Page 54 of Her Rugged Orcs

I brace myself as Murok and I carefully lift Dren to his feet. His jaw clenches, but he doesn't make a sound. Typical Dren, stubborn as ever. My muscles flex under his weight as we give him a moment to find his balance.

"I can walk," Dren mutters, but I tighten my grip when he sways.

"Just let us help you," I growl. The wound in his side is still fresh, and I'm not risking him falling and making it worse. Not when we're so close to home.

Eira hovers nearby, her eyes sharp with concern. "Don't let him push himself too hard."

The morning sun beats down on my back as we start moving. The settlement lies southeast, through terrain I know like my own scars. Half a day's journey if we pace ourselves. My blood thrums with anticipation - soon we'll be home, with real beds and proper medical supplies for Dren.

"The terrain slopes down ahead," I say, scanning the path. "Watch your footing."

Dren grunts in acknowledgment, his eyes focused straight ahead. His skin feels cooler than it should, but his steps are steady enough. Still, I keep my arm firmly around him. I've dragged his ass through too many battles to let him fall now.

Eira walks ahead of us, scouting the path, her pale hair catching the sunlight. My chest swells with pride watching her move - confident, alert, every bit the true warrior she's become. And somehow miraculously she's chosen to stay with us.

38

DREN

The wound in my side burns with each step, but I don’t show weakness. Grash and Murok's arms around my waist steady me as we approach the wooden gates of our settlement. The familiar scent of pine smoke and roasting meat fills my nostrils. Home.

Eira walks closer now, her small frame tense. Her eyes dart between the guard towers, taking in the sheer size of our fortress walls. My brave little human looks ready to bolt at any moment.

"The healers will see to him immediately," Murok says to her, his voice unusually gentle.

The gates creak open. The half-day journey has drained what little strength I had left, but I keep my spine straight. Warriors don't show pain.

Eira's fingers brush against my arm. That small touch sends warmth through my body, dulling the agony in my side. She saved me - her love kept me breathing when death tried to claim me. Now she stands beside me, preparing to face her past.

"Looks different than you expected?" Grash asks her.

"I... yes. I didn't think it would be so..." She trails off, staring at the neat rows of houses, the gardens, the children playing.

I want to let her know she's safe here, that this is her home now too, but speaking requires energy I can't spare. Instead, I catch her gaze and hold it, letting her see the promise in my eyes. No one will ever hurt her again.

The settlement's main square opens before us. Torches flicker in the gathering dusk, casting dancing shadows on the packed dirt. Our people stop and stare - three of their finest warriors supporting each other, covered in blood and victory, with a small human woman in tow.

"The healers' hall is just ahead," Murok murmurs.

My vision blurs at the edges. The wound throbs in time with my heartbeat. But I am home. We made it. And Eira is with us, where she belongs.

The healer’s hall smells of crushed herbs and bitter tinctures. Grash and Murok lower me onto a cot, their hands steady but their faces tight with concern. I don’t need their worry—I’ve survived worse—but the weakness in my limbs betrays me. I hate this. I hate the way my body feels heavy, the way my breaths come shallow and labored. I’m not supposed to be weak. Not in front of her.

Eira rushes to my side and her small hand grips mine. Her touch is warm and grounding. "You’re okay," she says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of worry. "Everything’s okay now."

I nod, just once, because speaking takes too much effort. She doesn’t need my words to know I’m here, that I’ll stay here for her. I’d carve out my own heart before I let her face this world alone again. But damn it, I hate that she’s seeing me like this—broken, bleeding, dependent on others.

The healer, an older orc with weathered hands, kneels beside the cot. Her eyes are sharp as she assesses the wound. She doesn’t speak, just gets to work, her movements methodical. Thesting of her salve bites deep, but I don’t flinch. Weakness has no place here, not in front of Eira, not in front of my brothers.

Grash looms nearby, his massive frame casting a shadow over the cot. "He’ll live," he growls, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"Of course he will," Murok replies, his voice dry but with an edge I recognize. He’s worried, though he’ll never admit it. "Dren’s too stubborn to die."

I almost smile at that. Almost. Instead, I focus on Eira, on the way her fingers tighten around mine. Her face is pale, her hair tangled and streaked with dirt. She’s been through hell, and yet she’s here, by my side, refusing to leave. I want to tell her to rest, to let Grash and Murok take care of her, but the words won’t come.

The healer works in silence as her hands move with precision. She stitches the wound, applies more salve, then wraps it tightly with clean bandages. The pain dulls to a throbbing ache, my body responding to her remedies. I’ve seen her heal warriors from the brink of death—I trust her skills. But it’s Eira’s presence that keeps me tethered, her touch a reminder of what I’m fighting for.

"He’ll need rest," the healer finally says, her voice low and steady. "But he’ll recover."

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