Page 67 of Her Orc Blacksmith

This time, I didn’t look away.

Suddenly, Grimble let loose one of his booming laughs, jostling me out of my thoughts. “You staying quiet over there, Vorgath! Worn out, are ye? I betcha I could lift that beam faster than you, even with half a pint in me belly!”

Vorgath didn’t even bother turning. “Not a chance, dwarf. We both know you’d fall into the ale barrel midway through.”

Grimble let out an exaggerated scoff. “You wound me, friend! Just you wait; after dinner, we’ll see who’s top!” He whistled, leaning forward to nudge Elias. “Bet your money on me, lad! We don’t let orcs win that easy.”

Elias looked up at Grimble, wide-eyed. “Mama says we don’t bet, Mister Grimble,” he said, his face scrunching in confusion before turning to me for confirmation.

I bit back a laugh and nodded solemnly. “That’s right.”

Vorgath glanced down at Elias, a glint of mischief sparking in his usually stoic gaze. “Good rule to follow, Elias,” Vorgath said. “But if you were to bet... always bet on the orc.”

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable rhythm. Thyri regaled the group with stories of kitchen mishaps and strange ingredients brought in from far-flung territories, each tale more exaggerated than the last. Sylwen occasionally chimed in to correct her more fantastical claims, much to Thyri’s playful annoyance. Elias couldn't stop laughing, especially when Thyri described a particular incident involving troll sausage that she claimed tried its best to escape the pot.

Grimble listened with rapt attention before raising his cup to interrupt. “Say what you will about troll sausage, lass,” he bellowed, “but that’s still better than the time we used molten cheese to patch a hole in a blast furnace.” He slapped the table, sending a nearly full cup of ale skittering dangerously toward Sylwen's lap.

The elf didn’t even bat an eye as he flicked his wrist, the cup stopping mid-ski and floating back to its proper place.

“Cheers to exceptionally poor choices,” Sylwen muttered dryly.

Before the laughter could fully taper off, a soft voice broke the chatter.

“E-excuse me...?”

The sound was barely a whisper under the fading chuckles, but it was enough to silence the group. All eyes slowly shifted toward the edge of the clearing, where a figure stood, half-concealed in the deepening twilight.

A girl—or rather, a young woman—stepped forward cautiously from the shadows, clutching a burlap sack that looked far too heavy for her slight frame. Her eyes darted between all of us—Brilda, Sylwen, Vorgath—and then quickly landed back on me. She seemed on the verge of making a run for it, like a startled hare standing too close to a hunter.

Vorgath straightened at once, his expression unreadable, while Grimble froze mid-toast, his cup still raised halfway to his lips. The mood of easy camaraderie dissolved in an instant.

“Are you Mistress Soraya?”

I stood, wiping my hands on a rag, and gave her a gentle nod. “I’m Soraya. What can I do for you?”

Her gaze flitted around nervously before settling on me again. “My name is Lira,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes never stopped darting around, like she expected someone to leap out and chase her away any second.

“You're not in trouble, you know,” I said. “You can relax.”

She nodded and inhaled sharply, her cheeks turning a bit pink. “Thank you. It's just... I'm not supposed to be here.”

I tilted my head. “Not supposed to? Who says?”

“My father,” she muttered, her hands sailing over each other nervously, clutching the burlap sack tighter. “Thorne Ironsmith.”

“Thorne Ironsmith is your father?” The words sounded flat even to my own ears, and for a moment, I wondered if the girl would flee right then and there.

Lira nodded, her eyes darting away, as if wishing she could disappear into the trees. “Yes. But... he doesn't know I'm here.”

“Why exactly are you here then?” I asked carefully, studying the girl.

She was maybe seventeen or eighteen, slight and slender, with a curtain of golden hair draped over her shoulders. The way she clutched the burlap sack against her chest made her look even smaller, as if she were trying to shield herself from the world. There was a vulnerability about her, a raw edge of fear that pulled at my heart.

As I took in the sight of her, I realized that I had never once thought of Thorne as having a family.

She bit her lip, her teeth worrying the skin. When she spoke, her voice was firm despite the nerves still flickering across her face. “I’ve heard him talk about you. You’re... different. You’re doing what he says a woman can’t. What he says I can’t.”

There was a sharp edge in her voice now, something raw and desperate. I felt a pang of familiarity.

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