Page 19 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

Her face brightens, the earlier embarrassment melting away as she describes the dish with an enthusiasm that's infectious. "It's a magical blend of sweet and tart berries, wrapped in a flaky, buttery crust. When it bakes, the berries burst, and the juices mingle with the sugar... it's heavenly," she gushes.

I grunt again, imagining the flavors dancing on my tongue. It's been a long time since I've bothered with anything more complex than roasted meat or foraged roots.

As we continueour tour of the settlement, the villagers keep staring at us with hesitant eyes. Their fear is a palpable thing, hanging in the air like a dense fog. I'm used to it—I've lived my life inspiring fear in others.

But Claire… She's unlike any human I've ever known. Foolishly brave, unwaveringly kind... and she insists on defending me, an orc, to her own people. It's a thought that sits uncomfortably in my chest, warming me in a way I'm not accustomed to.

"Forget the pie," I say gruffly, not wanting her to waste her efforts on me. "There are more important things to worry about."

Claire shakes her head, her gaze steady. "Maybe so, but food is more than just sustenance. It's a way to bring people together, to share something joyful even in the darkest times," she says emphatically.

I can't argue with that. My clan used to gather around the fire, sharing tales and meat from the hunt. The memory stings, a sharp reminder of what I've lost.

My mind suddenly wanders back to that word Christmas again. I've been hearing it far too often lately. It's like apersistent itch at the back of my mind, a mysterious human ritual that seems to hold more weight than the heavy axe at my side.

Claire points out the sparse decorations around the settlement, her finger tracing the outline of a wreath made of frost-kissed pine needles and crimson berries.

"What's the point of all these decorations?" I growl.

Claire's eyes light up. "They're symbols of eternal life," she says. "Even in winter, some things stay green and alive."

I grunt, crossing my arms, leaning against a makeshift bench. "Sounds like a waste of time," I rumble.

"Is it?" she snaps. She turns to face me, her brown eyes challenging. "Your clan had traditions too, didn't they? Things that brought you together?"

The question hits harder than any blade. Memories of clan gatherings flood back, but I quickly push them aside. "That was different," I mutter.

"Was it?" she retorts. She steps closer. "Traditions give us strength, Thrag. They remind us who we are."

I look down at her, this tiny human who speaks with such conviction. Something stirs within me, an unfamiliar warmth I'm not ready to name.

"Christmas traditions are so special around here," she goes on, her voice softening. "We sing, dance, and build snowmen."

I frown, the concept of 'snowmen' as alien to me as the idea of celebrating peace. "Snow... men?" I grunt, the words tasting strange on my tongue.

She grins, her eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that tells me I might soon regret my curiosity. Her small hand grips mine, and pulls me gently toward a clearing. "Come on, I'll show you."

The children are there, their cheeks rosy from the cold and their laughter a rare sound in these dire times. They're huddledaround a mound of snow, their small hands shaping and patting the white mass into a crude figure. Claire points. "That's a snowman," she says playfully.

I stare at the lumpy creation, its only claim to the title 'man' being the three balls of snow stacked atop each other. A carrot serves as a nose, and two lumps of coal give it a semblance of eyes. It's hardly impressive. "That's it?" I say, unable to hide my disappointment.

Suddenly, a cold mass of snow hits me square in the back, the impact sending a shock through my system. I freeze, my body tensing as the chill seeps through my furs. A low growl rumbles in my chest, and I turn my head slowly to glare at the culprit.

A group of children stand several paces behind me, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and glee. One of them holds another snowball, his small hand trembling yet determined. I could crush that snowball with a flick of my finger, send these little humans scurrying away in terror. But I don't.

Instead, I find myself contemplating my next move. The snowball fight is a game, I realize, a part of their odd Christmas celebration. Claire is watching me, her lips parted in a silent plea for me to play along. Her faith in me is both a burden and a revelation—I could be the monster these humans fear, or I could be something else.

20

CLAIRE

The soft thud of a snowball against Thrag's back jerks me from the quiet moment we're sharing. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth in surprise as I spin around to see the children. Their laughter fills the air. Their faces are alight with the kind of joy that only a snowball fight can bring. Thrag, on the other hand, looks like he's about to unleash a fearsome orcish war cry.

"Sorry, Thrag!" I call out, my laughter joining theirs. "It's the children playing snowball fight."

He turns to me, his amber eyes wide with bewilderment. I can't help but laugh at the sight of him—a massive orc warrior, the embodiment of strength and ferocity, with a splatter of snow melting on his broad back. His usual stoic expression has given way to something much more endearing.

I watch him, my lips parted in a silent plea for him to play along. His gaze shifts from me to the children, and slowly, a grin spreads across my face. "You're supposed to throw one back," I say, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a tight ball.

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