Page 26 of The Orc's Protection
He finally tastes his own portion, and the transformation on his handsome face is immediate. His eyes close briefly, his massive shoulders relaxing as if a weight has lifted. When he opens his eyes again, they shine with emotion he doesn’t attempt to hide.
“It’s close,” he says softly. “Very close.”
Where our hands are joined, I feel it again—that low vibration from the gathering, the one I filed away. It’s different now. Quieter. More settled. I have the sudden, inconvenient thought that it started when I touched his arm, not before.
He seems like a male who’s been holding his breath for a very long time… and finally lets it out. Without thinking, I reach across the table and touch his forearm. “I’m glad you got to taste it again.”
He covers my hand with his own, engulfing it completely. “Thank you for being here, Riona.”
The use of my first name, so rare from him, sends a pleasant shiver through me. His thumb brushes almost imperceptibly across my knuckles, and the simple touch feels more intimate than it should. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
We continue eating, sampling the various offerings while Vraag explains their significance as well as what Earth-based substitutions were used. Throughout, more orcs approach, exchanging brief words with Vraag in their native language before moving on. I watch him during these exchanges—the way he sits tall, no careful diminishing of his presence. His tusks are visible when he speaks their language, no hiding them behind careful smiles. His shoulders are squared, his posture commanding. He stands revealed as a warrior among his people, not a security guard trying to make himself less intimidating for human comfort.
It’s attractive in a way that catches me off guard. He’s finally showing me who he really is.
Each conversation with the other orcs seems to follow a pattern: a formal greeting, a glance at me, a pointed sniff directed toward the stone resting against my chest, a question in Orcish to Vraag, his increasingly terse response, and then departure.
“What are they asking you?” I finally inquire after the fifth such interaction.
Vraag hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. “They are… curious about your presence.”
“That much I gathered,” I say dryly. “What exactly are they curious about?”
Before he can answer, drums sound in a new rhythm, drawing everyone’s attention to the central fire pit where an older orc now stands. Her elaborate tunic and multiple ceremonial bands mark her as significant, as does the immediate silence that falls.
“The clan elder, Korgath,” Vraag explains quietly. “She will begin the blessing ceremony.”
The elder speaks in the Orc language, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall despite her apparent age. The gathered orcs respond at certain intervals, a rhythmic call and response that clearly follows traditional patterns.
“What’s she saying?” I whisper.
“A traditional greeting to the changing season,” Vraag translates, his breath warm against my ear. “Honoring the first frost as a bringer of rest and renewal.”
The ceremony continues, with different clan representatives approaching the fire to add specific woods or herbs that release fragrant, colorful smoke when burned. The combined scents create a heady, almost intoxicating atmosphere.
As I watch, entranced, Vraag leans close to my ear. “The First Frost Feast celebrates transition—not just of seasons, but of life phases. In our world, it was when younglings would declare their chosen paths, warriors would announce bondings, and new clan alliances would form.”
“So it’s like a combination of New Year’s and engagement season,” I suggest, trying to find human parallels.
“Similar in significance, yes.” His voice rumbles pleasantly against my ear, and I lean imperceptibly closer to him. Something beneath that rumble catches my attention: steadier, lower, a vibration that has nothing to do with speech. I feel it where his chest brushes my shoulder. Because I don’t have a word for it, I file it under orc and turn my attention back to the ceremony. “A time of announcements and new beginnings.”
The gathering quiets as a couple steps forward from the outer ring, an orc woman I recognize from the buffet and a broad-shouldered male whose pride is unmistakable even from this distance. They stand before the elders, hands clasped, foreheads bowed.
The room’s energy shifts. Not celebratory. Reverent.
The elder speaks in Orcish—slow, deliberate syllables that ripple outward like a held breath. The young male lifts his head, reaches into the fold of his sash, and produces something small that nevertheless draws every eye.
Firelight glints off hammered silver.
It’s a band, but not a closed circle. The ends curve toward each other, leaving a deliberate span of space between them. The surface is worked with stamped geometric designs, not ornamental so much as intentional, as if each mark was placed with purpose rather than mere decoration.
Vraag steps close behind me. His chest brushes my shoulder as he leans down, his voice low and warm against my ear.
“Connection band handmade by Krall, the male,” he murmurs. “Formal courtship.”
My attention snaps back to the couple. Krall offers the band with open hands. The woman doesn’t smile. She inhales sharply, like someone bracing for something that will alter the shape of her life.
When she extends her wrist, the room falls utterly silent.
