Page 7 of Orc’s Little Human

A perfect crescent of dark sand sheltered by towering cliff walls, scattered with shells and sea glass that catch the light like scattered jewels.

Waves foam against the shore with rhythmic persistence, their sound drowning out the noise from the encampment above.

For the first time since my capture, I feel like I can breathe properly.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Thali drops to her knees beside a tide pool, already searching for treasures with practiced efficiency. "I come here when Korrath gets too serious or the warriors start being stupid."

I watch her gather shells with childish enthusiasm, amber eyes bright with simple pleasure.

She arranges them by size and color, creating patterns only she understands.

When she finds a particularly perfect specimen—iridescent purple with delicate ridges—she holds it up for my approval like it's precious beyond measure.

"This one's special. Feel how smooth it is."

Despite every instinct warning me against lowering my guard, I find myself kneeling beside her in the sand. The shell is smooth, worn by countless tides into something approaching perfection. Holding it feels like touching a piece of the ocean's heart.

"It's lovely." The words come without calculation, honest appreciation for beauty that exists independent of the violence surrounding it.

Thali beams like I've given her the greatest gift imaginable. "You can keep it. As a present."

The simple generosity undoes something inside my chest, emotion threatening to spill past barriers I've built from necessity and pain. This child—this enemy child—offers friendship with the innocent directness of someone who hasn't learned that kindness can be weaponized.

Don't trust her. Don't trust anyone here. They're orcs, and you're prey.

But sitting here in the sand with salt wind tangling our hair, watching Thali arrange shells with artistic precision, it becomes harder to maintain the fear that's kept me alive this long.

She asks questions about human customs with genuine curiosity, listens to my answers with the focus of someone truly interested in learning.

When I mention gardens, she wants to know what flowers smell like.

When I describe cities, she peppers me with questions about buildings that reach toward the sky.

"Korrath took me to see Ter'shav once," she says, referring to what I assume is another settlement. "But it was mostly just bigger longhouses and more warriors. Nothing like what you're describing."

The wistful note in her voice reveals depths of loneliness I recognize too well. She's isolated here, surrounded by adults who measure worth in violence and children trained for war. No wonder she's drawn to someone who represents a different way of living.

She's lonely. And you're lonely. That doesn't make this safe.

The internal warning comes just as Thali asks another question, this one more personal than the others.

"Do human families really stay together? Even when children grow up?"

The naked vulnerability in her voice makes my throat tight. "Sometimes. When they're lucky."

"What happened to yours?"

The question I've been dreading, delivered with the innocent directness that defines her.

For a moment, I consider lying—creating some comfortable fiction about parents who died peacefully in their sleep, siblings scattered by time rather than violence.

But something about her expectant face, about the trust she's placed in a stranger who should be her enemy, demands honesty.

"They're dead." The words taste like ashes. "Soldiers came to our village when I was sixteen. My parents tried to protect us, but..." I shrug, gesture helplessly at memories that never fade. "Sometimes trying isn't enough."

Thali nods with understanding that cuts too deep for someone her age. "My parents are dead too. Mama died having me, and Papa died when I was little. Raiders killed him while he was hunting. Korrath had to become chieftain when he was barely grown."

The matter-of-fact recitation of tragedy, the way she discusses loss like discussing weather, reminds me again that suffering isn't uniquely human. This child has known grief, abandonment, the weight of growing up too fast in a world that specializes in taking away everything you love.

We're not so different.

The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, dangerous in its implications. I can't afford to see commonalities, to find connections that might weaken my resolve when survival depends on remembering exactly what these people are capable of.

But as Thali continues gathering shells with focused determination, occasionally holding up particularly beautiful specimens for my admiration, I feel something treacherous unfurling in my chest. Not trust—I'm not that foolish yet.

But the first tentative threads of something that might, given time and safety I don't possess, grow into genuine affection.

You're being an idiot. This is how they break you—not with violence, but with kindness that makes you forget they're the enemy.

Yet when Thali loops her arm through mine with casual affection, pointing out a family of sea birds nesting in the cliff face, I don't pull away. The contact feels natural, comforting in ways I'd forgotten were possible.

Fear and loneliness gnaw at my resolve with patient persistence, wearing down walls I've built from necessity and bitter experience. This child offers something I haven't had in years—companionship without conditions, conversation without hidden agendas, the simple pleasure of shared discovery.

Don't soften. Don't forget what you are here. One wrong move and you're dead.

But as we climb back up the cliff face with pockets full of shells and sea glass, Thali chattering about the patterns she plans to make with her treasures, I find myself smiling despite every warning screaming in my head.