and accurately—it's kept me alive through more battles than I care to count.

But this human refuses to fit into any category I understand.

She's not broken enough to be dismissed, not compliant enough to be trusted, and not openly hostile enough to justify immediate execution.

She's a puzzle wrapped in contradiction, and puzzles have always been my weakness.