Page 15 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

Yet, despite my skill, an Icefang's blade finds a gap in my defenses, slicing across my side. The pain is sharp, a white-hot lance that sears through my concentration. Another orc, sensing weakness, breaks away from the melee, fleeing into the night to summon reinforcements, no doubt.

But I do not relent. I will not be the cause of more despair for Claire and her people. With a roar that shakes the very heavens, I redouble my efforts. My axe becomes a blur of motion, reaping a brutal harvest among the Icefangs. One by one, they fall, their lifeblood seeping into the snow.

When the dust settles, seven Icefangs lay dead at my feet. The remaining two, their courage faltering in the face of myrelentless assault, turn and flee. I consider giving chase, but the wound in my side throbs with each heartbeat, a stark reminder of my own vulnerability.

Instead, I turn my attention to the orcs' camp. I grab a loose piece of wood out of the fire and set their provisions and shelter on fire. The flames consume the camp with a fierce hunger.

Leaving the burning camp behind, I begin the arduous trek back to Claire's settlement, my body screaming in protest with each step. The adrenaline that fueled my rampage ebbs away, leaving me shivering and weak. My vision blurs, the edges of my consciousness fraying as I push myself to the limit.

The lights of the settlement flicker in the distance, guiding me through the encroaching darkness. Yet, as I draw closer, my strength wanes, the blood loss from my wounds painting a grim picture of my chances of reaching the gates.

I stumble and fall, my body sprawling in the snow just beyond the reach of the settlement's lights.

The worldaround me grows quiet. But I can hear Claire's voice, a soft whisper against the silence of my failing senses. Her face is the last thing I see as my eyes flutter closed.

16

CLAIRE

The wind carries the faintest echo of distress, a discordant note in the stillness of the night. I am at the hearth of my home when the sound pierces the quiet. I get up instinctively and look out the window. There is some kind of commotion coming from outside the gates. My heart, already attuned to the frequencies of fear, skips a beat. I quickly rush out the door forgetting my coat and scarf. The cold bites at my cheeks and seeps into my bones in an instant.

Outside, the settlement is a hive of agitated whispers and tense bodies. My gaze cuts through the crowd, landing on the source of the uproar. There, in the snow, lies Thrag. His body is a tapestry of blood and violence.

"Thrag!" I cry out. My scream slices through the night, a desperate plea that seems to echo endlessly. I push through the throng of onlookers, dropping to my knees beside him. His skin is paler than I've ever seen it, his breathing a ragged whisper.

I turn to the guards, my eyes wide with urgency. "He's hurt—please! Bring him inside!" I insist.

Their hesitation is a physical barrier, their distrust as palpable as the cold. "He's an orc," one of them mutters, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

But the children—those precious, wide-eyed souls I've taught to read and write and dream—they surge forward. Their small hands pull at the guards' cloaks. "He saved us!" they cry out in unison. "He's a hero! Santa Claus!"

One of the children, little Jon, the son of an elder, looks up at the guards with tear-streaked cheeks. "Please," he pleads. "He protected us."

The guards exchange a look, the weight of the children's words tipping the scales. With a reluctant nod, they move to lift Thrag, their movements quick but cautious.

I leadthem to my home. The small space is suddenly crowded with his massive form. They lay him on my bed, his body taking up every inch of the modest mattress.

As I prepare to tend to his wounds, my hands tremble. The room is silent save for the crackle of the fire and Thrag's labored breathing. I dip a clean cloth into a basin of warm water. My heart aches at the sight of him.

I work in silence cleaning the blood and grime from his skin. Each wound I tend to is a testament to his courage, a story of sacrifice etched into his flesh. The sight of it brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them away, determined to be strong for him.

"What happened to you?" I whisper. I know he can't answer, but the question hangs in the air, a silent plea for understanding.

Hours blur into one another as I care for him, my mind a whirlwind of fear and gratitude. Exhaustion tugs at the edges of my consciousness, but I refuse to succumb to it. Not until I know he's stable.

Finally, as the first light of dawn filters through the window, I can no longer fight the pull of sleep. I settle onto the floor beside the bed, my hand resting lightly on Thrag's arm. My eyes flutter closed instantly.

A low groan wakes me from the shallow sleep of exhaustion. My eyes open quickly. The room is bathed in sunlight. Disoriented, I sit up. The stiffness in my muscles is evidence of a night spent at Thrag's bedside. The groan comes again, and my heart leaps. I look over and Thrag's amber eyes are open.

"Claire…" he whispers.

Relief floods through me, and I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes. "You're awake!" I exclaim, my voice trembling with emotion.

He struggles to sit up,wincing as the movement pulls at his healing wounds. "Claire, listen to me," he says, his tone urgent. "The Icefangs... they're coming. Your settlement is in grave danger."

My blood runs cold. "How do you know?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Thrag's gaze meets mine, the impact of his words settling between us. "I fought with the first group that arrived nearby. They plan to attack," he says, his voice tinged with worry.

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