Page 43 of Her Rugged Orcs

"I can't take this silence anymore," he growls, running a hand over his scarred face. "Look at her, Murok. Just sitting there, pretending we don't exist."

My gaze drifts to where Eira perches on a fallen log, her pale hair catching in the sunlight. She's sharpening a dagger with practiced strokes. The way she holds herself speaks volumes - spine too straight, shoulders too tense.

"Patience," I say, though the word tastes bitter. "She needs time."

"Time?" Grash spits the word like poison. "We told her everything last night. About her sister, about how we..." He trails off, his eyes darkening with emotion.

"How we fell for her from the start," I finish. "And now you want to charge over there like a bull in heat and demand she believe us?"

"At least it would be something!" He slams his fist into a nearby tree, making the branches shudder. "This waiting, this distance - it's killing me."

I understand his pain. Every time she flinches away from us, every meal eaten in silence, every night she sleeps alone - it cuts straight to my core. But I've learned that some battles can't be won through force.

"If we push her now, we'll lose her completely," I say, gripping his shoulder. "Think, brother. She's spent her whole life being used, being lied to. We need to prove our words with actions."

I watch Grash's muscles bunch beneath his tattooed skin as my words fall on deaf ears. Typical. The fool's always led with his emotions instead of his head.

"I'm not letting this go on another moment," Grash snaps, shrugging off my hand.

My fingers twitch toward my blade as he storms toward Eira, but I hold back. Sometimes a warrior needs to learn from his own mistakes.

Eira doesn't look up from her methodical blade sharpening, but I notice her shoulders tighten. The sound of steel against stone grows sharper, more aggressive.

"You're acting ridiculous," Grash growls, looming over her like an angry storm cloud.

The sharpening stone freezes mid-stroke. Her head snaps up, those green eyes blazing with a fierce intensity that makes even my blood run hot. "Excuse me?" The words drip like venom from her lips.

"You're angry at us, fine. You want to hurt me? Do it." Grash spreads his arms wide, leaving himself completely exposed. The tactical error makes me grind my teeth. One quick thrust of that dagger she's been sharpening and...

Her fingers curl into a white-knuckled fist around the blade's handle, but she doesn't strike. Instead, something in her expression cracks, like ice breaking over deep water. "I just want it to be real," she says, her voice raw. "I want to believe you, but I'm not sure I can."

The sight of tears gathering in those fierce eyes hits me like a punch. My heart aches as she continues, "I'm really scared. Maybe for the first time."

The words seem to shatter something in Grash. Hell, they shatter something in me too. All my carefully constructed walls, my strategic distance - they crumble at the sight of her raw vulnerability. From my short distance away, I watch Grash gently touch her arm.

"I'm sorry for not telling you how I felt sooner," he says softly, his voice carrying on the wind.

She freezes under his touch, silent as stone, and I realize some wounds run deeper than any blade can reach.

My heart stops when Eira suddenly rises from the log, the movement sharp and decisive. The dagger gleams in her hand, and for a millisecond, I'm certain she'll either attack or flee. My muscles coil, ready to chase her through the forest again if necessary. But she surprises me – she always does.

Instead of running, she sheaths the blade at her hip with deliberate slowness. Grash's hand falls away from her arm, and I catch the flash of pain in his eyes. She takes three steps away from him, then stops, her back to us both.

"We should keep moving," she says, her voice carefully neutral.

Relief floods through me, though I keep my expression measured. This is what I do best – read the battlefield, anticipate moves before they're made. And this? This is progress.

"Take point," I order Grash, who looks ready to argue. I silence him with a sharp look. "I'll watch our backs."

As we resume our journey through the dense forest, I maintain my position at the rear, studying Eira's movements. She walks alone, but closer than she has in days. When we cross a stream, she accepts Grash's hand for balance without hesitation, though she drops it immediately after.

"The trail splits ahead," Dren murmurs as we approach a fork in the path.

Eira pauses, considering both options. "Left," she says firmly. "The right path shows too many signs of recent travel."

I smile despite myself. She's learning, adapting, thinking like a warrior. "Good catch," I say, and for just a moment, her eyes meet mine. There's still hurt there, still anger, but also something else – a willingness to try.

The silence that follows isn't comfortable, not yet. But it's no longer charged with the bitter sting of betrayal. It's thoughtful, cautious.

---