Page 81 of Her Orc Blacksmith

The blade cleaved through the mimic’s chest with a sickening crunch, a spray of dark ichor erupting from the wound like a burst of ink in water. The creature let out a terrible, agonizing screech as it split apart, tendrils of shadow and flesh unraveling in a macabre display as it collapsed to the cracked stone floor.

For a long moment, the room was silent. The fire crackled faintly, casting flickering shadows on the walls, but the air was thick with the stench of death.

Dregor stood there, his chest heaving, his axe still raised as if ready to strike again.

And then he turned to me.

His eyes, still wild with the echoes of his pain, locked onto mine. Before I could even react, he was moving—crossing the room in two powerful strides. The axe still gleamed in his hand as he pressed the cold steel to my throat, against Vorgath's mark.

I swallowed hard. “Dregor, please—”

He pressed the blade harder against my skin, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. “Vorgath is the reason my son is dead,” he snarled. “And I will make him pay. Starting with you.”

Chapter 31

The world narrowed to the cold bite of steel at my throat, my pulse hammering against the bloody blade as Dregor’s rage pulsed through the air like a living thing.

“Killing me,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, “is not going to fill that emptiness inside you.”

Dregor’s grip on the axe tightened. His chest heaved with every breath, muscles taut, full of anger and something deeper—something broken. I recognized it because I had lived with it. It was that same emptiness that had followed me, too.

“I know you're hurting,” I continued. “But surely you know by now that hurting others doesn’t ease the grief.”

The blade pressed harder against my throat for a moment, the edge biting into my skin, but then it loosened again, just a fraction. “You think you know what it’s like to lose a son? You don’t. You can’t.”

“I don’t,” I admitted, keeping my gaze steady on him, refusing to look away. “But I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.I know what it’s like to barely get by, to survive when you don’t know how to live anymore.”

His jaw clenched, the tension rippling outward, but the wild fury in his eyes had dimmed. It wasn’t gone—anger like that didn't just vanish—but it wasn’t as sharp now.

“Vorgath let his brother live,” Dregor growled. “If he’d killed Gorkath, Throk would still be here.”

I heard the war in his voice, the guilt, the blame. It was easier for him to hate Vorgath than to deal with the weight of his loss. Easier to dwell on the “what-ifs” than to face reality. I had been there, too, dwelled in those shadows, but I knew that when I got out of this alive, I couldn't allow them to shape my future.

“And if you kill me,” I said softly, “what then? Will that bring your son back?”

“No, but it will make him suffer.”

“From what I’ve seen, Vorgath already suffers every day,” I pushed, my voice steadier than my heart, which was beating a furious rhythm in my chest. “And not just for your son. He carries the weight of his choices, of his brother’s fate. He suffers for the war—and for everyone he loves.”

Dregor flinched. Just a twitch, but I felt the axe wobble.

My gaze drifted to the mimic, its mutilated form lying in the ash, grotesque and twisted, skin mottled and decaying, limbs unnaturally long. That thing was more than just a monster. It was the reflection of what grief could do to a person if they let it consume them. It was the thing that fed on everything you didn’t let yourself feel.

“Grief doesn’t make sense. It twists things. Makes you believe the only way to heal is to hurt someone else.” I spoke slowly, my voice hushed, like I was coaxing Elias back to sleep after a nightmare. “But breaking him won’t put you back together.”

His face contorted, and for a moment, I thought I'd lost him. His hand flexed around the haft of his axe, and a low growl rumbled from his chest.

“You know that, don’t you? Throk wouldn’t want—”

“Don’t say his name!” Dregor roared, the edge of his axe grazing my skin again as he lifted it slightly, his golden eyes glinting with a wild, terrible pain. “You don’t get to speak his name.”

The rage in his voice filled the room, and fear tightened around my chest. He was standing on the edge, and I had to stop him from falling.

“You're right,” I said, voice soft. “I don’t know what your son would want. But I do know you don’t have to die with him.”

Dregor froze, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. His massive chest rose and fell like a snorting bull, but his eyes locked onto mine. For one long moment, everything hung in the air—all the pain, the loss, the memories we couldn’t outrun—and then, the tension in his body slackened until the axe lowered just an inch. Enough for me to breathe without the bitter cold of the metal kissing my skin.

“I don't know how to stop,” he rasped, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I don't know how to just... live.”

---