Page 22 of The Orc Who Saved Christmas

In a sudden move, I stand up, the need to put distance between us overwhelming. "I'm going back inside," I say, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. "You should come in too, Thrag."

He shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that speaks volumes. "I'm fine out here, Claire. Go get some rest," he insists.

I nod, even though he's not looking at me, and turn to leave. As I reach the door, I can't help but glance back at him. My heart yearns for something I can't quite articulate—a connection, a shared warmth that extends beyond the physical confines of a kiss.

But as I close the door behind me, I resign myself to the reality of our situation. He's an orc, a warrior who has known loss and suffering beyond my comprehension. And I'm just a human teacher, clinging to hope in a world that seems determined to snuff it out.

"He doesn’t see me that way," I tell myself as I crawl back into bed, the warmth of the blankets a poor substitute for the heat that Thrag's presence ignites within me. "I need to stop hoping for something more."

With those words,I close my eyes, willing sleep to claim me, to provide a temporary respite from the turmoil of my thoughts. But as the night deepens, it's not the oblivion of sleep that greets me, but the all-too-vivid memory of Thrag's lips on mine—a bittersweet reminder of what can never be.

The clatter of footsteps outside my window pulls me from my restless sleep. Rubbing my eyes, I shuffle to the door, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The morning air hits my face as I step outside, and I blink against the bright winter sunlight.

My heart skips when I see Thrag standing there, a small burlap sack in his massive hands. The sight of him makes my chest tighten, memories of last night's kiss flooding back again.

"What's this?" I ask, my voice coming out softer than intended. The cold bites at my exposed skin, but I barely notice.

Thrag shifts his weight, his amber eyes avoiding mine. "Asked that old woman. Made her a trade," he says. He holds out the sack, and I recognize the familiar dusty smell of flour.

My fingers brush against his as I take it, sending sparks through my entire body. "You did that... for me?" I ask. The words come out barely above a whisper.

He looks away, his jaw tight. "You wanted it, didn't you?" he replies.

I clutch the sack to my chest, feeling the steady thump of my heart against it. The flour is still warm from being carried in his hands. I watch as he turns and walks away, his broad shoulders cutting through the morning mist like a ship through waves.

"How can I not fall for him when he's like this?" I whisper to myself, my fingers tracing the rough texture of the burlap. My heart races, and I force myself to take deep breaths. But it's no use - the simple gesture of him trading for flour has undone all my careful restraint.

23

THRAG

The settlement's square is a flurry of activity, fear, and uncertainty as the elders break the grim news to the villagers. Their faces, once lit with the warmth of home, now flicker with the cold realization of impending doom. I stand at the back, arms crossed. My presence is a thundercloud, yet I am as much a part of this gathering as the frost clinging to the cobblestones.

Vincent, the village leader, raises his hands for silence, his voice carrying the weight of the world as he speaks. "We must evacuate at dawn," he declares. "Take only what you need." His words hang heavy in the frigid air.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, a tide of whispered worries and hushed speculation. Some villagers cast glances in my direction, their expressions a mixture of gratitude and resentment. I pretend not to notice, my gaze fixed on the horizon, where the threat of the Icefang orcs looms.

"This wouldn't have happened if he'd stayed away," someone mutters nearby. The words sting, a sharp reminder of my place in this world. I know the truth—the orcs would have come, withor without my presence. I was simply the first to taste their steel, and the first to strike back.

Beside me, Claire's touch is light against my arm. "They don't mean it," she whispers.

"I know," I grunt, though the words cut deeper than I care to admit.

Her fingers linger on my arm, a silent promise of solidarity. "We'll get through this," she assures me.

I nod, my throat tightening. The idea of leading these people to safety, of being their shield against the coming storm, sits uneasily on my shoulders. I am no savior.

As the meeting disperses, the villagers scatter, each lost in their own thoughts of what must be done. Claire stays by my side, her presence a constant reminder of why I must fight. She believes in me—more than I have ever believed in myself.

I watch as the villagers begin to pack their lives into bundles and bags, their movements hurried and frantic. Claire's hand slips into mine, her grip firm and reassuring.

"We should prepare," she says, her tone resolute. "There's much to do before dawn."

I follow her through the village, my axe strapped to my back. As we work side by side, the villagers' distrust slowly begins to fade. They watch me with wary eyes, but there is a newfound respect in their gazes. I am not one of them, yet in this moment, we are united by a common goal: survival.

I soon follow Claire into the small, cluttered space she calls home. Her belongings are sparse, a testament to a life of hardship and loss. "You don't have much to carry," I observe, the truth of it weighing heavily on my mind.

She nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she looks around her modest dwelling. "I'll miss this place. It's one of the best homes I've had," she confesses. Her words resonate within me,a reminder of the many who have lost everything to the ruthless hunger of the Icefang orcs.

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