Page 8 of The Orc's Protection
For a moment, he seems genuinely alarmed, his gaze darting from me to the expectant children and back. I’m about to let him off the hook when he straightens his shoulders and steps forward.
“Basic training states participation enhances unit cohesion,” he says, as if explaining his decision to an invisible superior officer.
The children cheer as he joins our circle, carefully positioning himself where his size won’t overwhelm them. Something inside me softens.
“Simon says jump as high as you can!” I call, returning to our game.
The children leap enthusiastically, arms stretched overhead. Vraag makes a small, controlled hop that nonetheless causes a noticeable vibration on the floor. The children burst into delighted laughter.
“Again! Again!” they chant.
“Simon says roar like a dinosaur!”
The classroom fills with high-pitched dinosaur impressions. Vraag remains silent, watching them with a raised eyebrow.
“Mr. Vraag isn’t doing it!” Tyler points out accusingly.
“Accurate observation,” Vraag responds solemnly. “Command specified dinosaur vocalization. Dinosaurs are extinct Earth reptiles with unknown vocalization patterns. Scientific accuracy precludes participation.”
Tyler tilts his head to the side, total confusion on his face.
“What?” Tyler looks back and forth between me and Vraag.
I burst out laughing. “He’s got you there, Tyler. He said that dinosaurs don’t exist anymore, so he can’t make a sound that no one has heard before.”
“Simon says roar like an orc!” someone shouts.
For one long beat, nothing happens. Then Vraag exhales through his nose, something shifts in his expression, and the sound that comes out of him fills the room.
I feel the roar before I hear it—a vibration in my sternum, my back teeth, the soles of my feet. Then the sound arrives and the windows shudder in their frames. Then it’s gone. In its wake: a single alphabet magnet sliding off the whiteboard. The letter Q hits the tile with a small, feeble plink.
The sound, his roar, does something to me I’m not prepared for. Heat moves through my chest and settles somewhere lower. I have about two seconds to decide whether to examine that or absolutely not.
I choose not.
The children have fallen instantly silent, their eyes huge with awe.
“That. Was. AWESOME!” Jackson finally exclaims, breaking the spell. The classroom erupts into excited chatter as well as amateur attempts to replicate the sound.
I notice Vraag watching me, something like uncertainty in his expression. I give him an encouraging smile, hoping he understands how much his participation means to the children… and to me.
“Friends, let’s take a quick water break,” I announce, “and then we’ll play a new game.”
As the children scatter to their water bottles, I approach Vraag.
“Thank you for playing along,” I say. “You’ve made their day.”
“Integration Protocol 23 encourages participation in cultural activities,” he responds, though I’m beginning to recognize this formal explanation pattern as his way of justifying actions that feel natural but don’t fit his professional self-image.
“Is that really an orc battle sound?” I ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “Modified and minimized. An actual StoneWatch war call would be inappropriate for an educational setting.”
“I’d like to hear the real version sometime,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes widen slightly, then soften—and my heart kicks harder in my chest. “That would be… unconventional.”
“Perhaps I’m more curious about orc culture than the average human,” I admit.
