Page 51 of Her Orc Protector

Dora took a loud slurp of her drink, then squinted at me over the rim. "You know," she said, drawing the words out, "I liked you well enough when you first arrived. Quiet, polite, all mysterious-like. But this new version—sassier, sparring with guards, letting orcs rock your baby? I like her better."

I blinked, caught between a laugh and a blush. "I haven't changed that much."

"Oh no?" Dora grinned. "You used to flinch when someone offered you second helpings. Now look at you. Stealing stew and Uldrek’s heart in the same evening."

I opened my mouth to object—that wasn’t—but stopped myself.

Gruha snorted. "She's not wrong."

Uldrek glanced down at me with that small, steady smile, the one that said he was listening even when he didn’t speak.

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling too, struck by how comfortable this felt—the back-and-forth, the shared stories, the easy laughter. It felt like family or something close.

Ellie squirmed in Uldrek's arms, reaching for his bowl. He deftly moved it out of her reach, replacing it with another wooden spoon she immediately began gumming.

"Teething again?" Leilan asked, noticing Ellie's determined chewing.

I nodded. "The top ones now. Kazrek says they're the worst."

"Orc teeth come in sharp," Uldrek said. "Human babies have it easier."

"Doesn't seem easier," I murmured, watching Ellie gnaw furiously on the spoon.

Hobbie, who'd been perched on a stack of cushions to reach the table properly, snorted. "Nothing about babies is easy. Loud, demanding creatures."

"Were you around many babies, Hobbie?" Leilan asked.

The brownie's wizened face went still for a moment. "More than I can count," she said finally. "Brownies are caretakers, after all."

Something in her voice—a faint whisper of old loss—made me think of the stories I'd heard about brownies during the war. How many had been lost protecting the children in their care? How many had watched families destroyed by shadow magic?

Before I could dwell on it, Ellie dropped her spoon. Hobbie’s hand shot out to catch it mid-air—faster than seemed strictly natural. She didn’t even look away from her bowl.

"The chaos of humans," she muttered, passing the spoon back to Uldrek. "Always dropping things."

Uldrek suppressed a smile. "Thank you, Hobbie."

"Don't thank me. Just stop dropping things."

The front door burst open with a gust of rain-soaked wind, and Fira stomped in, her hair plastered to her forehead and a scowl firmly in place. Her traveling cloak dripped onto the floorboards as she shut the door behind her.

"Delightful weather," she announced to no one in particular.

Gruha merely pointed to an empty seat and slid a bowl toward it. "There's stew. And bread, if these vultures haven't picked it clean."

Fira wrestled out of her sodden cloak, hanging it on a peg by the door before making her way to the table. She carried a bundled parcel under one arm, which she placed on the table with surprising gentleness.

"Someone made too many hand pies," she said, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a stack of golden-brown pastries. "Now they're yours."

"Someone?" Dora repeated with a knowing grin. "Or was it a certain scribe who's terrible at admitting she likes us?"

Fira's scowl deepened. "They're just pies. Eat them or don't."

She dropped into the empty chair, ignoring Dora's widening smile as she filled her bowl with stew. Despite her gruff demeanor, I noticed how her eyes swept around the table, taking in everyone with quiet attention. She lingered on Ellie, who was now contentedly nestled against Uldrek's chest, gnawing on her fist.

"The little one's getting bigger," she observed.

I nodded. "Growing too fast."

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