Page 18 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

I cross my arms, a stubborn set to my jaw. "Well, I'm not letting you stay out here alone," I insist. The thought of him sleeping under the harsh, winter sky is unbearable.

He sighs, a sound that seems to come from the very depths of his chest. "I'll be fine. I've slept outside more times than I can count," he rumbles.

I shake my head, my resolve unwavering. "No. You're staying with me," I say. His brow furrows, a protest forming on his lips, but I cut him off. "I insist."

A moment of silence stretches between us, the tension palpable. Then, an idea strikes me. A sure way to lightenthe mood and make him feel better, I believe. "I'll make you something special for dinner," I offer, my tone light.

Thrag raises an eyebrow. "Special?" he echoes, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

I nod, a grin spreading across my face. "It's an old human recipe. I just need flour," I say with a glint in my eye.

He looks at me, confusion etched into his rugged features. "What is flour?" he asks, his voice filled with genuine curiosity.

I laugh, the sound mingling with the crisp morning air. "You'll see," I promise, linking my arm with his in a gesture of camaraderie and support. "Trust me, you've never tasted anything like this before." My mind is already swirling with the flavors and aromas of the dish I have in mind—a warm, comforting pie filled with the sweetness of the last of the season's berries.

We make our way to the market. The market is bustling with activity, with villagers haggling over root vegetables and bundles of dried herbs. I lead Thrag to the stall of an elderly woman known for her extensive knowledge of ingredients.

"Good morning, Eunice," I call out, my breath forming a small cloud in the chilly air.

Eunice looks up from her wares, her eyes narrowing as she spots Thrag looming behind me. She clutches her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her lips pressing into a thin line. "What brings you here, Claire? And with an orc, no less," she asks skeptically.

I ignore the disapproval in her voice, my focus solely on the task at hand. "I'm looking for flour, Eunice. Do you have any?" I ask, hopeful.

She shakes her head, her gaze flickering briefly to Thrag before returning to me. "Flour? That's an old-world ingredient, dear. No one's used flour in years," she replies.

My heart sinks, but I refuse to let my disappointment show. "Alright, thank you anyway, Eunice," I say politely.

As we walk away, Thrag's heavy hand lands on my shoulder. "Really, what is this flour?" he asks, his deep voice cutting through the buzz of the market.

I let out a soft chuckle, explaining, "It's a powder made from grinding grains. It's the base for so many human dishes. Bread, cakes, pies..."

Thrag's brow furrows. "I've never heard of such things," he mutters.

I nod, a plan already forming in my mind. "That's because they're from a time long past," I say fondly.

We leave the market, our steady journey taking us deeper into the settlement. I point out various landmarks to Thrag—the old well, the village smithy, the remnants of a once-magnificent stone fountain that now stands dry and weathered. With each delicate step, I feel our connection deepening, the walls between us slowly crumbling away.

As we walk,I can't help but marvel at the contrast between us. Thrag, with his towering stature and battle-scarred skin, is the embodiment of strength and resilience. And yet, despite his fearsome exterior, there's a gentleness in his eyes when he looks at me—a softness that hints at the kindness hidden beneath his gruff demeanor.

I find myself speaking more freely, sharing stories of my childhood, of the world before it was torn apart by war and destruction. Thrag listens intently, his eyes reflecting a quiet longing for a time he never got to experience.

19

THRAG

Iwatch as Claire, her cheeks rosy from the chill, suddenly strides up to a small house with a thatched roof and knocks with a determined rap. The door creaks open, revealing an old woman whose eyes narrow suspiciously as they land on me. Her lips purse, the wrinkles around her mouth deepening.

"No flour," she snaps, her voice carrying the weight of years and resentment. The door slams shut, the sound echoing in the quiet street.

Claire turns to me, her eyes filled with an apology that I don't need. "Sorry, Thrag. She owes me, but..." Her voice trails off, and she kicks at a patch of snow with the toe of her boot.

I shrug, the motion stiff against the cold leather of my armor. "It doesn't matter. Save it for your people," I rumble.

She frowns. "I wanted to make you a berry pie," she says, her tone wistful. "It's warm and sweet... perfect for winter. We used to have it every Christmas when I was young."

As we walk away from the house, I can't help but wonder what this 'pie' tastes like. I've eaten my share of berries, but the idea of baking them into something... else, is foreign to me.

"Tell me more about this pie," I grunt, my curiosity piqued despite myself.

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