Page 29 of The Orc's Protection
He stops.
“Or?” I prompt, my voice quieter now, because whatever comes next isn’t theoretical.
“Or to accept it and wear it publicly, signaling willingness to consider the warrior’s claim.” Vraag exhales slowly, his gaze dropping. When he glances back up, something quieter and more vulnerable has replaced his earlier formality.
“There is something I must say,” he adds, low enough that only I can hear.
I brace instinctively, not with fear but with awareness, the sense that we’ve crossed into more honest ground.
“When I offered you the necklace,” he continues, “I told myself it was practical. That it would ease your presence here.” His jaw tightens slightly. “That was true. But it was also convenient.”
Something warm and tight settles in my chest.
“I knew what it would signal,” he says quietly. “To every orc here. And I chose not to tell you.” His gaze meets mine, steady and unflinching. “That was not protection. That was assumption. You deserved the choice.”
A pause. Then, simply, “I am sorry.”
The apology lands softly—but solidly. Not defensive. Not dramatic. Just owned.
Something loosens inside me. Not because he apologized, but because he saw it clearly. Named it without being asked. Chose accountability before I could decide whether to ask for it. I have spent a long time being careful about men who make decisions on your behalf and call it care. This is not that. This is the opposite of that. I feel the difference in my chest, specific and unmistakable, and I don’t push it away.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. “I didn’t feel trapped. But I needed to know you understood why it mattered.”
His shoulders ease, just a fraction. “Yes.”
The shift around us is subtle but unmistakable, conversations quieting, attention turning.
Whatever I decide here, I realize, isn’t private.
My cheeks warm as I remember how I’d kept his poncho close when I had it, how I’d wrapped myself in his coat all day. No wonder Grulk has been insufferable.
The drums change rhythm again, and orcs begin moving toward the central fire for what appears to be the ceremony’s next phase.
“We should join the gathering,” Vraag suggests. “The frost blessing begins soon.”
As we move through the crowd, his hand finds its now-familiar place at my lower back. The touch feels different now that I understand its significance—not just courtesy, but a subtle declaration to other orcs, marking me as under his protection—important to him.
Near the fire, clan representatives continue adding ceremonial offerings, creating flames that shift through jewel-like colors. The elder speaks again, her words rising and falling in cadence with the drums.
“She calls on each clan to receive the blessing,” Vraag translates quietly. “After which, the formal announcements begin.”
The atmosphere feels charged with something beyond just ceremony. Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar setting, the strange music, or the way Vraag stands so close to me that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Each time he speaks, his breath stirs the hair near my temple, sending awareness skittering across my skin.
As each clan steps forward to receive the elder’s blessing, I notice Vraag growing increasingly tense. His jaw tightens, his posture becoming more rigid with each passing moment.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“StoneWatch will be called soon,” he says quietly. “I must step forward.” His hand slips from my back as he moves toward the fire.
When he’s called, something in me catches—not with worry, but with awe.
Among the gathered orcs, his presence shifts the air. Shoulders square. Conversations still. Heads turn.
He looks different up there. Not the careful, reserved male who walks school hallways or weighs every word before speaking—but something older, surer. A male shaped by tradition and expectation, carrying both with quiet authority.
The elder speaks to him in their language, voice resonant in the hush. She dips two fingers into the fire’s ash and presses it to Vraag’s brow.
Vraag bows his head—not submissive, but reverent. The gesture is precise. Earned.
