Page 12 of Orc's Little Human
Thali nods with understanding that cuts too deep for someone her age. "My parents are dead too. Mama died having me, and Papa died when I was little. Raiders killed him while he was hunting. Korrath had to become chieftain when he was barely grown."
The matter-of-fact recitation of tragedy, the way she discusses loss like discussing weather, reminds me again that suffering isn't uniquely human. This child has known grief, abandonment, the weight of growing up too fast in a world that specializes in taking away everything you love.
We're not so different.
The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome, dangerous in its implications. I can't afford to see commonalities, to find connections that might weaken my resolve when survival depends on remembering exactly what these people are capable of.
But as Thali continues gathering shells with focused determination, occasionally holding up particularly beautiful specimens for my admiration, I feel something treacherous unfurling in my chest. Not trust—I'm not that foolish yet. But the first tentative threads of something that might, given time and safety I don't possess, grow into genuine affection.
You're being an idiot. This is how they break you—not with violence, but with kindness that makes you forget they're the enemy.
Yet when Thali loops her arm through mine with casual affection, pointing out a family of sea birds nesting in the cliff face, I don't pull away. The contact feels natural, comforting in ways I'd forgotten were possible.
Fear and loneliness gnaw at my resolve with patient persistence, wearing down walls I've built from necessity and bitter experience. This child offers something I haven't had in years—companionship without conditions, conversationwithout hidden agendas, the simple pleasure of shared discovery.
Don't soften. Don't forget what you are here. One wrong move and you're dead.
But as we climb back up the cliff face with pockets full of shells and sea glass, Thali chattering about the patterns she plans to make with her treasures, I find myself smiling despite every warning screaming in my head.
6
KORRATH
The morning air carries the stench of blood and sweat as I review patrol reports with Grakul, our head scout. Standard information—no human settlements spotted within three days' ride, coastal waters clear of warships, the usual petty disputes over hunting territories with neighboring clans.
"Double the watch on the eastern approach." I hand back the parchment, mind already moving to the next pressing matter. "Varok's been pushing boundaries since the raid. I want to know if he's planning something stupid."
Grakul nods, scarred face grim with understanding. Varok's been testing my authority ever since I claimed the human girl, making pointed comments about weakness and soft leadership. The kind of talk that spreads like infection if left unchecked.
"Chieftain." Another warrior approaches, this one bearing news I like even less. "Supply count from the last raid—we're running low on neptherium. The weapons need?—"
A roar of rage cuts through the morning calm, followed by the distinctive clash of steel on steel. Not the controlled sounds of training, but the vicious, desperate noise of warriors trying to kill each other.
"Fuck." I'm moving before conscious thought takes hold, boots pounding across hard-packed earth toward the training grounds. Behind me, Grakul and the others follow, but I'm already focused on the knot of bodies surrounding two fighters who've clearly moved past practice into something uglier.
Jorth and Mazg circle each other with drawn blades, both streaming blood from cuts that speak of serious intent. The crowd around them bays encouragement, but there's an edge to the noise that sets my teeth on edge. This isn't honor combat or settled disputes. This is the kind of violence that spreads, that turns warriors against each other when enemies press from outside.
"Stand down!" My voice cuts through the chaos, carrying the full weight of authority I've built through eight years of leadership. Most of the crowd shifts nervously, but the fighters ignore me completely.
Jorth lunges with his curved blade, aiming for Mazg's throat. Mazg deflects but stumbles, and I see the moment when steel will find flesh, when one of my warriors will die for no better reason than tensions running too high and pride running too hot.
The rage that rises in response feels different from usual anger. Deeper. Hotter. Like molten metal flowing through my veins instead of blood.
My palm finds the ritual knife at my belt without conscious thought, drawing the blade across my wrist in one smooth motion. Blood wells immediately—dark crimson that carries the weight of ancestral power passed down through generations of Draegon warriors. I let it spill onto the iron-rich earth at my feet, feeling the familiar tingle as magic responds to sacrifice.
But this time, the response isn't familiar at all.
The ground beneath my feet ripples like water, stone and packed earth flowing in ways that shouldn't be possible. Thetremor spreads outward in expanding rings, throwing both fighters off balance as their footing becomes suddenly uncertain. Shocked curses rise from the watching crowd as warriors struggle to keep their feet on ground that moves like a living thing.
What the fuck?—
The thought breaks off as my magic surges beyond anything I've ever experienced. Usually, blood-forging requires careful control, precise application of will to shape stone and metal according to my intent. This feels like trying to direct a river in flood, power flowing through me with an intensity that should tear me apart.
Jorth's blade begins to twist in his grip, iron flowing like heated wax despite the morning's cool air. The metal wraps around his wrist like a living serpent, binding his sword arm while the edge curls harmlessly away from his opponent. Mazg's weapon suffers the same fate, steel reshaping itself into an elaborate knot that would take a blacksmith hours to untangle.
The earth continues its unnatural movement, forming barriers between the fighters and pushing them apart with inexorable force. Stone rises in jagged walls, creating a maze that separates not just Jorth and Mazg but the entire crowd, isolating each warrior in his own small space where violence becomes impossible.
"I said stand down." My voice carries new weight now, backed by power that makes the air itself tremble. Both fighters stare at their ruined weapons with expressions caught between awe and terror. The watching crowd has gone completely silent, eyes fixed on me with the kind of reverence reserved for legends made flesh.
