Page 2 of Orc’s Little Human

KORRATH

T he human female stands rigid in the center of my warriors, chin lifted despite the terror I can smell rolling off her in waves. Blood streaks her pale skin, dirt cakes her copper hair, and those gray-blue eyes burn with a defiance that should have died in whatever hell she crawled out of.

She should be cowering. Should be begging.

Instead, she meets Varok's predatory stare like she's the one holding the blade.

Something twists in my chest—recognition, maybe. Or respect for prey that refuses to break even when the wolves circle. Either way, it makes me act before thought can catch up.

"I get first look at the spoils."

The words leave my mouth before I fully understand why I'm speaking them. My voice cuts through the crowd's murmur like an axe through bone, instant and absolute. Every orc in the circle snaps to attention, their casual bloodlust replaced by wary alertness.

Varok's hand freezes inches from the girl's throat, his fingers curling into claws. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he fights against every instinct telling him to finish what he started. But even Varok isn't stupid enough to challenge me directly—not here, not in front of the entire clan.

"Of course," he grinds out, stepping back with visible reluctance.

I move through the crowd, and they part before me like water around a stone.

Eight years of leadership, eight years of spilled blood and hard choices, have taught them when to yield without question.

The girl doesn't turn to face me, but I see her shoulders tense as my footsteps echo off the rocky ground.

Smart. She knows a predator when she hears one.

I stop directly behind her, close enough to count the vertebrae visible through her torn shirt.

She's smaller than I expected—the top of her head would barely reach my chest—but there's steel in her spine that has nothing to do with size.

Her breathing stays controlled despite what has to be bone-deep exhaustion.

What the fuck am I doing?

The question hammers through my skull as I study the fragile curve of her neck, the way her hands shake despite her efforts to hide it.

She's human. Weak. A mouth to feed when we can barely sustain ourselves.

Everything about this goes against the Vraem Code that's guided every decision I've made since my parents' blood stained the stones of this very circle.

But those eyes...

"She's mine."

The declaration rolls across the gathering like thunder, final and unforgiving. Murmurs ripple through the crowd—surprise, confusion, barely concealed disapproval. I catch fragments of whispered conversations:

"...gone soft..."

"...should have left her for the worgs..."

"...weakness will be our ruin..."

The last one hits too close to home. Weakness brings ruin—first tenet of the Vraem Code. And what is this if not weakness? Letting sentiment override strategy, mercy corrupt judgment.

Varok's laugh cuts through the noise, sharp and bitter. "Generous of you, brother. Though I wonder what use a broken human has for the mighty Korrath Draegon."

The title drips with mockery, and I see several warriors shift uncomfortably. They know that tone. Know what it means when Varok decides to push boundaries that should stay fixed.

"Are you questioning my judgment?"

I let iron creep into my voice, the same tone I use before ordering executions. Varok's smirk falters, but only slightly. He's too clever to back down completely—that would show weakness in front of the clan. Too ambitious to submit without testing how far he can push.

"Never," he says, spreading his hands in surrender. "I'm simply... curious about your sudden interest in charity work."

The crowd holds its breath. Challenge and submission dance on the knife's edge, and everyone knows how quickly these moments can turn deadly. I've killed orcs for less than what Varok just implied.

But killing him now would fracture the clan. Too many warriors follow him, believe his vision of conquest over survival. Better to let him think he's won this round while I figure out what the hell I'm actually doing.

"My reasons are my own."

I reach past the girl's shoulder and grab the rope binding her wrists.

She flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away—another sign of intelligence over instinct.

The knots are tight enough to cut off circulation, and I make a mental note to find whoever tied them and demonstrate proper restraint techniques on their own wrists.

"Come."

I don't wait for a response, just turn and stride toward my longhouse. The girl stumbles but recovers quickly, matching my pace despite the obvious exhaustion weighing down her steps. Behind us, the crowd disperses with the reluctant shuffle of orcs denied entertainment.

My dwelling squats at the far end of the settlement, built into the cliff face where stone meets sky. Larger than the others—a necessity of leadership rather than luxury—but just as crude. Driftwood walls chinked with mud and scraps of hide. A roof that leaks when the storms blow in from the sea.

Home, such as it is.

I kick open the door hard enough to rattle the frame and drag the girl inside.

The main room stretches before us—rough-hewn furniture, weapons hanging from wall pegs, a fire pit that fills the space with smoke and dancing shadows.

She takes it all in with those sharp eyes, cataloging exits and potential weapons with the practiced gaze of someone who's learned to expect violence.

Definitely not just another refugee.

The thought should worry me more than it does. Instead, I find myself curious about what kind of life teaches that level of wariness. What kind of hell produces that particular combination of terror and defiance.

"This way."

I lead her down a narrow corridor lined with furs and bones—trophies from hunts, reminders of battles won and enemies defeated. She keeps close to the opposite wall, as far from me as the cramped space allows. Smart again.

The room I choose sits at the back of the longhouse, small and windowless but secure. A sleeping pallet, a wooden chest, not much else. It's where I keep things that need protecting—maps, weapons, plans that can't fall into the wrong hands.

Now, apparently, I'm adding humans to that list.

I cut her bonds with a quick slice of my blade, and she immediately starts rubbing circulation back into her wrists. Red welts mark where the rope bit deep, and I catch myself wondering how long she was tied before my warriors found her. How far she ran before exhaustion forced her to stop.

None of your business.

"Stay here," I growl, backing toward the door. "Don't try to leave. Don't try to run. My warriors would consider it entertainment to bring you back in pieces."

She nods once, sharp and businesslike. No pleading, no tears, no promises of good behavior. Just acknowledgment of reality and the terms of her survival.

I pause at the threshold, not even sure why I ask. "What is your name?"

Her voice is soft but doesn't shake. "Selene."

With a nod of my head, I slam the door behind me and slide the heavy bar into place. The sound echoes through the longhouse like a judgment, final and irrevocable. Whatever I just committed myself to, there's no taking it back now.

My boots thunder against the wooden floor as I pace the main room, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head. Twenty years of leadership. Twenty years of putting clan survival above everything else—above comfort, above mercy, above the luxury of conscience.

And I throw it all away for what? A pair of defiant eyes and spine that refuses to bend?

Strength. Blood. Kin. Earth.

The four pillars of the Vraem Code echo through my mind like a chant, like the rhythm of my parents' dying breaths.

Everything I've built, everything I've sacrificed, rests on those foundations.

They've guided every choice, every battle, every necessary cruelty that's kept my people alive in a world that wants us dead.

But which pillar does this serve? Claiming a human captive doesn't make us stronger—it makes us a target for other clans who'll see weakness where they should see strength.

It doesn't honor blood—human blood means nothing to the ancestors watching from their stone beads.

It doesn't protect kin—if anything, it puts Thalira and the others at risk.

And what does the sacred stone care for human lives?

I stop pacing and grip the edge of my table hard enough to leave dents in the wood. The grain bites into my palms, grounding me in something solid while my thoughts spiral into chaos.

So why?

The question hammers through my skull with the persistence of waves against stone. Why risk everything for a stranger? Why let instinct override decades of hard-won wisdom?

The answer hovers at the edge of consciousness, maddeningly close but impossibly distant. Something about the way she held herself in the circle. Something about that moment when she looked at Varok like she was measuring him for a grave instead of begging for her life.

Something familiar.

A scratch at the door interrupts my brooding, followed by Thalira's voice calling my name. I cross the room in three strides and yank the door open to find my sister standing on the threshold with her arms crossed and that expression that means I'm about to get lectured.

By a nine year old no less.

"What in the ancestor's names are you thinking?"