Page 27 of The Orc's Protection
He fits the open band around her wrist, then brings both hands around it, palms covering the silver, thumbs resting lightly against her skin. He bows his head and steps closer as though shielding the moment from the rest of the world.
Seconds pass.
Long enough that I realize what’s happening.
When silver warms, it becomes more malleable. His body heat. Hers. The metal responds to both.
Only when it yields does he move—pressing gently, carefully, shaping the band so it conforms perfectly to her wrist. No force. Just patience and intention.
Only then does Vraag speak again, his breath stirring the fine hairs near my ear.
“The band is shaped by shared heat,” he says softly. “It cannot be fitted alone.”
The male releases her wrist. For a heartbeat, she simply stares at it, at the way the silver now fits her exactly, no gap remaining. Then she lifts her arm.
The room exhales as one.
A murmur spreads through the gathered orcs—not applause, but acknowledgment. Space subtly shifts around the couple. Respect reorients itself.
I swallow.
“That’s a big deal,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Vraag replies quietly. “It declares intention, witnessed and recognized. Not binding—but never casual.” A pause. “Many never offer one at all.”
The woman lowers her arm, her partner watching her with open vulnerability—no triumph, no swagger. Only hope.
The gathering does not pause for reflection. The moment I’ve just witnessed is absorbed back into the larger rhythm of the ceremony—voices rising, bodies shifting, energy turning outward again.
With a broad gesture, the elder says something that causes the gathered orcs to cheer and raise drinking horns. Servers begin circulating with vessels of varying sizes.
“Now comes the ceremonial drink,” Vraag explains as a server approaches with a tray. “Mountain flower mead. Potent for orcs, so perhaps just a taste for little humans.”
The server offers us two drinking vessels—a large horn for Vraag and a smaller cup clearly reserved for human guests. The liquid inside glows amber in the firelight.
I take a cautious sip; the mead is warm, honeyed, and stronger than it has any right to be. Around us, voices rise, not in song, but in expectation. People turn subtly, attention shifting inward toward the elders’ ring.
Grulk appears before us, ceremonial horn in hand and an alarmingly wide grin on his face.
“StoneWatch!” he booms, clasping Vraag’s forearm in what appears to be a ritual greeting. “The elders wish to know if you have an announcement this First Frost.”
Vraag goes rigid beside me. “No announcements, HammerFall.”
Grulk’s eyes flick meaningfully between us. “No? The protection gift has been witnessed. Twice, I’m told.”
“That was not—” Vraag begins tensely.
“And you bring her to the gathering as your personal guest,” Grulk continues as if Vraag hadn’t spoken. “Marked with your token for all clans to acknowledge.”
My confusion must show on my face, because Grulk turns to me with exaggerated surprise. “Has our warrior not explained orc courtship traditions to you, little teacher? How protection garments carry meaning when offered? How bringing you to a clan gathering signifies formal intention?”
“Grulk,” Vraag warns, his voice dropping to something quiet and absolute. “This is inappropriate.”
But understanding is already dawning. The rain poncho. The coat. The strange looks from other orcs tonight. How Vraag has been simultaneously attentive and uncomfortable.
“Wait,” I say slowly. “Are you saying that when Vraag lent me his coat, it meant something specific in Orc culture?”
Grulk’s tusked grin widens impossibly further. “The first protection garment could be excused as a practical necessity. The second establishes a pattern. And you’re wearing his token openly among the clans.”
