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Royce's lawyers pack their briefcases with sharp, angry movements. One of them mutters something under his breath that makes his colleague elbow him hard in the ribs. They're pissed, but more than that—they're rattled. They didn't expect to lose.

And I've just witnessed something that cracks the careful walls I've built around my assessment of Ash Thornshade.

Outside the courthouse, I catch up with him as he's loading files into his bike's saddlebags. The Bauers have already left, both of them smiling thanks to the orc who just saved their home.

"That was good work in there," I tell him, keeping my voice neutral despite the strange flutter in my chest. "Hell of a save with that original loan application."

Ash glances up, something almost like surprise crossing his face. "Just doing my job."

"Job or not, it was impressive." I watch his face, noting the way he deflects the compliment. "If you had that document, why didn't the Bauers use it earlier? Before it got to a hearing?"

There's a slight pause before he answers. "They lost their copy years ago. When they asked the bank for a replacement to verify their terms, guess what they got?"

My cop brain processes this. "The forged version." I study his profile. "So how did you get the real one?"

That dangerous smile spreads across his face. "Mr. Archer at Shadow Ridge Loan and Trust keeps very thorough records. Never throws anything away."

“And he just handed it over to you, knowing Royce will pay him back for this once he finds out?’

"Archer's under our protection now." His voice is flat. "Besides, his kid had some legal troubles that needed fixing."

The implication hits me immediately. "You blackmailed him."

"I solved his son's problems." Ash grins. "Kid was looking at serious jail time for some stupid shit. Now he's not."

I process the timeline. Kid in trouble, dad with access to evidence, convenient legal help. "You leveraged the son to pressure the father."

"I beat Royce at his own game."

"That's still against the law, Ash."

His voice goes cold, distant. "That's against your law. Not mine."

The certainty in his voice unsettles me more than the admission itself, like he's thought about this distinction before. Like he's had to choose between legal and right more than once.

"You can't just pick and choose which laws apply to you," I say, though my voice lacks the conviction it should carry.

"Can't I?" He turns to face me fully. "Your legal system puts orc children in cages for sport. Carved scars into faces for entertainment. You think I owe that system my obedience?"

My eyes go to the scar bisecting his eyebrow. "Wait. Your scar, is that how you got it?"

His expression shuts down completely. "Drop it."

"Ash—"

"I said drop it."

My chest tightens. He was a child when someone carved that scar for entertainment. I recognize the weight because I carry my own wounds, carved by systems that failed us both. His from cruelty, mine from corruption. Different weapons, same injustice.

"Those weren't laws. That was abuse."

"And what do you call a system that lets corrupt bankers forge documents while elderly couples lose their homes?" His amber eyes burn with conviction. "What do you call judges who take bribes and sheriffs who look the other way?"

I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's not wrong. The same system I swore to uphold failed the Bauers completely.

"Working outside the law makes you no better than them," I say finally.

"Working within the law got the Bauers a foreclosure notice." His voice is steady, matter-of-fact. "Working outside it got them their home back."

"And when Royce's lawyers find out? If they prove you coerced that evidence?" I shake my head. "The ruling won't stick. The Bauers will go through losing their home twice. Is that really worth adding another win to your case record?"

He goes very still. His voice turns soft and measured, the kind of control that feels more dangerous than shouting.

"Good to know what you really think, Sheriff. Just another monster padding his scorecard."

My stomach drops. I know that tone—I've used it myself when someone cuts too deep. Suddenly, I'm scrambling. "I didn't mean it like that."

"You waived your fee," I say quickly, trying to salvage the conversation. "Probably covered their filing costs, too."

"You don't know what you're talking about." His jaw tightens, that familiar defensive wall sliding into place.

"I know what I saw." I study his profile, noting the way he avoids meeting my eyes. "You could have charged them thousands. They would have paid somehow, mortgaged the farm they just saved, or borrowed against their retirement. But you didn't."

"Enough."

"Why?" I move closer, invading his space the way he's been invading mine all week. "Afraid someone might think you actually have a conscience underneath all that intimidation?"

His head snaps up, amber eyes blazing. For a moment, I think he might unleash some of that controlled violence on me, pin me against his bike, crowd me against the courthouse wall, remind me exactly how dangerous he can be.

Instead, he just looks tired. "You don't know me."

"I'm starting to."

Something shifts across his expression, vulnerability quickly masked by irritation. "Yeah? And what do you think you know?"

"I know you saved that couple's home because it was the right thing to do." I hold his gaze, refusing to let him retreat. "I know you sat with Mrs. Bauer until she stopped shaking. I know you explained everything twice because she needed to understand."

"That was just practical."

"Human. That's human, Ash." The words surprise us both. "Whatever else you are, whatever you think you are, that was just... good. Pure and simple."

The change in him is immediate and violent. His entire body goes rigid, hands clenching into fists at his sides. The careful control I've come to expect from him cracks, revealing something raw and furious underneath.

"Human?" The word comes out like a curse, dripping with venom I've never heard from him before. "You think what I did in that courtroom was human?"

I take a step back, startled by the intensity of his reaction. "I meant—"

"I know what you meant." His voice drops to that dangerous register that sends a shiver up my spine. "You meant it as a compliment. But you have no idea what you're saying."

"Ash—"

"Humans put me in a cage when I was ten years old." His hand shoots out, capturing mine before I can react. Not painful, but unyielding. "You want to know what humanity really is?"

He starts to guide my fingers toward his scar. "Feel it."

I jerk my hand back, heart hammering. "Ash—"

"All for a fucking piece of bread I took when I hadn't eaten in three days." Each word comes out harder than the last, decades of suppressed rage bleeding through. "That's your precious humanity, Nova. It hunts and it hurts and it breaks children for sport. Don't you ever mistake me for that."

The confession strips away everything I thought I knew about him. I see him differently now—not just the controlled predator, but the child who survived unspeakable cruelty.

"So don't you dare," he continues, stepping closer, using his size to intimidate, "call my compassion human. Don't reduce what I did to some pale imitation of the species that tried to break me."

"That's not what I meant," I say quietly, holding my ground despite every instinct screaming at me to retreat. "I wasn't trying to—"

"What you meant doesn't matter." His jaw works like he's physically fighting for control. "What I am, what we are, isn't measured by how closely we resemble our oppressors."

For a moment, we stand locked in tense silence. His breathing is harsh, controlled, like he's fighting not to lose himself completely to whatever memories I've just triggered.

When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to something rawer. More honest.

"When an orc shows mercy, it's not because we learned it from humans.

It's despite everything humans tried to teach us.

" His eyes hold mine, burning with conviction.

"What I did for the Bauers? That's not human kindness.

That's who I choose to be when no one's watching, when there's no reward. When it costs me something to care."

"You're right," I say finally. "I'm sorry."

The apology catches him off guard. Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders, though wariness remains in his eyes.

"I shouldn't have called it human," I continue. "What you did for them was all you. Your choice. Your compassion." I pause, searching for the right words. "It was good because you're good, not because you're imitating something else."

Something shifts across his expression—surprise, maybe relief—like he's been waiting his entire life for someone to see the distinction.

Then his expression shuts down completely. "Don't make me into something I'm not."

"I'm not making you into anything." I step back, giving him space to breathe. "I'm just saying what I saw."

He swings his leg over the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath him. "Stay behind me on the way back. Road construction's got traffic fucked up."

The subject change is abrupt and final. But as he pulls out of the parking lot, I catch something in his eyes, not gratitude exactly, but acknowledgment. Like maybe, for just a moment, he let himself believe that someone sees him as more than the monster he's convinced himself he is.

I follow him through Shadow Ridge's winding streets, but my mind isn't on the road.

It's on a ten-year-old orc child, starving and desperate, being permanently marked for trying to survive.

The way his hand trembled with barely controlled rage when he tried to make me feel his scar.

How I pulled away from his pain instead of accepting it.