Page 41 of Her Orc Protector

Dora's usual cheerfulness dimmed slightly. "My fourth sister's husband. He had wandering hands and a temper." She touched her left ear, which I now noticed had a slight notch in it. "I wasn't having it. So I left." She brightened again. "Best decision I ever made. Found out I'm actually quite good at being on my own."

"You?" Gruha snorted. "The one who talks to every stranger in the market?"

"I said I'm good at it, not that I prefer it," Dora retorted, but there was no heat in it.

Gruha made a noncommittal sound and turned her attention to the fire, adding another small log. The flames cast her face in gold and shadow, deepening the lines around her eyes, the furrow between her brows.

"I had a daughter, once," she said without preamble. "Long time ago now."

The room went very still. Even Hobbie paused in whatever she was doing with a piece of string she'd pulled from her pocket.

"She had my temper. My hands." Gruha looked down at her own hands—broad, strong, marked by years of work. "Shewould've liked your girl, I think. She had a soft spot for quiet fighters."

Had. Past tense. The loss was clear in every line of her body, though she didn't elaborate.

"What was her name?" Leilan asked softly.

Gruha's eyes met hers. "Iska." A pause. "Fever took her. Bad winter, twenty years back. Nothing to be done."

I thought of Ellie's warm forehead the night before, the fear that had gripped me. How close the edge always felt.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words inadequate but sincere.

Gruha nodded once, acknowledging the sentiment without dwelling on it. "Life goes on. Always does."

We fell quiet again. Ellie had finally drifted into a fitful sleep, her tiny hand clutching the edge of the blue wrap Leilan had brought. Watching her chest rise and fall, I felt the knot in my own chest loosen slightly.

"I was betrothed," Leilan said suddenly, her voice so soft I had to lean forward to hear her. "Back in Silvermeadow. To a high elf from a noble house." She touched her left wrist with her right hand, tracing what I realized was a thin scar. "He didn't like that I was only half-elven. Said he'd 'fix' me."

Dora made a small, angry sound. "Bastard."

Leilan's mouth curved in a sad smile. "That's what my mother called him, too. When she helped me cut my hair and pack my things." She looked down at Ellie. "Everwood was the first place that didn't ask where my scars came from."

I'd noticed the scars before—thin lines on her wrists, another at the base of her throat—but I'd never asked. Now I understood why.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Three years," she replied. "Long enough to learn who I am without fear following me." She glanced up, meeting my eyes. "Long enough to recognize it in others."

I dropped my gaze, unsettled by the gentle perception in her words.

Hobbie, who had been unusually quiet, spoke up from her cushion. "Been in many houses over the years," she said, her small hands working with the string she held. It was forming some kind of pattern—a web or a charm. "Not all of them worth staying in. This one, though," she gestured vaguely to encompass not just the room but perhaps Tinderpost House itself, "got the right shape. Not many do."

"What makes a shape right?" Dora asked, curious.

Hobbie's eyes narrowed in thought. "Space for shadows. Space for light. Not too many sharp corners for hurts to hide behind." She tied a knot in her string work with decisive precision. "People who see what needs seeing and look away from what doesn't."

It was cryptic, and yet I found myself nodding, understanding something about what she meant. Tinderpost House wasn't just a building. It was the people in it. The way they moved around each other. The spaces they left for wounds to heal without poking at them.

"He said I was fragile."

The words left me before I could stop them, hanging in the air between us. I hadn't meant to speak. Hadn't planned to share anything of him. But sitting in this circle of women who had survived their own storms, I suddenly needed to give voice to the weight I'd been carrying.

"He said I needed protection. That the world was too harsh for someone like me." I curled my fingers around my cup, anchoring myself in its warmth. "Every time I tried to stand taller, he would remind me how small I was. How breakable."

No one spoke. No one rushed to fill the silence. They simply waited, their faces open, attentive.

"At first, it felt like care," I continued, my voice steadier than expected. "Like someone seeing all my vulnerabilities and wanting to shield them. But then—" I swallowed hard. "Then it became a cage. Built one bar at a time, so slowly I didn't notice until I couldn't move without hitting a wall."

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