23. Thrag

23

THRAG

T he settlement's square is a flurry of activity, fear, and uncertainty as the elders break the grim news to the villagers. Their faces, once lit with the warmth of home, now flicker with the cold realization of impending doom. I stand at the back, arms crossed. My presence is a thundercloud, yet I am as much a part of this gathering as the frost clinging to the cobblestones.

Vincent, the village leader, raises his hands for silence, his voice carrying the weight of the world as he speaks. "We must evacuate at dawn," he declares. "Take only what you need." His words hang heavy in the frigid air.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, a tide of whispered worries and hushed speculation. Some villagers cast glances in my direction, their expressions a mixture of gratitude and resentment. I pretend not to notice, my gaze fixed on the horizon, where the threat of the Icefang orcs looms.

"This wouldn't have happened if he'd stayed away," someone mutters nearby. The words sting, a sharp reminder of my place in this world. I know the truth—the orcs would have come, with or without my presence. I was simply the first to taste their steel, and the first to strike back.

Beside me, Claire's touch is light against my arm. "They don't mean it," she whispers.

"I know," I grunt, though the words cut deeper than I care to admit.

Her fingers linger on my arm, a silent promise of solidarity. "We'll get through this," she assures me.

I nod, my throat tightening. The idea of leading these people to safety, of being their shield against the coming storm, sits uneasily on my shoulders. I am no savior.

As the meeting disperses, the villagers scatter, each lost in their own thoughts of what must be done. Claire stays by my side, her presence a constant reminder of why I must fight. She believes in me—more than I have ever believed in myself.

I watch as the villagers begin to pack their lives into bundles and bags, their movements hurried and frantic. Claire's hand slips into mine, her grip firm and reassuring.

"We should prepare," she says, her tone resolute. "There's much to do before dawn."

I follow her through the village, my axe strapped to my back. As we work side by side, the villagers' distrust slowly begins to fade. They watch me with wary eyes, but there is a newfound respect in their gazes. I am not one of them, yet in this moment, we are united by a common goal: survival.

I soon follow Claire into the small, cluttered space she calls home. Her belongings are sparse, a testament to a life of hardship and loss. "You don't have much to carry," I observe, the truth of it weighing heavily on my mind.

She nods, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she looks around her modest dwelling. "I'll miss this place. It's one of the best homes I've had," she confesses. Her words resonate within me, a reminder of the many who have lost everything to the ruthless hunger of the Icefang orcs.

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. "You'll come back," I say, the promise slipping from my lips before I can reconsider.

Her gaze meets mine. "Will we? Will they ever stop coming?" she asks. There's a resigned acceptance in her voice that stokes the embers of anger within me.

I turn away, staring into the flames of the hearth as if they might hold the answer. "Not unless you stop them at the source," I reply, the fire reflecting in my eyes.

After a long silence, she invites me to stay inside with her for the night, a gentle insistence that I cannot deny. "It might be the last time," she says, her smile tinged with sadness. I nod, accepting her invitation.

She suddenly surprises me by pulling out the sack of flour I had traded for earlier in the day. Her hands soon work diligently, kneading and shaping the dough with practiced ease. The scent of baking pie fills the room, a sweet and unfamiliar aroma that stirs something within me.

When she finally places the small, steaming pie in front of me, her face glows with pride. I find myself at a loss for words. "You made this… for me?" I ask.

She nods eagerly, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "I wanted you to try it," she gushes.

I take a bite, the flavors of sweet fruit and warm spices exploding across my tongue. It's a stark contrast to the rough and savage meals I've grown accustomed to. "It's… good," I say, stunned.

Her laughter fills the room, a sound as warm and comforting as the pie in my hands. "I'm glad you like it," she says, her eyes shining with joy.

As the night wears on, she shares stories of her past, painting vivid pictures of winters spent with her father. She speaks of Christmases filled with love and laughter, despite the harshness of their reality. "He died in the winter," she says softly, a shadow passing over her features. "But I never blamed the season for it. He wouldn't have wanted that."

I listen intently, her words stirring something within me—a longing for a time when I, too, knew the warmth of family and the comfort of home. For the first time in countless years, the weight on my shoulders feels lighter, the burden shared if only for a moment.

Our eyes lock, the fire crackling in the silence between us. The space that separates us seems to shrink, drawing us closer until our lips meet in a tender, hesitant kiss. It's a fleeting moment of warmth and connection in a world consumed by cold and violence.

As we pull away, the reality of our situation comes rushing back. The Icefang orcs are still out there, a looming threat that cannot be ignored. But for now, in the quiet of her home, with the taste of her pie still lingering on my tongue, I allow myself to believe that there may be hope for us yet.