Page 10 of Her Orc Blacksmith

Vorgath's eyes met mine, and I saw, for the first time, flecks of gold in his dark irises. “Admitting pain is not weakness. Ignoring it is foolishness.”

Before I could respond, he dipped his fingers into the jar and began applying the salve to my battered hands. His fingers moved with surprising care, tracing the lines of my palms, smoothing over each blister. The slow, deliberate way he worked made it impossible to ignore how close we were, how intimate this moment felt.

“What is it?” I asked in an effort to diffuse the tension, gesturing to the clay jar that now sat on the bench between us. “The salve, I mean. What's in it?”

Vorgath's eyes remained focused on his task, his large fingers surprisingly deft as they worked the cool ointment into my skin. “Aloe. Comfrey. Witch hazel,” he replied. “Old orc remedy.”

“I didn't know orcs had their own medicinal traditions.”

He glanced up at me then, one eyebrow raised. “There's much you don't know about orcs.”

Heat rose to my cheeks, embarrassment tightening my chest. “You're right,” I admitted. “I'm sorry if I've offended you.”

Vorgath shook his head slightly, returning his attention to my hands. “No offense taken.”

After a pause, he spoke again. “There’s an orc healer in Everwood now. Kazrek.”

I glanced up, surprised. “Really?”

Vorgath nodded. “He was a battlefield medic, but he’s found his place here now, in the peace.”

“Why didn’t I know that?” I muttered, more to myself than to Vorgath. The orcs had played such a pivotal role in the war, yet I realized how little I knew about them, about their culture, their traditions.

“You’ve never needed to,” Vorgath said simply. “But if you do, Kazrek's not far from the Artisan’s Quarter. He’s a good one to know.”

I processed that, turning the thought over in my mind. Orcs were warriors, fierce and solitary—at least, that’s how I’d always heard them described. But here was Vorgath, a craftsman, and Kazrek, a healer. What else didn’t I know?

As Vorgath continued to tend to my hands, I found my gaze drawn to the intricate patterns etched into the skin of his forearms, dark lines swirling and intertwining. Withoutthinking, I reached out with my free hand, my fingertips hovering just above his skin.

“And your tattoos?” I asked. “Are they also an orc tradition?”

Vorgath's hands stilled, his eyes flicking to where my fingers hovered near his arm. For a moment, I thought I'd overstepped, but then he slowly turned his arm, allowing me a better view.

“They are... reminders,” he said finally.

“I understand,” I said softly, thinking of my own reminders—the empty side of the bed, the forge that stood silent for so long, Elias's eyes that looked so much like his father's. The grief I carried wasn’t marked on my skin like his, but it was no less permanent.

“Pain shapes us,” he said. “It is not to be forgotten but learned from.”

I looked up at him then, really looked. The scars crisscrossing his face, the weariness in his eyes—they spoke of a painful past. I hadn’t asked about his role in the war, hadn’t dared to, but now, sitting here beside him, I could see how much it had cost him, how it lingered beneath the surface. I saw beyond the gruff exterior to the man underneath, someone who, like me, was trying to rebuild a life from the ashes of the old one. The forge, the weapons, even the solitude of his cabin—it was all part of that rebuilding, the same way I was trying to find my own way after everything I’d lost.

It left me with a sense of kinship I hadn’t expected to feel. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

We sat there for a moment, and there was something comforting in the stillness, in the way neither of us felt the need to fill the space with more conversation. It was enough, this quiet acknowledgment of what we both carried.

Then, almost reluctantly, Vorgath turned his attention back to my hands, applying the last of the salve with gentle strokes. Thecool ointment soothed my raw skin, easing the sharp sting that had been biting at me for hours.

As he finished, I flexed my fingers experimentally, marveling at how the pain had already begun to subside. “Thank you,” I said, offering him a small smile. “For everything.”

Vorgath nodded as he screwed the lid back onto the jar. “Rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow will be harder.”

I stood as well, wincing as my muscles protested the movement, every ache reminding me of how new this work was to me. “I'll be ready,” I assured him, even though the stiffness in my limbs made me doubt the truth of my own words.

As I gathered my things and prepared to leave, I caught Vorgath watching me, his face revealing nothing.

“Soraya,” he said, just as I reached the door.

I turned back, a flutter of nerves in my chest at the sound of my name on his lips. “Yes?”

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