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He exhales. “Possibly. Or it could be a disgruntled orc within our own ranks who hates the idea of peace with humans.” His gaze moves to me, and I see the unspoken complexity in his eyes: by forging a bond with me, he opened the door for those who’d do anything to keep the clan from joining hands with humans.

My chest tightens with empathy. He carries the weight of leadership, of a thousand decisions that could either strengthen or doom his people. “Let me know how I can help,” I offer quietly, meaning it.

His jaw works, tension rippling across his shoulders.

Before he can respond, we’re interrupted by a young orc farmhand jogging toward us, breathless.

“Chieftain! We found footprints—small, like a child’s or a lighter adult’s—near the creek.

They lead away from the orchard. Could be nothing, but… it’s odd.”

I frown, sharing a glance with Ghorzag. Small footprints might indicate a cunning saboteur, or simply a child playing near the water. But in times like these, any anomaly feeds the clan’s paranoia. “Show us,” Ghorzag orders.

We follow the farmhand across a muddied patch of ground to a shallow stream. Sure enough, faint footprints trail along the bank, then vanish into the undergrowth. My heart pounds at the implications—someone has been here, likely orchestrating the flood.

Ghorzag’s eyes darken, fists curling at his sides. “Whoever is doing this… I will find them.”

By late afternoon, we return to the fortress, minds still churning with the orchard’s mystery. Karzug awaits Ghorzag in the courtyard with urgent news of supply inventories, and they stride off together, leaving me momentarily alone by the main gate.

I am about to head toward Ragzuk’s workshop—maybe he has more tasks—when a small voice calls my name. Turning, I see Sargu, the orc boy from earlier, standing shyly a few steps away.

“Lirienne,” he repeats, more softly. “Are you busy?”

I soften my expression. “Not at the moment. What do you need?”

He shuffles his feet, eyes darting around as if making sure no one else listens. “We’re playing a game,” he says, as though admitting a secret. “A running-and-hiding game near the side yard. Could you… watch us? Make sure no one gets hurt?”

A pang of surprise flutters in my chest. The orc children want me to supervise their play? Such a mundane, normal request. “I can do that,” I agree warmly. “Lead the way.”

He beams and scampers off, beckoning me to follow. I trail behind him, weaving between tents and smaller outbuildings until we reach a walled-off side yard where half a dozen orc children play. They dart around crates and stacked barrels, squealing with delight as they attempt to tag one another.

“Make sure no one climbs the high crates,” I caution gently. “It’s too easy to slip.”

They nod, though I suspect the adrenaline of the game might override caution.

Still, I stand watch, calling out an occasional warning if someone pushes too close to a precarious stack.

The children seem startled, at times, to have a human scolding them for reckless behavior—but they also don’t argue, apparently acknowledging my genuine concern.

Midway through their rambunctious play, a tall orc youth wanders by. He looks about fourteen or fifteen in human terms—halfway to an adult in orc culture. Upon seeing me, he slows, scowling. “Why is she here?”

Sargu answers proudly, “She’s watching us, so no one gets hurt.”

The older youth snorts. “We don’t need a human babysitter.” He turns his glare on me. “Go back to your potions or whatever it is you do.”

I feel a flush creep up my neck, but I steady myself. “They asked me to supervise. If you’d rather me leave, you can take responsibility for them. Make sure they don’t break a limb.”

He falters, uncertain. Looking at the younger kids, he shrugs dismissively. “Fine. Do what you want,” he mutters, stalking away. The children don’t seem fazed; they resume their game immediately, chasing each other in circles.

It’s a start , I think, exhaling slowly. It isn’t acceptance, but at least he hasn’t tried to chase me off or pick a fight. Little by little, I’m coming to see that orcish aggression often masks deeper emotions—pride, insecurity, fear of the unknown.

As dusk falls, the children drift back to their families.

I return to my tent, wiping sweat from my brow.

The day has been surprisingly full: tending a toothache, investigating orchard sabotage, supervising a cluster of playful orc kids.

It is a bizarre tapestry of tasks, yet it all feels… oddly natural.

I light a small lantern within my tent, its warm glow illuminating the sparse interior: a bedroll, a chest for my belongings, and a sturdy table where I keep my few herbal supplies. My stomach growls—I missed the typical evening meal in the main hall.

Just as I contemplate heading out to scavenge some leftovers, a sharp rap sounds on the tent post. “Lirienne,” a low voice calls.

“Come in,” I reply, surprised.

The canvas lifts, revealing Ghorzag. He steps inside, ducking slightly to accommodate his height, the lantern’s light catching the tattoos on his broad arms. My heartbeat quickens at his sudden presence—he rarely visits me directly.

Usually, we meet in public spaces, wary of the clan’s watchful stares.

“Busy?” he asks, scanning the tent’s interior. His deep gaze flicks from the table to my bedroll, then back to me.

I shake my head, stepping aside to give him room. “No. Just thinking about food, actually.”

He half-smiles—a small twitch of his lips. “I thought you might be hungry.” He gestures behind him, and I notice a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand. “Cook saved a portion of stew and bread. I asked him to set it aside for you.”

Warmth floods my cheeks. “That’s… very considerate of you.”

He shrugs as if dismissing my gratitude, yet I catch the flicker of pride in his expression. “You’re part of the clan now, even if some refuse to see it.”

I take the bundle, unwrapping it to reveal a steaming chunk of savory meat, a slab of dense bread, and a small bowl of stew that smells heavenly. My stomach growls in earnest, and I shoot him a sheepish look. “Thank you,” I repeat, more softly this time.

He inclines his head, stepping to the side so I can set the food on my table. My tiny tent feels even smaller with him inside it. His presence looms—towering and muscular, carrying an air of quiet authority.

I find myself wanting to fill the silence, to ask about the orchard investigation or to express my gratitude for including me in the day’s activities. Yet words tangle in my throat. Instead, I motion to the table, offering, “Do you want to share any of this? If you haven’t eaten yet, that is.”

He shakes his head, crossing his arms. “I’ve eaten. The orchard kept me busy.”

Right. Concern tightens my chest. “Any new leads?”

His expression darkens. “We found evidence of deliberate digging upstream—tools left behind, footprints that might belong to a smaller orc or a halfling of some sort. Nothing conclusive, but enough to confirm sabotage.”

A chill runs through me. “So it’s definitely not just random disaster.”

He meets my gaze, eyes narrowed with grim certainty. “It seems we have a saboteur determined to incite fear and blame you for it. Or blame me for forging this alliance.”

I swallow hard, the stew’s aroma suddenly less comforting. “Are you… in danger?”

He huffs a low breath. “Danger is part of my existence as chieftain. But you—” He pauses, voice dipping. “I worry they’ll try to corner you. If you see anything strange, come to me or Karzug immediately.”

I nod. “I will.”

For a moment, we stand there, the faint glow of the lantern highlighting the etched lines of his face, the swirl of inked tattoos on his forearms. Tension and something else crackle in the air— the same pull I felt in the training yard, the unspoken awareness that neither of us can fully articulate.

“You’re handling clan life better than I expected,” he says at last, voice quieter. “I saw you with the children. And you’ve helped more warriors than I can count.”

My cheeks warm at the compliment. “I’m trying,” I whisper. “I never imagined I’d be here, in a fortress of orcs, but… I want to do right by your people, Ghorzag.”

He studies me, tusks gleaming faintly in the lantern light. “They’re our people now, if this alliance holds.”

The weight of his words presses on me. Our people. Perhaps that is the crux of everything—transforming “yours” and “mine” into “ours.” My heart hammers in my chest, a rush of conflicting emotions swirling: gratitude, admiration, fear of the unknown.

Impulsively, I reach out, resting a hand on his forearm.

The leather bracer beneath my palm feels warm from his body heat.

I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes but also a lack of recoil.

“Thank you for seeing me as something more than a burden,” I say softly.

“Your acceptance—or even partial acceptance—means a great deal.”

He doesn’t speak, but his arm tenses under my touch, a subtle wave of tension rippling through his muscular frame. For a heartbeat, I think he might pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he places his free hand lightly over mine, rough palm pressing gently against my skin.

I draw in a shaky breath. The walls of the tent seem to close in, or perhaps it’s just the sheer intensity of his presence that makes the space feel smaller. His gaze lingers on my face, flicking to my lips before returning to my eyes. Something unsaid passes between us, fragile and electric.

But as quickly as it sparks, he seems to catch himself. He releases my hand and steps back, clearing his throat. “Eat your meal,” he says, voice a shade rougher. “I’ll let you rest.”

Disappointment mingles with relief in my chest. “Right,” I murmur. “And… thank you for the food.”

He nods curtly, then slips out of the tent, the flap closing behind him. I stand there, heart pounding, wondering what just happened. The memory of his warm palm covering my hand lingers, sending little jolts of awareness through me.

I force myself to focus on the stew, devouring it in slow bites until my hunger is sated. Outside, the fortress quiets as night settles in, a hush broken only by the distant clang of a smith working late or the low murmur of orcs conversing near the watchfires.

Eventually, I settle onto my bedroll, lantern flickering softly.

My thoughts spiral around Ghorzag’s visit—his cautious acceptance, the vulnerability in his eyes when he speaks of sabotage.

He is a chieftain, burdened by responsibility.

Yet he brought me food, took a moment to check on me personally.

He’s a puzzle, I muse, untying my braid and letting my hair fall around my shoulders.

An orc shaped by battle and tradition, yet open-minded enough to risk forging peace with a human.

He admires strength, and I’m learning to show him I have my own brand of it—quiet determination in place of brute force.

Sleep tugs at me, promising a respite from the day’s tensions.

But as I drift off, I can’t help remembering how his hand felt against mine: strong, calloused, and unexpectedly gentle.

In that fleeting touch, I sense a spark that goes beyond mere alliance, stirring an odd mix of hope and apprehension in my heart.