Page 4

ROGAR

F ourteen days of blazing sunrises passed in a blink.

The evening air carries the scent of roasted meat and wood smoke as I make my way through the settlement, but my attention remains fixed on the small figure hunched over a bowl near the communal fire pit.

Zahra sits apart from the other unmated warriors, close enough to benefit from the warmth but distant enough to avoid conversation.

Smart. My clan members aren't cruel by nature, but they're not quick to embrace outsiders either.

Especially human outsiders.

I settle onto a stone outcropping that gives me a clear view of the gathering without making my observation obvious. From here, I can watch how she navigates the delicate social dynamics that will determine whether she thrives or merely survives among the Stormfang.

"Brooding, Chieftain?" Grimna's gravelly voice interrupts my surveillance. My second-in-command drops down beside me with a grunt, his own bowl steaming in the cool evening air. "That's becoming a troubling habit."

"Observing," I correct. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" Grimna looks to where Zahra carefully tears apart a piece of flatbread, eating with the mechanical precision of someone who's learned not to waste food. "She handled herself well today. Khela was impressed, though she'd rather eat her own axe than admit it openly."

That draws my attention away from Zahra. "Khela was impressed?"

"Knocked the little human down thirty-seven times," Grimna says with something approaching admiration. "Thirty-seven times, she got back up. No tears, no begging, no demands for mercy. Just pure stubborn determination."

Thirty-seven. The number sits heavy in my chest, heavier than it should. I've seen seasoned warriors quit after less punishment, yet this small human female—already injured and exhausted from her escape—endured hours of brutal training without breaking.

"She's tougher than she looks," I murmur.

"Tough, yes. But tough enough?" Grimna's tone carries the weight of unspoken concerns. "The clan is talking, Rogar. Some say harboring her shows weakness, that you're thinking with your cock instead of your head."

Heat flares in my chest at the crude assessment, though I can't entirely deny its accuracy.

There's something about Zahra that calls to parts of myself I'd thought long buried beneath the responsibilities of leadership.

Something that makes me want to protect her, claim her, mark her as mine in ways that have nothing to do with practical politics.

"And what do you say?" I ask.

Grimna is quiet for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of meat. "I say that you've never been a fool, and I don't think you're starting now. But I also say that keeping her will cost us. The question is whether she's worth the price."

Across the fire pit, Thresh—barely past his warrior trials—approaches Zahra with a second bowl.

The young orc's intentions are obvious in the way he puffs out his chest and displays his still-modest tusks.

Zahra accepts the food with polite gratitude, but there's no warmth in her expression, no invitation for further interaction.

Thresh doesn't take the hint. He settles beside her without invitation, launching into what I can only assume is a recounting of his hunting prowess. Several other young warriors drift closer, drawn by the novelty of a human female in their midst.

"Idiots," Grimna mutters. "Like moths to flame."

"She can handle herself," I say, but my hand moves instinctively to the grip of my war axe. The casual gesture isn't lost on my second-in-command.

"Can she? Or are you hoping she can so you don't have to intervene and look like a possessive fool?"

The observation hits uncomfortably close to the truth.

I've spent the day fighting the urge to hover over Zahra like a protective parent, to insert myself between her and every potential threat or challenge. Such behavior would undermine both her attempts to establish independence and my own authority as an impartial leader. I don’t have any idea where this feeling is coming from.

But watching other males circle her tests the limits of my self-control.

"Tell me something, Grimna," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "In all our raids against dark elf outposts, have you ever seen a human fight back? Really fight, not just the desperate flailing of cornered prey?"

"No," he admits. "They usually cower and beg. Or try to bargain with information about their masters' weaknesses."

"Zahra didn't cower. She stood her ground and traded words with Khela like an equal. And today, she endured punishment that would break most humans without a single complaint."

"So?"

"So maybe the stories we tell about human weakness are just that—stories. Maybe we've only seen them at their worst, broken and defeated, because that's the only time we encounter them."

Grimna's silence suggests he's considering the possibility.

Around the fire pit, Thresh has moved closer to Zahra, his voice growing louder as he tries to impress her with increasingly outlandish tales of his combat prowess.

She listens with the polite attention of someone who recognizes the need to avoid offense while harboring no actual interest.

Then Karg arrives.

The older warrior carries his scars like trophies, each mark a testament to battles survived and enemies defeated.

His tusks are filed to deadly points, and his eyes hold the cold calculation of someone who's learned to see violence as a tool rather than a passion.

He's also one of the most vocal opponents of my decision to harbor Zahra.

"Little human," Karg says, his voice carrying clearly across the fire pit. "I hear you claimed to kill dark elves. Brave words for someone who spent years licking their boots."

The temperature around the fire seems to drop several degrees. Conversations falter as clan members turn to witness the confrontation. Zahra sets down her bowl with deliberate care, her movements controlled despite the obvious tension in her shoulders.

"I did what was necessary to survive," she says quietly. "Sometimes that meant submission. Sometimes it meant violence."

"And which serves you now?" Karg steps closer, looming over her seated form. "Will you submit to Stormfang authority, or do you plan to poison our food when we displease you?"

The accusation is like a rope around my neck. Around the fire pit, hands drift toward weapons as the clan waits to see how this challenge will resolve itself. Zahra could deflect with humor, appeal to my protection, or simply endure the insult in silence.

Instead, she stands.

She's tiny compared to Karg, barely reaching his chest even at full height, but something in her posture makes the size difference irrelevant. Power radiates from her small frame—not the raw physical strength that orcs respect, but the kind of inner steel that doesn't bend or break under pressure.

"I killed two dark elves," she says, her voice carrying clearly across the now-silent gathering. "Not because I enjoyed it, but because they threatened people I cared about. If anyone in this clan threatens those under my protection, they'll discover whether I'm capable of similar action."

The words are a declaration of intent as much as a response to Karg's challenge. She's not promising submission or violence—she's establishing her own code of honor, her own lines that cannot be crossed.

Karg's hand moves to his axe handle. "Threatening the clan, human?"

"Stating my position," Zahra corrects. "I won't start fights, but I'll finish them if necessary."

The standoff stretches taut as a bowstring.

Karg is well within his rights to demand satisfaction for the perceived slight, and clan law would support him in teaching this presumptuous human her place.

But something in Zahra's stance gives him pause—a confidence that suggests she's not bluffing about her willingness to fight.

"Enough."

My voice cuts through the tension like a blade through bamboo shoots. I rise from my observation post and stride toward the fire pit, my footsteps deliberately heavy on the stone. Every eye turns toward me, gauging my mood, measuring my intentions.

"Karg," I say, stopping just within arm's reach of the older warrior. "Is there a problem here?"

His scarred face twists into a scowl. "The human needs to learn respect, Chieftain. Her words border on threats against clan members."

"Do they?" I turn to study Zahra, noting the way she holds herself despite being outnumbered and outmatched. "What I heard was someone establishing boundaries. Declaring that she'll protect those who matter to her, even at personal cost. Sounds familiar, actually."

Several clan members chuckle at the comparison. It's exactly the kind of declaration a warrior might make when joining a new clan, a statement of values and intentions that establishes their place in the social hierarchy.

"She's human," Karg protests. "They don't have honor codes. They don't protect anything but their own worthless hides."

"This one killed two dark elves to protect others," I remind him. "Endured years of torture rather than betray friends. Spent today getting beaten bloody by Khela without complaint. What part of that suggests cowardice to you?"

Karg's jaw works as he searches for a response that won't sound like open defiance of his chieftain. Around the fire pit, I can see opinion shifting—not toward outright acceptance of Zahra, but toward grudging recognition that she might be more than they initially assumed.

"She stays," I continue, my voice carrying the absolute authority of command. "She trains with our warriors, eats at our fires, and sleeps under our protection. Anyone who finds that arrangement unsatisfactory is welcome to leave and find a clan more suited to their sensibilities."