Page 11 of Her Orc Blacksmith

“You did well today,” he said.

The praise warmed me, a rare acknowledgment that left me nodding, words of gratitude stuck in my throat.

As I stepped out onto the path that would take me back to town, the sounds of the forest surrounded me—soft rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, and the steady whisper of the wind through the trees. I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders as the warmth of the forge faded into the cool night.

It would be a long walk home, winding through the quiet forest before I reached the outskirts of Everwood. I could already picture my small cottage waiting for me, the soft glow of the charmstone lighting the way, its wards offering a familiar sense of security. Despite the distance, the thought of it brought a small measure of comfort.

As tired as I was, despite the aches and blisters and the lingering uncertainty, I found myself looking forward to tomorrow’s lesson—and whatever else might come with it.

Chapter 5

“Tighten your grip,” Vorgath instructed, his deep voice cutting through the haze of my concentration as the iron rod buckled slightly under my hammer. Five days into this, those words had become a mantra, echoing in my ears long after leaving the forge.

Tighten your grip. Widen your stance. Higher. Harder. Faster. Better.

Five days sweating in Vorgath's forge. Five nights staying up well past midnight mending just enough garments to keep food in the pantry. Five mornings rolling out of bed with sore muscles and swollen eyes just to do it all again.

If I'd learned anything, it was that Vorgath didn't expect perfection, but he did expect progress, and I was as eager to show it to him as I was to prove Thorne wrong.

“You're overthinking again,” Vorgath said, his voice breaking through my thoughts as I prepared to strike.

I paused mid-swing, turning to look at him. His massive frame was silhouetted against the forge's glow, the play of light and shadow accentuating the strong lines of his face. The heat of the forge bore down on me, sweat dripping from my forehead. I wiped the back of my hand across my brow, smearing soot onto my already dirty sleeve.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“You are a woman,” he rumbled. “That is what you do.”

I blinked, prepared to be offended, when I caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. My jaw dropped slightly. “Did you just... tease me?” I asked, trying to cover my shock with a bit of sass. “I didn't know orcs had a sense of humor.”

Vorgath raised his eyebrows at me, the corner of his mouth lifting behind his beard. “There is much you don't know about orcs, like I said before.” He paused, his eyes holding mine for a moment longer than necessary. “But you are a fast learner.”

A flush crept up my neck, and this time, I couldn't blame it on the forge's heat. Was this flirtation? I wasn't sure, but I found myself enjoying the uncertainty, the subtle tension that had been building between us over the past few days. I couldn’t remember when I’d last felt this kind of distraction, this flutter of attraction. Part of me wanted to push it away, to focus solely on my goal of reopening the forge.

But another part, a part I'd thought long dormant, reveled in the feeling.

“Well,” I said, hefting the hammer again and flashing him a smile, “I have a good teacher.”

Vorgath grunted, but I could've sworn I saw his cheeks darken slightly beneath his beard. He shifted his stance, folding those thick, muscled arms across his chest. I imagined what it would feel like to be held by those arms, the roughness of his hands steadying me.

My heart fluttered at the thought, and I quickly turned back to the anvil, biting my lip to keep from smiling. What was happening to me?

“Less talking, more hammering,” he grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, bringing the hammer down with renewed focus, though I imagined I could feel the orc's dark gaze on my ample backside. The ample backside that I thought might fit just right in his big, green hands...

The sudden bang of the forge door startled me, causing the hammer to slip in my grasp. I turned quickly to see a stout figure silhouetted in the doorway.

“Vorgath! You great green lump, where are you hiding?” a gruff voice called out.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I recognized the newcomer—Grimble Ironfoot, a dwarf I hadn't seen since before the war, when he and Kald worked together. His wild, fiery red beard was as untamed as ever, barely contained by the intricate silver clasps that clinked with each step of his stout, barrel-chested frame.

Vorgath stepped toward the visitor. “I'm right here, *ghruln*. No need to shout.”

But Grimble wasn't looking at the orc. “Well, Mrs. Ashford!” He raised his bushy eyebrows as he spotted me. “What in the name of Fizzlebrit's beard are you doing here, lass?”

I lowered the hammer, wiping my sweaty palms on my apron. “Hello, Grimble. I'm learning the trade.”

The dwarf's eyes darted between Vorgath and me, surprise and curiosity etched on his weathered face. “Learning the trade? From this overgrown troll?” He jerked a thumb at Vorgath, who merely grunted in response.

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