Page 5 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

He doesn't break stride, his heavy boots crunching through the snow with an unyielding rhythm. The silence stretches between us, as vast and forbidding as the frozen landscape.

I quicken my pace, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. "I'm Claire, by the way," I continue, desperate to fill the void. "I live in a settlement not far from here. Or at least, I thought I knew this land like the back of my hand, but after tonight..."

His silence is a wall, impenetrable and daunting. I'm talking to myself, but I can't seem to stop. I tell him about the settlement, about the children and their wide-eyed wonderduring our lessons. I speak of hope and humanity, of the threads that bind us together in the face of adversity.

Suddenly, my boots slip on a patch of ice, and I stumble, landing hard on my knees. Pain lances up my legs, a stark reminder of my vulnerability. "Ouch!" I wince, trying to push myself up, but the slick ground betrays me.

He stops, his glowing amber eyes narrowing as he turns to watch me struggle. His presence is an overwhelming force. I expect a command, a gruff dismissal of my clumsiness, but instead, his massive hand curls around my arm with surprising gentleness.

"Keep up," he says, his voice a low rumble. "It's dangerous here at night. By the way, my name’s Thrag."

I blink up at him, startled by the concern laced within his stern warning. "I—thank you, Thrag. Again," I mutter nervously. My cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude as he pulls me to my feet with ease.

We resume our trek up a winding slope. I can't help but steal glances at him as we walk. His scars are a map of his past, each line evidence of battles fought and survived. There's a nobility in the set of his jaw, a quiet strength that sets him apart from the orcs I've known.

When we finally reach the top of the slope, the wind howls around us. He points to a small cave a short distance away, its entrance a dark maw against the pale expanse of rock and snow.

"There," he says, and I nod, relief washing over me like a wave. The cave promises shelter, a respite from the relentless cold.

As we approach the cave, I notice the way his body tenses, his eyes scanning the surroundings with predatory precision. He's a warrior, honed by conflict and shaped by loss, I'm guessing. Yet, there's a weariness in his gaze, a hint of the burdens he must carry.

Inside the cave, the air is cool and still. He starts a fire with practiced ease, the flames casting a warm glow on the rough stone walls. I huddle close to the fire, grateful for its heat.

"You're not like the others, are you?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He grunts, his attention focused on the fire. "I am an orc," he rumbles.

"Yes, but you're different. You saved me when you didn’t have to," I say softly.

He turns to look at me, his amber eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "Maybe I'm just tired of seeing death," he growls.

His words hang in the air, a stark admission of his own inner turmoil. I realize then that he is a mystery wrapped in a riddle, a being caught between two worlds. And as the fire crackles and the night deepens, I find myself wanting to understand the enigma that he is.

6

THRAG

The fire in my cave crackles and spits, casting an erratic glow on the walls. I gesture to the pile of furs that serves as my bed, the closest thing to comfort I've allowed myself in some time.

"Go," I tell her, my voice a low rumble. "Use this water. For cleaning." I hand her the pot near the fire, the steam rising in thin, wispy trails.

She nods as she grabs the pot, her warm brown eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before she quickly looks away. The tension in the cave is as tangible as the cold seeping in from the night outside. She carries the pot over to the bed and I turn my back to her, granting her a semblance of privacy. The silence is punctuated only by the occasional hiss of water against heated stone.

As she tends to herself, I lean against the cave wall, my gaze lost in the undulating dance of the flames. Memories I've long kept buried resurface unbidden—my sisters' laughter, the way they would chide me for tracking mud into our dwelling. I remember their faces, full of life and mirth, now just ghostly apparitions in my mind.

The sound of water being poured snaps me back to the present. My jaw clenches, and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. This human, so unlike the orcs I've known, so unlike anyone I've allowed myself to be close to since the fall of my clan, is disturbingly close. Her scent, floral and faint, teases my senses.

"I'm done," she says, her voice a tentative whisper that seems too loud in the stillness of the cave.

I turn to face her, and my heart—a muscle I thought had hardened beyond such weaknesses—lurches unexpectedly. She's dressed in one of my spare tunics, the fabric hanging loose on her slender frame, the hem brushing against the tops of her boots. Her auburn hair, damp and darkened, clings to her face in loose tendrils.

"Why are you wearing that?" I ask, the harshness in my tone surprising even me.

She tugs self-consciously at the fabric, her eyes downcast, and replies softly, "I thought you left it for me. If it's a problem, I can?—"

"Keep it," I interrupt, the sharpness of my words belying the strange jumble of emotions roiling within me. I turn back to the fire, the flames no match for the heat rising in my cheeks.

We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional pop from the fire and the distant howl of the wind. I can feel her gaze on me, like the weight of a physical touch, and it unnerves me. I'm not used to such scrutiny, especially not from a human—least of all one who wears my clothes and occupies my space as if she belongs here.

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