Page 13 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he morning air carries the scent of smoke and blood—familiar companions that have marked every dawn in Gor'thul for as long as I can remember.

I move through the camp with measured steps, cataloguing the rhythm of daily survival that keeps my clan breathing.

The weapon racks gleam with freshly sharpened steel.

The cooking fires burn steady and hot. Children practice their forms with wooden spears while their mothers mend nets and sharpen blades.

Everything appears as it should. Yet something sits wrong beneath my ribs, a restlessness that's been building for days like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

"Korrath." Varok's voice cuts through my inspection, his tone carrying that particular edge that means he's been waiting for this moment. "We need to discuss the human."

I don't pause in my examination of the perimeter stakes, though every muscle in my shoulders tightens. "Her name is Selene."

"Her name doesn't matter." His boots crunch on gravel as he falls into step beside me, matching my pace with the easy confidence of someone who's stood at my right hand for five years. "What matters is that she's been here too long without purpose."

The restlessness under my ribs sharpens into something with teeth. "She has purpose."

"Amusing your sister isn't purpose. It's weakness."

My hands curl into fists at my sides, the familiar burn of magic stirring beneath my skin like molten metal seeking release. But I force my voice to remain level, controlled. "Explain."

Varok stops walking, forcing me to turn and face him fully. His gray-green skin bears the ritual scars of a full warrior, tusks decorated with bands of black iron that catch the morning light. Everything about his stance speaks of challenge barely held in check.

"The clan brought spoils from the coastal raid," he says, words carefully measured. "Spoils are meant to be used. Broken. Discarded when they've served their purpose." His amber eyes narrow. "Not coddled like prized livestock."

The truth of his words hits like a blade between the ribs.

When I claimed Selene that night, standing over her defiant form while the clan watched, they expected me to drag her away and use her body until it broke.

Expected her screams to echo through the longhouse walls as proof of my dominance, her eventual death to serve as entertainment for warriors drunk on successful raiding.

The thought makes acid rise in my throat.

"She serves her purpose," I repeat, but the words taste like ash.

"By playing with shells? By teaching Thali human ways?" Varok's voice drops to something dangerous. "The men are starting to talk, Korrath. They're saying their war chief has gone soft. That you keep a human pet while they bleed for every scrap of territory we hold."

I meet his stare with golden fire, letting enough magic simmer behind my eyes to remind him exactly who he's addressing. "Let them talk. Words from weaklings carry no weight."

But even as I say it, I know he's right about the whispers.

I've felt the subtle shift in how the warriors watch me, the questioning looks when they think I'm not paying attention.

Leadership among orcs isn't granted by birthright or ceremony—it's earned through strength and maintained through fear.

Show weakness, show hesitation, and the pack will turn on you faster than starving worgs.

Varok must see something in my expression because he presses forward, scenting blood in the water. "The Vraem Code demands strength, Korrath. Your father understood that. Your grandfather understood that. What would they say about a war chief who keeps enemies alive out of sentiment?"

My father. The mention of him sends familiar pain lancing through my chest, followed immediately by rage that burns hotter than any forge.

Aldric Draegon died because he showed mercy to raiders from the Ironjaw Clan, believing their promises of peace.

They slit his throat while he slept, then came for the rest of us in the night.

I was twenty-four when I found his body, when I lifted Thali from her blood-soaked bed and felt her tiny heart beating against my chest like a terrified bird.

Twenty-four when I carved the names of our enemies into my tusks with his own blade, when I swore by stone and steel that sentiment would never make me weak again.

Yet here I stand, defending a human woman whose gray-blue eyes haunt my dreams and whose laugh makes something forgotten stir in the deepest parts of my chest.

"My father is dead," I say quietly, letting the words carry all the violence they've always held. "Which means his opinions matter less than the wind."

Varok's jaw tightens, but he knows better than to push that particular wound. Instead, he shifts tactics, going for the throat in a different way.

"Fine. Keep her if you must. But at least make use of her. The men need to see that you haven't forgotten what humans are good for." His smile turns predatory. "Break her properly and they'll respect the choice. Keep coddling her and they'll assume you've lost your edge entirely."

The magic beneath my skin flares hot enough to make my vision shimmer red.

The thought of touching Selene that way, of using my strength to shatter whatever fragile trust has built between us, makes my stomach turn.

But worse than the physical revulsion is the deeper horror—the knowledge that part of me wants her in ways that have nothing to do with dominance or conquest.

I want to hear her laugh again, want to watch her eyes soften when she looks at Thali. Want to understand the shadows that live behind her carefully maintained walls and the story written in the scars that mark her hands.

These are not the thoughts of a war chief. These are the thoughts of a man, and men get their clans killed.

"I'll handle it," I tell Varok, though I have no idea what that means.

He studies my face for a long moment, searching for weakness, for any sign that his words have found their mark. Whatever he sees there must satisfy him because he nods once, sharp and decisive.

"Council tonight. After the evening meal." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "We need to settle this before it festers any further."

He turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone among the perimeter stakes with the taste of coming conflict bitter on my tongue. Around me, the camp continues its daily rhythm, but I can feel eyes watching from the shadows. Measuring. Calculating.

The restlessness under my ribs has transformed into something sharper now, something with claws and teeth that tears at my insides.

Because Varok is right about one thing—this can't continue indefinitely.

Eventually, the clan will demand action.

Will force my hand in ways that leave no room for the careful balance I've been trying to maintain.

And when that moment comes, I'll have to choose between the woman who makes Thali smile and the authority that keeps us all alive.

The council fire burns low between us, casting shifting shadows across faces carved by violence and marked by survival.

It's a small gathering—it has to be, with a clan our size—but these four men represent every voice that matters in Gor'thul.

Every decision that shapes our future gets hammered out in this circle.

Grakul sits to my right, his scarred hands working steadily at sharpening his hunting knife. Our head scout has always been a man of few words, preferring to speak through action, but his presence here carries weight. When Grakul talks, warriors listen.

Beside him, Onog shifts restlessly, the head guard's massive frame making the log beneath him creak with protest. His tusks bear the deep grooves of a veteran fighter, someone who's earned his position through blood and bone.

Next to him, Mol, Onog's right hand, maintains his characteristic stillness, amber eyes reflecting firelight as he watches the flames dance.

And across from me, Varok waits with the patience of a hunting cat. He knows he holds the stronger position tonight, knows the others share his concerns even if they haven't voiced them yet. The knowledge sits in his posture, in the confident way he meets my gaze.

"The human has been here twelve days," he begins without preamble, his voice carrying easily in the enclosed space. "Twelve days of eating our food, sleeping under our protection, contributing nothing to the clan's survival."

"She helps with Thali," I point out, though even to my own ears the words sound weak.

"She plays with Thali," Varok corrects. "There's a difference between helping and entertainment."

Grakul looks up from his blade, weathered features thoughtful. "The girl does seem... lighter. Happier." He tests the edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. "Haven't heard her laugh that much since before the winter raids."

"Happiness is a luxury we can't afford," Varok snaps. "Not when it comes at the cost of our reputation."

"What reputation?" The question comes from Onog, surprising everyone. The head guard rarely speaks during council, preferring to listen and observe. When he does contribute, it usually carries significant weight.

Varok's eyes narrow. "The reputation that keeps other clans from testing our borders. The reputation that makes coastal traders think twice before hiring protection against us."

"They already think we're savages," Onog rumbles, his voice like grinding stone. "One human more or less won't change that."

"It's not about what they think of us," Varok snarls, frustration bleeding through his controlled facade. "It's about what we think of ourselves. About maintaining the standards that have kept this clan alive for generations."

The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling toward the smoke hole above us. In the brief flare of light, I catch Mol watching me with unreadable intensity. He hasn't spoken yet, but his silence feels loaded with unspoken judgment.

"Speak your mind, Mol," I order quietly.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he considers his words. "The men are restless," he says finally. "They see you taking spoils but not using them. They wonder if their war chief has forgotten the taste for blood."

Heat builds behind my eyes, magic responding to the implied challenge. "My taste for blood is well documented."

"Is it?" Varok seizes the opening, voice sharp as a blade. "When was the last time you killed in front of the clan? When was the last time you reminded them what happens to those who cross the Blackmaw?"

The questions hit like physical blows because he's right.

I've been leading from the shadows lately, handling threats quietly rather than making public examples.

Trying to shield Thali from the worst of what leadership requires, trying to maintain some semblance of civilization in our small corner of the longhouse.

"The human needs to serve her purpose," Varok continues, pressing his advantage. "Either break her properly so the clan sees you haven't gone soft, or kill her and move on. But this... whatever this is... it's undermining everything we've built."

"And if I refuse?" The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more challenge than I intended.

The silence that follows feels heavy as stone. Grakul's knife stills against the whetstone. Onog's massive frame goes perfectly motionless. Even Mol's breathing seems to pause as the implications of my question settle between us.

Varok's smile is all teeth and promise. "Then you'll have chosen to put one human above the welfare of your entire clan. And we'll all have to decide what that means for our future."

The threat hangs in the air like smoke, visible and choking.

Not direct enough to constitute open rebellion, but clear enough that everyone understands the stakes.

My authority rests on the consent of these men, on their belief that I can lead them to survival and victory.

Challenge that belief, and the whole structure comes tumbling down.

Magic surges beneath my skin, hot and demanding. The urge to reach for my blade, to remind them all exactly why they follow me, pounds through my veins like molten metal. But that path leads only to civil war, to the clan tearing itself apart while enemies circle like carrion birds.

Instead, I let the power build behind my eyes until they glow like forge fires in the darkness. Let it leak into my voice when I speak, turning each word into a weapon.

"I am war chief of the Blackmaw Clan," I say quietly, and the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. "I have led you through three successful raids this season. I have kept you fed, armed, and alive while larger clans bleed themselves dry fighting over scraps."

The golden fire in my gaze sweeps across each face in turn, marking them. Claiming them.

"My decisions are not subject to committee approval. If you question my judgment, challenge me properly or hold your tongues."

Grakul is the first to lower his eyes, followed quickly by Mol. Onog takes longer, but eventually his gaze drops as well. Only Varok maintains eye contact, amber meeting gold in a contest of wills that could shatter everything we've built.

Finally, he inclines his head in the barest suggestion of submission. "Of course, war chief. But the clan's concerns remain valid."

"The clan's concerns are noted," I reply, letting enough ice creep into my voice to freeze blood. "And will be addressed as I see fit."

I rise from my position by the fire, using my full height to loom over the seated figures. "Council is dismissed."

They file out in silence, but I can feel the weight of their displeasure like a physical thing. Varok is the last to leave, pausing at the entrance to look back with an expression that promises this conversation is far from over.

When I'm finally alone, I sink back down beside the dying fire and bury my face in my hands. The magic slowly ebbs from my system, leaving behind exhaustion and the bitter taste of pyrrhic victory.

I've won tonight's battle, but at the cost of isolating myself from my own inner circle. Varok will be watching for any sign of continued weakness, ready to strike the moment my authority wavers. The others will be questioning my decisions, wondering if their war chief has indeed lost his edge.

And through it all, Selene sleeps peacefully in the next room, unaware that her very existence is tearing my clan apart at the seams.