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ROGAR

T ime pass like water through cupped hands, each one bringing changes I couldn't have anticipated when I first laid eyes on Zahra's defiant form in the wasteland. The dark elf assault never materialized—due to our preemptive strike. They will probably come back but not so soon.

But Zahra didn't escape. She stayed, and in staying, she's transformed not just herself but the entire fabric of clan life.

I watch her now through the smoke of the evening cooking fires, noting how naturally she moves among my warriors.

Thresh hangs on her every word as she demonstrates a knife-fighting technique learned in Liiandor's back alleys.

Vex nods thoughtful approval as she explains the weaknesses in dark elf armor construction.

Even Karg, his pride still wounded from their combat but his respect grudgingly earned, listens when she speaks of tactical matters.

She's become what I never dared hope for—not just accepted, but valued.

"Brooding again, Chieftain?" Grimna settles beside me with the casual ease of decades-old friendship. "That's becoming quite the habit."

"Observing," I correct, though the distinction feels thin. "There's a stark difference."

"Is there?" My second-in-command follows my gaze to where Zahra laughs at something Khela has said, the sound bright as mountain streams. "She's settling in well."

An understatement. Zahra has proven herself in ways that would take most outsiders months to achieve.

She's mastered the intricacies of clan politics, learned to navigate the subtle hierarchies that govern warrior society, and demonstrated tactical insights that have improved our defensive strategies.

More than that, she's begun to heal.

The haunted expression that shadowed her features during those first days has given way to something approaching peace.

Her nightmares have grown less frequent, her startled responses to unexpected sounds less pronounced.

The war paint Khela taught her to apply has become a daily ritual, marking her transformation from refugee to recognized clan member.

And yet, something remains unfinished between us.

"The claiming words you spoke," Grimna says, his voice carefully neutral. "Have you acted on them?"

Heat floods my chest at the question. The claiming I declared before the war council carries legal and cultural weight among our people, but it remains incomplete without physical consummation.

In the chaos of preparing for battle and the subsequent days of adjustment, we've had little opportunity for private conversation, much less intimate contact.

"These things take time," I mutter.

"Do they? Or are you making excuses because the idea of vulnerability terrifies you more than facing a dozen dark elf sorcerers?"

The observation hits uncomfortably close to truth.

I've led warriors into hopeless battles without hesitation, faced death with the calm acceptance that leadership demands.

But the thought of opening my heart to someone who could disappear from my life as suddenly as she entered it. .. that prospect makes my hands shake.

"She's been through trauma," I say. "Pushing for intimacy before she's ready would be cruel."

"And how do you know she's not ready? Have you asked?"

I haven't, of course. Despite my declaration of claiming, despite the way she responded to those words, I've maintained careful distance. Protective, yes. Possessive in my thoughts, certainly. But I haven't dared test whether the connection I feel might be reciprocated.

"Coward," Grimna says with the blunt honesty only old friends can manage.

"Careful," I growl.

"Truthful. You've claimed her before the clan, marked her as yours in ways that carry serious implications.

But you haven't made the claim real, haven't given her the chance to accept or reject it freely.

" He shakes his grizzled head. "That's not protection, Rogar.

That's cowardice disguised as consideration. "

Movement near the cooking fires draws my attention before I can formulate a response.

Zahra has risen from her conversation with the other warriors, her gaze scanning the gathering until it finds mine across the flickering light.

Something passes between us in that moment—recognition, perhaps, or invitation.

She approaches with measured steps, her war paint gleaming in the firelight. The patterns Khela taught her have become more elaborate over the past week, incorporating symbols of her own design.

"Chieftain," she says, settling beside me with fluid grace. "Planning tomorrow's patrol routes?"

"Something like that." The casual question doesn't fool me—there's tension in her shoulders, purpose behind her approach. "Is there something you need?"

"Actually, yes." She meets my gaze directly, those dark amber eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "I need to speak with you privately. About the claiming words you spoke."

My pulse quickens despite every effort at composure. "What about them?"

"Whether you meant them." Her voice carries steady resolve despite the vulnerability lurking beneath. "And if so, what you intend to do about it."

Grimna's snort of amusement draws sharp looks from both of us. "I believe that's my cue to find urgent business elsewhere," he says, rising with exaggerated dignity. "Good evening, Chieftain. Lady Zahra."

The formal address makes her blink in surprise. Among the Stormfang, such titles are reserved for recognized mates of clan leadership—wives in truth as well as law. Grimna's words carry the weight of assumption, marking his belief that the claiming will be completed.

"We should talk," Zahra says once he's beyond hearing range.

"Yes," I agree, rising and offering my hand. "We should."

She accepts the gesture, her fingers small and warm against my calloused palm.

The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, a reminder of how carefully I've been avoiding such simple touches.

Leading her through the settlement toward my private quarters feels like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.

My tent reflects the pragmatic simplicity that governs most aspects of clan life—sleeping furs arranged around a central fire pit, weapons and armor organized with military precision, maps and tactical documents stacked on a low table.

It's the space of someone who lives for duty rather than comfort.

But as Zahra's presence fills the chamber, it suddenly feels more like a home than a command post.

"Impressive," she says, studying the detailed maps that cover every surface. "You've marked patrol routes, defensive positions, supply caches... you really do think of everything."

"Leadership requires preparation for every contingency."

"Even for conversations like this one?"

The gentle teasing in her voice makes my chest tighten. "Especially for conversations like this one."

She moves to the fire pit's edge, the flames casting dancing shadows across her painted features. "Then you know what I'm going to ask."

"I know what I hope you'll ask."

"The claiming words—did you mean them as legal formality or something more personal?"

The direct question demands an equally direct answer, even if honesty exposes vulnerabilities I've spent years learning to hide. "Personal," I say. "Very personal."

Relief flickers across her expression before she nods. "Good. Because I've been thinking about what Khela told me, about what those words mean in orcish tradition."

"And?"

"That claiming works both ways. That you're as much mine as I am yours. We’ve had talks." She turns to face me fully, firelight playing across the war paint that marks her as warrior-born. "Is that true?"

"Yes." The word emerges rougher than intended, weighted with implications I'm only beginning to understand.

"Then I need you to know something." She steps closer that I can smell the leather and steel scent that clings to her skin. "I've never belonged to anyone willingly. Never chosen to trust someone with power over my life and heart."

"Zahra—"

"I'm not finished." Her hand rises to silence my interruption. "I've spent years learning that survival means self-reliance, that depending on others leads to betrayal and pain. But these past weeks... you've shown me something different."

"What?"

"That strength can protect instead of dominance. That power can serve instead of consume." She reaches up to trace the tribal tattoos that mark my shoulders, her touch feather-light against my skin. "That maybe, just maybe, I can trust someone with the pieces of myself I've kept hidden."

The admission breaks something loose in my chest, a knot of tension I've carried since the moment I first claimed her. She's choosing this—choosing me—not from desperation or gratitude, but from genuine desire for connection.

"Are you certain?" The question scrapes from my throat like ground glass. "Once claimed, the bond isn't easily broken. You'd be mine in truth, subject to clan law and warrior tradition."

"And you'd be mine," she counters, "subject to my expectations and standards. Bound to protect not just my body, but my heart." Her smile holds wicked promise. "I think I can live with those terms."

The space between us evaporates as if it never existed. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing the war paint that marks her transformation from victim to warrior. She feels impossibly delicate beneath my touch, yet I know the steel that lies beneath her soft skin.

"Zahra," I whisper, her name a prayer and promise combined.

"Rogar." She rises on her toes, bringing our faces level. "Stop talking and kiss me."

The command breaks my restraint like a dam bursting under spring floods. My mouth claims hers with weeks of suppressed hunger, years of loneliness finding solace in her willing response. She tastes like courage and defiance, like hope tempered by hard-won wisdom.