Page 5 of Orc’s Little Human
My sister moves like liquid shadow despite her youth, already displaying the natural grace that marks our bloodline.
She pauses outside the third door down, the one I barred with my own hands last night, and produces something from the folds of her tunic.
A key—where in the depths did she get a key?
"Thali."
My voice cuts through the morning quiet like drawn steel.
She freezes mid-reach toward the lock, shoulders hunching with guilt that would be comical if I weren't so stunned by her audacity.
Slowly, she turns to face me, amber-gold eyes wide with the kind of innocence that fools everyone except the brother who raised her.
"Oh. Morning, Korrath." She attempts a smile that doesn't quite hide the stubborn set of her jaw. "You're up early."
"What are you doing?"
The question comes out sharper than intended, carrying the edge of authority that makes seasoned warriors step back.
But Thali is nine years old and fearless in the way only children can be.
Instead of wilting under my glare, she straightens her spine and lifts her chin—a gesture so reminiscent of our father that something twists in my chest.
"Someone has to take care of her." She gestures toward the barred door with righteous indignation. "You locked her up without food or water. That's not how we treat guests."
"She's not a guest, Thali. She's?—"
"What? A prisoner?" Her voice climbs an octave, taking on the righteous fury that surfaces whenever she encounters something that offends her sense of justice. "Then why aren't you feeding your prisoner? Even captured enemies get bread and water, Korrath. You taught me that."
The accusation hits like a physical blow, driving home just how completely I've failed to think this through.
Yesterday's impulse to protect her from Varok seemed so clear, so necessary.
Lock her away, keep her safe, figure out the rest later.
But I never considered the basics—food, water, the simple human needs that separate captivity from slow execution.
I scrub both hands down my face, feeling every one of my thirty-two years pressing against my shoulders like ancestral ghosts. "She's not a prisoner."
"Then what is she?"
The question hangs between us, deceptively simple yet impossible to answer.
What is Selene? Not prisoner, not guest, not slave—something undefined that exists in the spaces between classifications.
The human woman who looked at me without fear, who carries herself like broken nobility, who makes my blood sing with protective rage I don't understand.
"I don't know." The admission tastes like defeat on my tongue.
Thali studies me with the unsettling perception that marks our bloodline, reading emotions I thought I'd hidden behind stoic resolve. Her expression softens from indignation to something dangerously close to pity, and I realize how far I've fallen when a nine-year-old feels sorry for me.
"She's scared, Korrath. And hungry. I heard her stomach growling through the door."
Of course she did. My sister has always possessed hearing sharp enough to catch whispered conversations three longhouses away, a gift that's saved us from more than one midnight attack. If Selene's suffering, Thali would know about it before anyone else.
"You can't just keep her locked up forever," she continues, warming to her theme with the passion of youth convinced it knows better than experience. "That's what cowards do. Are you a coward?"
The question stings more than it should, carrying echoes of childhood taunts and coming-of-age trials where weakness meant death. I am many things—killer, chieftain, keeper of blood-forge magic that marks me as both blessed and cursed—but coward has never been among them.
"No."
"Then why are you acting like one?"
Because admitting what I really want would destroy everything we've built here.
Because showing interest in a human female makes me vulnerable in ways that could get us all killed.
Because the moment I acknowledge that Selene means something to me, Varok will use that knowledge like a weapon aimed at my throat.
But I can't say any of that to Thali. She sees the world in absolutes—right and wrong, kind and cruel, brave and cowardly. The complex calculations that govern clan leadership would only confuse her, steal away the innocence that's one of the few pure things left in this blood-soaked place.
"It's complicated."
"No, it's not." She crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture that transforms her from child to miniature warrior in the span of a heartbeat. "You like her. She needs help. Help her."
The simplicity of it almost makes me laugh—would, if the situation weren't so completely fucked beyond repair. In Thali's world, attraction equals action, need demands response. She hasn't learned yet that desire can be poison, that showing weakness invites death.
But maybe she has a point about the immediate problem. Keeping Selene locked away without basic necessities serves no purpose except demonstrating my complete inability to plan beyond the next impulse. If I'm going to protect her, I need to do it properly.
"Fine." The word scrapes out of my throat like ground glass. "She doesn't have to stay locked up. But—" I hold up a hand before Thali can explode into celebration, "—she's your responsibility. You watch her, you keep her safe, you make sure she doesn't try to escape. Can you handle that?"
The grin that splits her face could outshine the morning sun, pure joy radiating from every inch of her small frame. For a moment, she looks exactly like she did at only a year old, before the weight of our father's death settled onto shoulders too young to bear it.
"I can handle it. I promise, Korrath. I'll take good care of her."
The earnest sincerity in her voice makes my chest tighten with emotions I can't afford to examine too closely.
This is what I've been trying to protect—not just Thali's life, but her capacity for happiness in a world that specializes in crushing hope.
She gets lonely here among warriors who measure worth in scars and strength, surrounded by adults who've forgotten how to laugh without cruelty.
Maybe having Selene around will help with that loneliness. Maybe they'll find some common ground in being strong females in a place built for violence. Maybe I'm grasping at justifications because I can't bear the thought of locking either of them away.
"Good." I force authority back into my voice, even as guilt gnaws at my ribs like hungry wolves. "But Thali—if anything happens, if she tries to run or hurt someone or cause trouble, you come find me immediately. Understood?"
"Understood." She bounces on her toes, already reaching for that mysterious key again. "Can I go get her now? She must be starving."
The eagerness in her voice reminds me exactly why this arrangement terrifies me.
Thali doesn't see enemies or threats—she sees potential friends, kindred spirits, someone who might fill the hollow spaces that clan life leaves in a child's heart.
She's going to get attached, and when this inevitably goes wrong, it'll shatter something precious I've spent years trying to preserve.
But the alternative is worse. Leaving Selene locked away like a forgotten trophy serves no one, protects nothing, accomplishes less than nothing. At least this way, I can pretend I'm showing mercy instead of weakness.
"Go ahead." I step aside, gesture toward the door that's become the center of my personal hell. "But feed her first. And find her proper clothes—something that fits."
Thali nods eagerly. "I'm going to like her, I think."
That's what I'm afraid of.
But I keep the thought to myself, watching my sister disappear into the room with the kind of fearless enthusiasm that both defines and terrifies me.
Through the open doorway, I catch a glimpse of copper hair and pale skin, hear the soft murmur of voices as two females who shouldn't have anything in common find each other across the divide of species and circumstance.
I should walk away. Let Thali handle whatever comes next, focus on the clan responsibilities that actually matter for our survival. Instead, I find myself frozen in place, listening to the sound of my sister's laughter filtering through stone walls.
It's been too long since I heard her laugh like that—pure and uncomplicated, free from the shadows that have haunted us both since the day our father died screaming.