Page 21 of Orc's Little Human
The magic beneath my skin flares hot enough to make my vision shimmer red. The thought of touching Selene that way, of using my strength to shatter whatever fragile trust has built between us, makes my stomach turn. But worse than the physical revulsion is the deeper horror—the knowledge that part of me wants her in ways that have nothing to do with dominance or conquest.
I want to hear her laugh again, want to watch her eyes soften when she looks at Thali. Want to understand the shadows that live behind her carefully maintained walls and the story written in the scars that mark her hands.
These are not the thoughts of a war chief. These are the thoughts of a man, and men get their clans killed.
"I'll handle it," I tell Varok, though I have no idea what that means.
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for weakness, for any sign that his words have found their mark. Whatever he sees there must satisfy him because he nods once, sharp and decisive.
"Council tonight. After the evening meal." His tone makes it clear this isn't a request. "We need to settle this before it festers any further."
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone among the perimeter stakes with the taste of coming conflict bitter on my tongue. Around me, the camp continues its daily rhythm, but I can feel eyes watching from the shadows. Measuring. Calculating.
The restlessness under my ribs has transformed into something sharper now, something with claws and teeth that tears at my insides. Because Varok is right about one thing—this can't continue indefinitely. Eventually, the clan will demand action. Will force my hand in ways that leave no room for the careful balance I've been trying to maintain.
And when that moment comes, I'll have to choose between the woman who makes Thali smile and the authority that keeps us all alive.
The council fireburns low between us, casting shifting shadows across faces carved by violence and marked by survival. It's a small gathering—it has to be, with a clan our size—but these four men represent every voice that matters in Gor'thul. Every decision that shapes our future gets hammered out in this circle.
Grakul sits to my right, his scarred hands working steadily at sharpening his hunting knife. Our head scout has always been a man of few words, preferring to speak through action, but his presence here carries weight. When Grakul talks, warriors listen.
Beside him, Onog shifts restlessly, the head guard's massive frame making the log beneath him creak with protest. His tusks bear the deep grooves of a veteran fighter, someone who's earned his position through blood and bone. Next to him, Mol, Onog's right hand, maintains his characteristic stillness, amber eyes reflecting firelight as he watches the flames dance.
And across from me, Varok waits with the patience of a hunting cat. He knows he holds the stronger position tonight, knows the others share his concerns even if they haven't voiced them yet. The knowledge sits in his posture, in the confident way he meets my gaze.
"The human has been here twelve days," he begins without preamble, his voice carrying easily in the enclosed space. "Twelve days of eating our food, sleeping under our protection, contributing nothing to the clan's survival."
"She helps with Thali," I point out, though even to my own ears the words sound weak.
"She plays with Thali," Varok corrects. "There's a difference between helping and entertainment."
Grakul looks up from his blade, weathered features thoughtful. "The girl does seem... lighter. Happier." He tests the edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. "Haven't heard her laugh that much since before the winter raids."
"Happiness is a luxury we can't afford," Varok snaps. "Not when it comes at the cost of our reputation."
"What reputation?" The question comes from Onog, surprising everyone. The head guard rarely speaks during council, preferring to listen and observe. When he does contribute, it usually carries significant weight.
Varok's eyes narrow. "The reputation that keeps other clans from testing our borders. The reputation that makes coastal traders think twice before hiring protection against us."
"They already think we're savages," Onog rumbles, his voice like grinding stone. "One human more or less won't change that."
"It's not about what they think of us," Varok snarls, frustration bleeding through his controlled facade. "It's about what we think of ourselves. About maintaining the standards that have kept this clan alive for generations."
The fire pops, sending sparks spiraling toward the smoke hole above us. In the brief flare of light, I catch Mol watching me with unreadable intensity. He hasn't spoken yet, but his silence feels loaded with unspoken judgment.
"Speak your mind, Mol," I order quietly.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he considers his words. "The men are restless," he says finally. "They see you taking spoils but not using them. They wonder if their war chief has forgotten the taste for blood."
Heat builds behind my eyes, magic responding to the implied challenge. "My taste for blood is well documented."
"Is it?" Varok seizes the opening, voice sharp as a blade. "When was the last time you killed in front of the clan? When was the last time you reminded them what happens to those who cross the Blackmaw?"
The questions hit like physical blows because he's right. I've been leading from the shadows lately, handling threats quietly rather than making public examples. Trying to shield Thali from the worst of what leadership requires, trying to maintain some semblance of civilization in our small corner of the longhouse.
"The human needs to serve her purpose," Varok continues, pressing his advantage. "Either break her properly so the clan sees you haven't gone soft, or kill her and move on. But this... whatever this is... it's undermining everything we've built."
"And if I refuse?" The words slip out before I can stop them, carrying more challenge than I intended.
