16. Claire

16

CLAIRE

T he wind carries the faintest echo of distress, a discordant note in the stillness of the night. I am at the hearth of my home when the sound pierces the quiet. I get up instinctively and look out the window. There is some kind of commotion coming from outside the gates. My heart, already attuned to the frequencies of fear, skips a beat. I quickly rush out the door forgetting my coat and scarf. The cold bites at my cheeks and seeps into my bones in an instant.

Outside, the settlement is a hive of agitated whispers and tense bodies. My gaze cuts through the crowd, landing on the source of the uproar. There, in the snow, lies Thrag. His body is a tapestry of blood and violence.

"Thrag!" I cry out. My scream slices through the night, a desperate plea that seems to echo endlessly. I push through the throng of onlookers, dropping to my knees beside him. His skin is paler than I've ever seen it, his breathing a ragged whisper.

I turn to the guards, my eyes wide with urgency. "He's hurt—please! Bring him inside!" I insist.

Their hesitation is a physical barrier, their distrust as palpable as the cold. "He's an orc," one of them mutters, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

But the children—those precious, wide-eyed souls I've taught to read and write and dream—they surge forward. Their small hands pull at the guards' cloaks. "He saved us!" they cry out in unison. "He's a hero! Santa Claus!"

One of the children, little Jon, the son of an elder, looks up at the guards with tear-streaked cheeks. "Please," he pleads. "He protected us."

The guards exchange a look, the weight of the children's words tipping the scales. With a reluctant nod, they move to lift Thrag, their movements quick but cautious.

I lead them to my home. The small space is suddenly crowded with his massive form. They lay him on my bed, his body taking up every inch of the modest mattress.

As I prepare to tend to his wounds, my hands tremble. The room is silent save for the crackle of the fire and Thrag's labored breathing. I dip a clean cloth into a basin of warm water. My heart aches at the sight of him.

I work in silence cleaning the blood and grime from his skin. Each wound I tend to is a testament to his courage, a story of sacrifice etched into his flesh. The sight of it brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them away, determined to be strong for him.

"What happened to you?" I whisper. I know he can't answer, but the question hangs in the air, a silent plea for understanding.

Hours blur into one another as I care for him, my mind a whirlwind of fear and gratitude. Exhaustion tugs at the edges of my consciousness, but I refuse to succumb to it. Not until I know he's stable.

Finally, as the first light of dawn filters through the window, I can no longer fight the pull of sleep. I settle onto the floor beside the bed, my hand resting lightly on Thrag's arm. My eyes flutter closed instantly.

A low groan wakes me from the shallow sleep of exhaustion. My eyes open quickly. The room is bathed in sunlight. Disoriented, I sit up. The stiffness in my muscles is evidence of a night spent at Thrag's bedside. The groan comes again, and my heart leaps. I look over and Thrag's amber eyes are open.

"Claire…" he whispers.

Relief floods through me, and I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes. "You're awake!" I exclaim, my voice trembling with emotion.

He struggles to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at his healing wounds. "Claire, listen to me," he says, his tone urgent. "The Icefangs... they're coming. Your settlement is in grave danger."

My blood runs cold. "How do you know?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Thrag's gaze meets mine, the impact of his words settling between us. "I fought with the first group that arrived nearby. They plan to attack," he says, his voice tinged with worry.

Gratitude and fear war within me. Thrag has once again placed himself in harm's way for us—strangers to his kind. "We have to warn the others," I say, already moving towards the door.

He shakes his head, a grimace of pain crossing his features. "They won't believe me. I'm an orc," he mutters.

I pause briefly, turning back to him. "I will convince them," I promise, my resolve as steady as the beat of my heart.

Within minutes, I stand before the elders, a knot of anxiety twisting in my gut. The council room is filled with the somber faces of our leaders, their skepticism palpable.

"Claire," Elder Mara says, her voice tinged with concern. "You ask us to trust the word of an orc?"

I nod, my hands clasped tightly in front of me. "I know it's difficult to believe, but Thrag has risked his life to protect us. He fought off a group of Icefang orcs who planned to raid our settlement," I say firmly.

Murmurs of disbelief ripple through the room, but I press on, undeterred. "He's not our enemy. Thrag has shown us more kindness than we could have hoped for," I continue.

Elder Vincent, a man who has always been kind to me, leans forward, his eyes serious. "And why should we trust this... orc?" he asks skeptically.

I take a deep breath, meeting his gaze. "Because he has no reason to lie. Because he's saved my life—our children's lives—more than once," I say emphatically.

The room falls silent, the gravity of my words hanging heavy in the air for a long moment. Finally, Elder Vincent nods, his expression solemn. "We will hear what he has to say," he replies.

I breathe a sigh of relief, and quickly rush back home to get Thrag.