Page 9 of Her Orc Blacksmith

My heart raced, not just from the effort but from his closeness. The warmth of his breath lingered near my ear, and I couldn't ignore the way his touch affected me—steadying my hand but unsettling everything else.

“Now, lift,” he instructed. “Slowly.”

I did as he said, my muscles straining as I lifted the hammer again, but this time, it felt different—easier, more controlled. Vorgath didn’t release my hand, keeping it steady and making sure I understood the movement.

“Better,” he murmured, his breath warm against the top of my head. “Feel the difference?”

I nodded, swallowing hard, my throat dry, my eyes on our hands. I couldn’t bring myself to speak, afraid that my voice might betray this unexpected attraction, this sudden awareness of him that I hadn’t anticipated.

Vorgath lingered for a moment longer before finally releasing my hand. He stepped back, the space between us widening, but the tension hung in the air, thick and heavy.

“Again,” he commanded.

I swung the hammer down, its weight no longer feeling quite as overwhelming as it had just moments ago. The clang of metal against metal echoed through the forge, and this time, instead of frustration, I felt a spark of something else—triumph.

“Again,” he repeated, his voice as steady as ever.

I lifted the hammer once more, the motion coming a little easier now, the rhythm starting to make sense in my body. I could feel the power in the swing, the way the hammer did most of the work as it crashed down onto the anvil. The sound it made was strong, resonant, like a song I was starting to understand.

“Again.”

I couldn't help it—suddenly, I was laughing. The sound bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, surprising even myself. I was doing it. I was actually doing it. The realization filled me with a kind of giddy exhilaration, and I swung the hammer down again, harder this time, just to prove to myself that it wasn’t a fluke.

“Again,” Vorgath said, a little more insistent, but there was a different note in his voice now—a hint of something lighter, maybe even amused.

I looked over at him, my breath coming in quick, excited bursts, and caught the smallest glint of something in his dark eyes. Was it understanding? Or maybe pride? Whatever it was, it made my laughter grow louder, the joy of this moment flooding through me, pushing out the doubt and frustration that had weighed me down earlier. I swung the hammer with all my might, the clang ringing out clear and strong. My arms were burning, my muscles trembling from the effort, but I didn’t care. I felt powerful, like I was channeling all the strength I had into this one simple act.

And despite his stern commands, despite the unyielding expression on his face, I could see it now—the twinkle in his eyes, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth. Vorgath was pushing me, testing me, but he was also watching me succeed, and in that moment, there was a connection between us, an unspoken understanding.

The hammer came down again and again, each swing building on the last, each one a step toward something new, something I hadn’t believed I could do before. My laughter mingled with the sound of metal on metal, and before long, I was breathless, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming rush of finally, finally feeling like I could do this.

“Again,” he said, but this time, his voice was almost gentle.

I turned to look at him, my chest heaving, my face flushed from exertion, and I saw it clearly—Vorgath was smiling. It wasn’t a big smile, just a small, satisfied quirk of his lips, but it was there, and it was real.

And I swung the hammer. Again.

As the day wore on, my initial excitement gave way to a bone-deep exhaustion I'd never experienced before. Every muscle in my body ached, and my hands felt like they'd been through a meat grinder. My clothes—a simple linen dress, its sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and worn leather boots that pinched at my toes—were covered in ash and streaks of soot despite the thick apron Vorgath had given me. My hair, usually tied back neatly, had escaped its braid, strands sticking to my sweaty forehead and neck. But I kept at it, determined to prove to Vorgath—and to myself—that I could handle this.

Vorgath moved around the forge, his presence a constant reminder of why I was here. He didn't hover, exactly, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching, assessing. Occasionally, he'd grunt out a correction or demonstration, his movements fluid and practiced where mine were still clumsy and uncertain.

“Elbow higher,” he'd say, or “Watch your stance.”

I'd nod, adjust, and carry on, trying to ignore the way my arms trembled with fatigue.

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the forge, I finally allowed myself to lower the hammer. My hands, calloused from years of needlework but unused to this kind of labor, ached fiercely. The blisters that had begun as tender pinpricks that morning had burst open, leaving raw, angry patches, and I couldn't quite stop them from shaking. I tried tohide it, clenching my fists at my sides, but Vorgath's sharp eyes missed nothing.

He grunted, disappearing into a back room for a moment before returning with a small clay jar.

“Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a nearby bench.

I didn’t argue, collapsing onto the worn wood with a grateful sigh and leaning back against the wall, letting my eyes close for a brief second. The sweat on my brow cooled in the evening air, and I could feel the dust settling on my skin, mingling with the lingering heat. Every muscle in my body throbbed, but the pain felt strangely satisfying, like I’d earned it.

When I opened my eyes again, Vorgath was kneeling in front of me, the jar in one hand. I hadn’t expected him to be so close, and the suddenness of it made my breath catch in my throat. Without a word, he took one of my hands in his, turning it over to inspect the damage. His touch was gentler than I had expected, careful even, his fingers warm and rough but not uncomfortable.

“You should have said something,” he muttered, unscrewing the lid of the jar.

I shrugged, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my shoulders. “I didn't want to seem weak.”

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