Page 20 of Orc's Little Human
He sees that I care about her.
The realization should terrify me. Caring about anything in this place is weakness, a vulnerability that can be exploited. But as I watch him listen to Thali's excited chatter, see the way his entire posture softens around her, I understand something fundamental about the dynamic in this longhouse.
He's not keeping me here as a prisoner or a plaything. He's keeping me here because somehow, inexplicably, I've become part of whatever fragile ecosystem exists between him and Thali. Part of the careful balance that lets her remain a child despite growing up surrounded by violence.
The thought should horrify me. Should send me running for the nearest exit because being needed is just another kind of chain. But as Thali holds up another shell for his inspection, her face glowing with pride when he nods approval, I find myself settling deeper into my chair.
Just for now. Just until I figure out what comes next.
10
KORRATH
The morning air carries the scent of smoke and blood—familiar companions that have marked every dawn in Gor'thul for as long as I can remember. I move through the camp with measured steps, cataloguing the rhythm of daily survival that keeps my clan breathing. The weapon racks gleam with freshly sharpened steel. The cooking fires burn steady and hot. Children practice their forms with wooden spears while their mothers mend nets and sharpen blades.
Everything appears as it should. Yet something sits wrong beneath my ribs, a restlessness that's been building for days like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
"Korrath." Varok's voice cuts through my inspection, his tone carrying that particular edge that means he's been waiting for this moment. "We need to discuss the human."
I don't pause in my examination of the perimeter stakes, though every muscle in my shoulders tightens. "Her name is Selene."
"Her name doesn't matter." His boots crunch on gravel as he falls into step beside me, matching my pace with the easy confidence of someone who's stood at my right hand for fiveyears. "What matters is that she's been here too long without purpose."
The restlessness under my ribs sharpens into something with teeth. "She has purpose."
"Amusing your sister isn't purpose. It's weakness."
My hands curl into fists at my sides, the familiar burn of magic stirring beneath my skin like molten metal seeking release. But I force my voice to remain level, controlled. "Explain."
Varok stops walking, forcing me to turn and face him fully. His gray-green skin bears the ritual scars of a full warrior, tusks decorated with bands of black iron that catch the morning light. Everything about his stance speaks of challenge barely held in check.
"The clan brought spoils from the coastal raid," he says, words carefully measured. "Spoils are meant to be used. Broken. Discarded when they've served their purpose." His amber eyes narrow. "Not coddled like prized livestock."
The truth of his words hits like a blade between the ribs. When I claimed Selene that night, standing over her defiant form while the clan watched, they expected me to drag her away and use her body until it broke. Expected her screams to echo through the longhouse walls as proof of my dominance, her eventual death to serve as entertainment for warriors drunk on successful raiding.
The thought makes acid rise in my throat.
"She serves her purpose," I repeat, but the words taste like ash.
"By playing with shells? By teaching Thali human ways?" Varok's voice drops to something dangerous. "The men are starting to talk, Korrath. They're saying their war chief has gone soft. That you keep a human pet while they bleed for every scrap of territory we hold."
I meet his stare with golden fire, letting enough magic simmer behind my eyes to remind him exactly who he's addressing. "Let them talk. Words from weaklings carry no weight."
But even as I say it, I know he's right about the whispers. I've felt the subtle shift in how the warriors watch me, the questioning looks when they think I'm not paying attention. Leadership among orcs isn't granted by birthright or ceremony—it's earned through strength and maintained through fear. Show weakness, show hesitation, and the pack will turn on you faster than starving worgs.
Varok must see something in my expression because he presses forward, scenting blood in the water. "The Vraem Code demands strength, Korrath. Your father understood that. Your grandfather understood that. What would they say about a war chief who keeps enemies alive out of sentiment?"
My father. The mention of him sends familiar pain lancing through my chest, followed immediately by rage that burns hotter than any forge. Aldric Draegon died because he showed mercy to raiders from the Ironjaw Clan, believing their promises of peace. They slit his throat while he slept, then came for the rest of us in the night.
I was twenty-four when I found his body, when I lifted Thali from her blood-soaked bed and felt her tiny heart beating against my chest like a terrified bird. Twenty-four when I carved the names of our enemies into my tusks with his own blade, when I swore by stone and steel that sentiment would never make me weak again.
Yet here I stand, defending a human woman whose gray-blue eyes haunt my dreams and whose laugh makes something forgotten stir in the deepest parts of my chest.
"My father is dead," I say quietly, letting the words carry all the violence they've always held. "Which means his opinions matter less than the wind."
Varok's jaw tightens, but he knows better than to push that particular wound. Instead, he shifts tactics, going for the throat in a different way.
"Fine. Keep her if you must. But at least make use of her. The men need to see that you haven't forgotten what humans are good for." His smile turns predatory. "Break her properly and they'll respect the choice. Keep coddling her and they'll assume you've lost your edge entirely."
