Page 12 of Orc’s Little Human

SELENE

T he days blur together in a rhythm I don't want to acknowledge.

Thali appears each morning like clockwork, her small hands carrying plates of food that smell better than anything I've tasted in months.

She chatters while I eat, filling the silence with stories about camp life, about the time she caught her first fish, about the scar on Korrath's left tusk from when he defended their territory against raiders from the Ironjaw Clan.

I tell myself I'm only listening to gather information.

Knowledge about this place, these people, might prove useful later.

But the truth sits heavier in my chest—I'm starting to look forward to her visits.

Starting to anticipate the way her amber eyes light up when she discovers something new to share.

"The mynahs are building nests in the bone spires again," she announces one morning, settling cross-legged on the furs beside my makeshift bed. "Korrath says they're too stupid to realize the bones make poor foundations, but I think they like the height. They can see danger coming from up there."

She tears off a piece of dark bread, handing half to me while keeping the other for herself. It's become our routine—sharing meals like equals rather than captor and captive. The gesture should mean nothing, but something warm unfurls in my chest each time she does it.

"Smart birds," I manage, though my throat feels tight. When was the last time someone shared food with me? When was the last time anyone treated me like I mattered enough to include in their daily rituals?

Don't think about it. Don't let this matter.

But Thali makes it impossible to maintain distance.

She shows me how to weave grass into simple patterns, her small fingers patient as she corrects my clumsy attempts.

She brings me smooth stones from the creek, each one carefully selected for its color or interesting markings.

What they mean, like ones for good luck or a strong harvest or friendship.

That last one catches in my throat when she says it, looking at me with complete certainty. As if friendship is just another fact of nature, like sunrise or the changing tides.

"I don't have friends," I tell her quietly, but she just tilts her head like she doesn't understand the concept of chosen solitude.

"Everyone has friends. Even Korrath has Varok, though they argue more than they agree."

The mention of her brother sends familiar tension through my shoulders.

Korrath remains a constant, looming presence even when he's not in the room.

I hear his voice through the walls—deep, commanding, always edged with authority that brooks no contradiction.

Sometimes he passes through the main room while Thali and I are talking, his golden eyes sweeping over us with unreadable intensity before he continues about his business.

He never speaks to me directly. Never acknowledges my existence beyond ensuring I'm still breathing and contained. But I feel his attention like weight against my skin, heavy and assessing.

"Tell me about the shells again," Thali says, pulling my focus back to safer ground. "The ones that sing when the wind blows through them."

So I do. I tell her about conch shells large enough to hold in two hands, about the haunting sounds they make when air passes through their spiral chambers.

I describe tide pools filled with creatures that build their homes from calcium and time, tiny architects creating beauty without conscious thought.

Her eyes grow wide with wonder, and something inside me cracks a little more.

This is dangerous. You're getting attached.

But knowing the risk doesn't stop me from continuing the stories, from watching her face light up with each new detail. Doesn't stop the warmth that spreads through my chest when she laughs at my description of hermit crabs fighting over prime real estate.

Three days later, she suggests we sneak out to find our own shells.

"There's a stream just past the eastern palisade," she whispers, even though Korrath left hours ago to oversee weapon training. "It flows down from the mountains and there's always interesting things washed up along the banks."

My first instinct is absolute refusal. I've seen enough of this camp to know it's filled with violence barely held in check.

Men who would view an escaped human as entertainment, children who've been raised to see cruelty as normal.

The thought of Thali exposed to that kind of danger makes my stomach clench.

But she's already moving toward the door, excitement vibrating through her small frame like contained lightning.

"Wait." The word comes out sharper than intended, and she turns back with curious eyes. "If we're going, we stay together. And we come straight back here afterward."

Her grin could outshine the sun. "You mean it? You'll come with me?"

What am I doing?

But I'm already nodding, already following her toward the door because the alternative—letting her go alone—is unthinkable.

Whatever maternal instincts I thought the camps had beaten out of me stir to protective life.

She's not my responsibility, not my concern, but the thought of something happening to her while I sat safely in this room makes my hands shake.

The stream turns out to be a narrow ribbon of clear water cutting through dark stone, its banks littered with exactly the kind of treasures Thali hoped to find.

Smooth river rocks in shades of gray and brown, fragments of what might once have been pottery, and yes—shells.

Not the large ocean specimens from my stories, but delicate freshwater varieties that catch the afternoon light like tiny jewels.

Thali wades in without hesitation, her bare feet sure on the slippery stones. I stay on the bank, eyes constantly scanning our surroundings for threats while she searches for perfect specimens.

"Look at this one!" She holds up a shell no bigger than my thumbnail, its surface striped with bands of cream and amber. "It's like it's wearing little rings."

Despite my nerves, I find myself smiling at her enthusiasm. She approaches everything with such pure joy, such complete faith that the world exists to provide her with small wonders. It's heartbreaking and beautiful and completely at odds with everything I know about survival.

We spend perhaps an hour by the water, Thali building a collection of treasures while I keep watch. When voices echo from somewhere deeper in the camp, I make the call to head back. She doesn't argue—maybe she senses my tension, or maybe she simply trusts my judgment.

The walk back to the longhouse passes without incident, but I don't truly relax until we're safely inside. Only then do I realize how tightly I was holding myself, how ready I was to fight anyone who threatened her.

When did I start caring this much?

Thali spreads her new collection on the table, arranging shells and stones with careful precision. She's humming under her breath—some orc melody I don't recognize—and the sound fills the space with unexpected warmth.

That's when Korrath returns.

I hear his boots on the steps outside, the familiar weight of his presence approaching. Thali looks up from her treasures, a smile already blooming across her face.

"Korrath! Look what we found by the stream. Selene helped me pick out the best ones and she knows so much about?—"

The door opens and he fills the frame, all six-foot-nine of controlled power and barely contained violence. His golden eyes sweep the scene—the shells scattered across the table, Thali's excited chatter, my position near the window where I was pretending to study the view.

Those eyes find mine and hold for a heartbeat. There's something different in his expression, some shift I can't quite identify. Not anger, exactly, but a kind of wary assessment that makes my skin prickle.

"You went to the stream," he says. Not a question.

Thali nods enthusiastically, apparently missing the undercurrents in his tone. "Selene came with me. She made sure we stayed safe and came right back. She knows all about shells and water creatures and?—"

"Did she?"

This time his attention fixes on me completely, and I force myself to meet that burning gaze without flinching. Whatever game we're playing here, showing weakness isn't an option.

"The camp is dangerous," I say quietly. "For her."

Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, or approval. It's gone too quickly to be sure.

"It is," he agrees, and there's something almost like respect in his voice. "Good that you understand that."

He moves deeper into the room, his massive frame somehow managing not to dominate the space completely.

When he settles into his usual chair, it's with the fluid grace of a predator conserving energy.

But his eyes remain on Thali, watching her arrange her treasures with an expression so tender it stops my breath.

This is the man who terrifies his enemies, who can shape metal with blood and will. But when he looks at his sister, all that violence transforms into something else entirely. Something protective and fierce and utterly devoted.

"Show me what you found," he says, and his voice gentles in a way I didn't know it could.

Thali launches into animated descriptions of each shell, her small hands gesturing wildly as she explains the significance of every find. Korrath listens with complete attention, asking questions that encourage her enthusiasm rather than dampening it.

I should feel like an intruder watching this moment. Should retreat to my room and leave them to their family ritual. But I find myself frozen in place, unable to look away from this glimpse of who Korrath becomes when the armor comes off.

He notices my attention, of course. Those golden eyes flick toward me briefly, catching me in the act of staring. But instead of the usual cold assessment, there's something almost like acknowledgment in his gaze. As if he's recognizing something in me that wasn't there before.

He sees that I care about her.

The realization should terrify me. Caring about anything in this place is weakness, a vulnerability that can be exploited. But as I watch him listen to Thali's excited chatter, see the way his entire posture softens around her, I understand something fundamental about the dynamic in this longhouse.

He's not keeping me here as a prisoner or a plaything. He's keeping me here because somehow, inexplicably, I've become part of whatever fragile ecosystem exists between him and Thali. Part of the careful balance that lets her remain a child despite growing up surrounded by violence.

The thought should horrify me. Should send me running for the nearest exit because being needed is just another kind of chain. But as Thali holds up another shell for his inspection, her face glowing with pride when he nods approval, I find myself settling deeper into my chair.

Just for now. Just until I figure out what comes next.