Page 23 of The Orc's Protection
“Oil pressure,” he says, as though this explains everything, which for him it does. He pulls into the next gas station without discussion, the enormous truck easing into the lot with unhurried precision.
“It’s probably fine,” I say.
“Probably is not the same as confirmed.” A moment later, he swings out of the truck and puts the hood up.
I roll down my window. The night air is cold and smells like gasoline and pine. Vraag stands at the hood in full ceremonial dress—deep green tunic, silver forearm bands, the short cape—examining the engine with the same focused attention he gives everything that might constitute a threat. I find myself watching him the way I’ve been careful not to at school.
“It needs a quart,” he says without looking up.
“Of course it does.”
He disappears inside the station.
I’m watching the door when a car pulls up to the pump beside us. I don’t register it at first. Then the driver’s window comes down, and Janet Morse from first grade looks across at me from six feet away.
We both go very still.
She takes in the truck. Me in the passenger seat in my burgundy dress at seven on a Saturday night. And then the station door opens and Vraag walks out—all six-plus feet of him in full ceremonial dress, deep green tunic, silver bands catching the fluorescent light—carrying a quart of oil.
There’s nothing to say that either of us would believe. We both know that.
I lift my hand in a small wave.
She nods once. Her window goes up. She pulls forward to the next pump.
Vraag comes back with a quart of oil, tops it off, closes the hood, and gets back in. There's a faint smudge of oil on his thumb that he wipes away on a cloth he produces from somewhere without breaking stride.
“All confirmed,” he says, and pulls out of the lot.
I watch Janet’s car in the side mirror until we turn onto the main road.
The gathering, I think. Just the gathering. Whatever comes Monday can wait until Monday.
Chapter Nine
Riona
The drums reach us before we’re even out of the truck.
The road crests a hill, and the cultural center comes into view—a massive lodge built of stone and timber, unlike any architecture I’ve seen before. Angular roof lines rise and fall in a pattern that somehow echoes the surrounding mountains, with large windows capturing the sunset’s glow. Dozens of vehicles fill the parking area, ranging from trucks like Vraag’s to what appear to be custom-built transports designed for orc proportions. As we park, I hear the distant sound of drums and what might be singing—deep, resonant voices in a language I don’t recognize.
“Are those… traditional orc instruments?” I ask, a flutter of excitement replacing my earlier nervousness.
Vraag nods, something like pride crossing his features. “Storm drums. The sound carries for miles in mountain valleys.”
As we approach the entrance, I notice several other orcs arriving, all in similar ceremonial attire to Vraag’s, though with variations in color and ornamentation. They nod respectfully to him, but I don’t miss the curious, and sometimes surprised, glances they cast my way.
“Is it unusual for humans to attend these gatherings?” I ask quietly.
“Not prohibited,” Vraag hedges, “but uncommon. Especially as personal guests rather than official representatives. While each clan has its own traditions and territories, we gather for major seasonal celebrations,” he explains. “StoneWatch, HammerFall, WarmHearth—we may have different specialties and lineages, but we share the sacred rhythms of the year.”
Before I can ask a follow-up question, we reach the massive wooden doors. Vraag places his hand on my lower back and guides me inside. I can feel every fingertip through the fabric, and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
The interior takes my breath away. A central space soars three stories high, with a circular fire pit at its center currently hosting a controlled blaze. Along the walls, weapons, tapestries, and artifacts from the orcs’ home world are carefully preserved and displayed with clear reverence. Around the perimeter, tables groan under the weight of food, while groups of orcs gather in conversational clusters.
But it’s the music that captures me completely. In one corner, six orcs play instruments I’ve never seen before—including what appear to be the “storm drums” Vraag mentioned, massive stretched-hide drums that produce a sound more felt than heard. The melody is haunting; its harmonies drifting in patterns I don’t quite recognize but feel in my chest.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, afraid to break the spell.
