Page 26 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

He pauses then, swallowing thickly. I squeeze his hand, offering whatever support he needs, and he holds me tight against him as he finishes.

“King Trak had his son beaten unconscious, throwing him in the dungeons, and Steagor whipped to within an inch of his life. Then he murdered his parents and his brother with the very sword I made for him. I watched and tried to interfere, but my father had some of his men cart me away before I could ruin his good standing with the king.” He shakes his head sadly, staring into his lap. “Gorvor then beat his father in a duel. He could have taken over the Boar Clan. But he knew it was too rotten to be fixed, so he took those who wanted to start a new life and led us all the way through the human lands to these mountains. Ozork found the abandoned Hill when scouting, and we moved in here. I got the forge, but I told Gorvor I wouldn’t make another weapon.”

He looks at Morg then and adds, “We’d been searching for years for a blacksmith talented enough to take on the job until you came along.”

With that, he falls silent, all the tension going out of him now that his story is done. I remain quiet, too, because there’s not much to be said about this.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

At Morg’s harsh words, both Torren and I glance up. Morg’s face is flushed a deep green, his chest expanding on a deep breath.

He stares straight at Torren and says, “You’re wrong.”

Torren goes completely still beneath me. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

His voice is a quiet rasp, sounding broken and sad.

I frown at Morg, unable to believe what he’s saying. “What on earth are you doing?” I ask. “You can’t say things like that.”

But Morg glares at us, his expression fierce. “I respect your decision,” he tells Torren. “I do, and I will not ask you again to make weapons. But you are not to blame for what happened to Steagor’s family.” He throws his arms in the air and demands, “Thinking like that, do you think I’m responsible for every single life that a weapon I’ve made has taken?”

Torren grinds his teeth together. “That’s different,” he grumbles. “You’re making weapons for honorable men. I knew what the old king was like when I made that sword.”

Morg leans forward, his piercing gaze on Torren. “I made the blade that nearly killed our queen.” His voice is but a low whisper now. “And I never liked the bastard who wielded it. Do you think King Gorvor should have blamed me for that? Or was he right to behead him?”

Torren draws me closer, as if the mention of the queen being in danger affects him, too. “Of course he was right.”

Morg shifts closer, so his knees touch Torren’s. “Has Steagor blamed you for it?”

I feel Torren’s flinch. It’s a twitch that shakes his whole body, and though I understand what Morg is trying to achieve, I wish he went about it in a way that wasn’t as blunt.

“No,” Torren says hoarsely. “He never said he did anyway.”

“And has he behaved differently toward you?” Morg presses.

A deep exhale from behind me.

“No.”

“That’s because he knows that the blame lies with the male who wielded the blade,” Morg declares, “not the one who forged it.”

Torren is silent, but the thudding of his heartbeat pulses against my back. I’m caught in his embrace now, squished to his chest, but I don’t move. He needs me now, I know it, and I want to be here for him.

“How long ago was this?” I ask.

What I want to know is how long has Torren been tormenting himself with this, but I don’t word the question that way.

Still, I think Morg knows what I’m asking because he sends me a long look before replying, “Over a decade. I was barely fifteen when we left the old clan. My parents followed Gorvor because one of the king’s generals took a liking to my eldest sister. They weren’t mates, but he wanted her, so he thought he should just take her.” Morg shakes his head in disgust. “There was nothing left for us in that damp old fortress.”

I’m glad he has shifted the story away from Torren, because he slowly relaxes behind me.

“I’m sorry your afternoon got cut short,” the older orc says suddenly.

I meet Morg’s gaze to see if he’s annoyed by it, but he gives me a small smile as if to say he doesn’t mind.

“It wasn’t,” he says to Torren. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Torren lets out a low bark of laughter. “Aye, that you are.” He blows out a long breath, then adds, “It’s nearly time for dinner, though. We shouldn’t miss that.”

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