Page 1 of Her Orc Blacksmith

Prologue

Sometimes, he still heard the distant roar of battle, muffled only by the steady clang of his hammer on the forge, the rhythmic strike of metal against metal. In those moments, the ghosts of war seemed farther away.

But there were times, like now, when his brother’s war cry echoed across the battlefield in his mind. No amount of steel or flame could silence it. The clash of weapons, the tang of blood on the wind, the haunting look in Gorkath’s eyes the last time they met—it all rushed back, vivid and unrelenting.

He had chosen to leave that life behind, to forge peace instead of destruction. The fires of the forge were meant to cleanse him, to burn away the past. Here, in Everwood, he could be just a blacksmith, shaping tools and horseshoes, not a warrior.

Yet the past, like the scars etched into his skin, never truly faded. The weight of his brother's betrayal, the faces of those he had fought alongside and against, lingered like shadows in the corners of his mind, waiting for moments like this to resurface.

Vorgath paused, lowering the hammer. His eyes drifted to the sword hanging on the wall, polished but unused. It was a relic of a past he had promised to abandon, but still, he kept it. A reminder, perhaps, that no peace was ever permanent. That, despite his best efforts, the past had a way of creeping back. And he feared the day when he would be forced to pick up the blade again.

But for now, he worked. Each swing of the hammer was a prayer—one that begged for forgiveness, for redemption, for peace that would last longer than the quiet between strikes.

Chapter 1

“Isla, stand still!” Lady Hargrave’s voice cut through the chaos of the sitting room, her frustration barely contained as she tried to adjust the hem of her daughter’s dress. Isla, her face scrunched in displeasure, twisted and squirmed, clearly unimpressed.

“I don’t like flowers!” Isla wailed, tugging at the delicate stitching I’d spent hours perfecting. “They’re ugly!”

“Isla, that’s enough,” Lady Hargrave snapped. “Mrs. Ashford, do you hear this?”

I straightened up from where I’d been kneeling, pinning the hem of another garment. “My apologies,” I replied, keeping my tone even, though I distinctly remembered Isla insisting on flowers just last week. “If they’re not to your liking, I can remove them.”

Isla’s younger brother, who had been running circles around the room, crashed into his sister with a loud giggle, nearlytoppling her over. “Mama, look!” he shouted, waving a wooden sword. Lady Hargrave barely glanced at him.

“Remove them,” she said, her voice cold. “I can’t believe we’re dealing with this just a day before the delegation from Valara arrives.”

I swallowed the retort that bubbled up in my throat, bending back down to my work as Isla continued to pout. “I’ll have the flowers removed and the hem re-stitched by tomorrow morning.”

Lady Hargrave merely hummed in response, her attention drifting away as she inspected another dress I’d mended earlier in the week. I’d been doing seamstress work for her for nearly two years now, ever since the war left me with no choice but to find whatever work I could. She was my most difficult customer, with exacting standards and a tendency to find fault in even the smallest detail. But she was also my best-paying one, and the money I earned from her commissions was often the only thing keeping me and Elias afloat.

“Here.” Lady Hargrave’s sharp voice pulled me from my thoughts. She extended a small pouch toward me, her expression unreadable.

I took the pouch, feeling its weight in my hand. My heart sank—this wasn’t nearly what I was expecting.

“My lady,” I began carefully, “this doesn’t seem to be the full amount we agreed on.”

Lady Hargrave’s eyes flicked up to meet mine, a cool smile curving her lips. “Do you expect me to pay you for work that will need to be redone?”

I hesitated but couldn’t let it go. “I understand, my lady, but the price was set, and I’ll make the changes to your specifications at no extra charge.”

Lady Hargrave let out a cold, almost mocking laugh. “Extra charge? Mrs. Ashford, next time, just get it right the first time.”

Nothing I could say would make this situation better. If anything, arguing would only make things worse—would possibly even cost me this job. And as much as I hated the unfairness of it, I needed this work.

I took a deep breath and nodded, keeping my voice steady. “Of course. I’ll have the adjustments made by tomorrow.”

“See that you do,” she replied, already turning her attention elsewhere, dismissing me.

I bit my tongue, forced a tight smile, and turned on my heel, clutching the pouch of underpaid coins as I gathered my bags and saw myself out of the room.

I made my way through the dimly lit hallways of the estate. The grandeur of the councilman’s manor always felt suffocating—high ceilings, ornate tapestries, and the constant hush of a house that was more about appearances than comfort. A far cry from my modest cottage on the edge of town, nestled at the border where the forest met the quiet, cobbled street. My cottage was small, a little rundown, with creaking floorboards and a roof that leaked when it rained too hard, but its crooked charm made it feel like home. I’d take that over this hollow luxury any day.

Instead of heading for the front door, I kept going down the stairs toward the kitchen, where the quiet faded into a comforting hum. The distant clatter of pots, the low murmur of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter drifted up the stairwell.

Finally, I pushed open a heavy door and was immediately greeted by a lively scene. The large, warm room was bustling with activity—servants darting to and fro, chopping vegetables, kneading dough, stirring pots that bubbled over open flames. Heat rolled off the ovens, clinging to my skin. The sound of knives chopping against wood and the sizzle of oil filled the space, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

And there, at the center of it all, was my best friend, Thyri. Her hair was a wild mess of golden curls, barely contained by a scarf, and her apron was splattered with flour and who-knew-what else, but her smile was as bright as ever when she spotted me.

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