Page 48 of The Orc's Protection
His eyes light up. “Exactly.”
As we approach the entrance, I smooth my dress nervously—a simple wrap style in deep blue that I hope strikes the right balance between respectful and casual.
The past week at school has been a careful dance of professional distance, with Principal Winters monitoring our interactions and Janet from first grade dropping not-so-subtle comments about “workplace romances.” The strain of pretending has left me eager for this opportunity to be ourselves away from scrutiny.
“Elder Korgath can be… direct,” Vraag warns as he opens the door. “HammerFall elders generally are, quite different from StoneWatch’s more formal approach. While we belong to separate clans, the Emergence forced all orc clans to unite more closely on Earth. Elder approval transcends clan boundaries now, and her acceptance would carry significant weight among all orcs in the region.”
The interior transformation is immediate and stunning. The warehouse has been divided into cultural sections where orcs of various ages practice traditions from their homeworld—textile work, physical training, cooking, and crafting. Unfamiliar spices scent the air as conversations pause to observe our entrance.
Vraag’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back as we approach the cooking area, where the elder female from the Frost Festival presides over several steaming pots.
“Elder Korgath,” Vraag addresses her formally, placing his closed fist over his heart with a slight bow. “May your fires burn strong.”
She turns, assessing us both with sharp eyes that miss nothing. “StoneWatch,” she acknowledges, her voice deeper than I remembered, “you bring the human teacher to our hearth.”
“Riona Walker of Sunshine Valley,” Vraag introduces me formally. “She seeks understanding of our ways.”
I step forward, offering my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Elder Korgath. Thank you for allowing me to visit your community space.”
Instead of taking my hand, she leans forward, inhaling deeply near my shoulder. The action startles me, though I try not to show it. Her eyes widen slightly before she straightens, shooting Vraag a knowing look.
“StoneWatch protection scent runs deep in your skin,” she observes bluntly. “Not just garment lending, then.”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I realize she isn’t reacting to the garments at all. The scent she’s detecting must come from bare skin pressed against his, from his mouth on mine, from being held close enough for his scent to soak into me again and again.
“Ah, the human custom of handshaking,” Korgath finally says, accepting my offered hand. “Come, you will help prepare the binding spice. Test your abilities.”
The abrupt shift to participation takes me by surprise, but I follow willingly. For the next hour, I work under Korgath’s critical eye, crushing seeds with stone tools clearly designed for orc strength. What begins as a test gradually transforms into genuine teaching, her initial assessment giving way to cultural explanation.
“These must be crushed precisely,” she demonstrates. “Too much force destroys essential oils. Too little leaves texture that disrupts the binding.” She gestures at the steaming pots. “We use binding spice in every significant ceremony—bonding, naming, burial. It marks moments that cannot be undone. That is why precision matters.”
I focus intently on the task, acutely aware of Vraag nearby even when he isn’t looking directly at me. He takes up a position at a neighboring work surface, assisting with prep while keeping me squarely within his awareness. Throughout, Vraag allows the interactions to unfold without intervention—present, attentive, but never intrusive.
“You have good hands and ask proper questions,” Korgath finally declares. “Rare qualities in outsiders. StoneWatch, show your human the craft circle. Old Torgun has been watching her since you arrived.”
The craft circle consists of several orcs working with various materials. At their center sits an ancient-looking male with deepemerald-green skin, his tusks yellowed with age, but elaborately decorated with metal inlays.
“Elder Torgun,” Vraag addresses him respectfully. “May I present Riona Walker?”
The elder glances up, assessing me with knowing eyes. “Sit, young human. These old eyes would see you closer.”
His gaze moves to my throat—to the stone resting there—and something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. Assessment.
“StoneWatch protection,” he says, as if confirming something he’d already suspected. His gaze moves to Vraag briefly, then back to me. “Willingly worn.”
“Yes,” I say. “Willingly.”
He studies me for a long moment, fingers tracing the edge of the leather in his lap, as if weighing something unseen.
“The question,” Torgun continues thoughtfully, “is whether she understands what she’s entering. StoneWatch protection carries obligations alongside privileges.”
I straighten, sensing another test. “I’m still learning,” I admit honestly, “but I understand that protection is sacred—that it’s not just about physical safety but about honoring what matters, preserving what’s valuable, standing between harm and those under your care.”
Torgun’s eyes widen slightly, then crinkle at the corners. “Well answered, teacher. You’ve listened beyond words.”
“She has a talent for that,” Vraag says quietly, pride unmistakable in his voice.
For the next hour, Torgun guides me through basic leatherworking techniques, sharing stories of clan markings and warrior traditions. The materials are thicker, more substantial than human crafts would use, requiring specialized tools and techniques I struggle to master with my smaller hands. Despite my clumsy attempts, Torgun’s patience never wavers.
