Page 49 of The Orc's Protection
“StoneWatch warriors carried the highest markings,” he tells me, nodding toward Vraag. “His father bore seventeen honor bands. A clan leader of exceptional standing.”
I glance at Vraag, who appears slightly uncomfortable.
“What are they?” I ask quietly.
“Forga.” He says the word like it carries weight. “Metal from our world. A band is shaped for a warrior when he earns it, witnessed by elders. One deed, one band.” He pauses. “Vraag has four. Earned before the world changed.”
He says nothing more. The implication sits in the air: four, and nothing since.
I look at Vraag. The four narrow bands of darker metal I’d noticed the night of the gathering—the ones beneath his silver ceremonial bands that I’d wanted to ask about and hadn’t—suddenly make sense. He’s watching Torgun, his expression neutral in the way that means he’s feeling something he isn’t going to name.
There’s so much about him I’m still discovering—layers of history and responsibility I hadn’t imagined when we first met.
When it’s finally time to leave, several orcs cup their palms against their upper chest with slight bows—a farewell gesture I recognize from watching Vraag. Korgath approaches with a small package wrapped in leaves.
“Binding spice,” she explains, pressing it into my hands. “You helped prepare, you should have a portion. Return when you wish to learn more.”
As we make our way toward the exit, Torgun steps into our path. He says nothing—only closes Vraag’s fingers around a small object with a look that carries unmistakable weight. Vraag pauses, then inclines his head in solemn acknowledgment before tucking it carefully into his pocket.
Outside, once we’re settled in the truck, Vraag turns toward me with an intensity that steals my breath. “You exceeded all expectations. Few humans have ever been welcomed so readily into traditional spaces.”
“I enjoyed myself,” I say honestly. “Once they realized I was genuinely interested, they were generous with their knowledge.”
“What happened today matters, Riona.” He reaches into his pocket and opens his hand. Resting in his palm is a narrowleather band, intricately worked with symbols I don’t recognize—subtle, deliberate, unmistakably crafted by skilled hands. “This is a recognition band. It’s given when elders formally acknowledge someone who has earned respect through action rather than birth.”
Understanding settles slowly. “So… this means I wasn’t just tolerated.”
Something eases in his expression—not quite a smile, but the particular stillness of a male who is quietly, completely satisfied. “It means you were seen. And accepted.”
The weight of that presses into my chest in the best possible way. “That is a big deal, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “It marks you as someone welcome among us. Understood, not merely observed.”
I hesitate only a moment before holding out my wrist. “Will you?”
His eyes widen slightly—surprised, but not uncertain. He fastens the band with careful precision, his touch reverent rather than possessive. The leather settles warm against my skin, fitted as if it had been meant for me all along.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, tracing the patterns with my thumb.
His gaze lingers on me, something deep and unmistakable there. “You wear it naturally.”
The intensity between us sharpens, humming through the small space of the truck. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then I lean across the console, and he meets me halfway. Our kiss is gentle at first, then deepens as everything unspoken presses forward.
When we finally part, I thread my fingers through his. “So what comes next, traditionally?”
“Traditionally,” he says, voice low, “recognition is followed by proof. Shared trials. Commitment demonstrated through action rather than symbols.”
“That part we’re already doing,” I point out. “Security concerns at school. Administrative politics. Cultural differences.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Then perhaps tradition must bend to this world. Our challenges will not be like those we faced in the mountains.”
The band rests warm against my wrist, grounding in a way I can’t fully explain. I look at him—at the steadiness of him, the particular quality of his attention that has never once felt like surveillance—and think that might be exactly right.
As we near the turn for my apartment, he slows, the engine idling a moment longer than necessary. His hand finds mine across the console, fingers warm and steady.
“I don’t want the night to end yet,” he says quietly.
I follow his gaze toward the foothills, understanding blooming slowly. “Your place?”
