6. Thrag

6

THRAG

T he fire in my cave crackles and spits, casting an erratic glow on the walls. I gesture to the pile of furs that serves as my bed, the closest thing to comfort I've allowed myself in some time.

"Go," I tell her, my voice a low rumble. "Use this water. For cleaning." I hand her the pot near the fire, the steam rising in thin, wispy trails.

She nods as she grabs the pot, her warm brown eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before she quickly looks away. The tension in the cave is as tangible as the cold seeping in from the night outside. She carries the pot over to the bed and I turn my back to her, granting her a semblance of privacy. The silence is punctuated only by the occasional hiss of water against heated stone.

As she tends to herself, I lean against the cave wall, my gaze lost in the undulating dance of the flames. Memories I've long kept buried resurface unbidden—my sisters' laughter, the way they would chide me for tracking mud into our dwelling. I remember their faces, full of life and mirth, now just ghostly apparitions in my mind.

The sound of water being poured snaps me back to the present. My jaw clenches, and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. This human, so unlike the orcs I've known, so unlike anyone I've allowed myself to be close to since the fall of my clan, is disturbingly close. Her scent, floral and faint, teases my senses.

"I'm done," she says, her voice a tentative whisper that seems too loud in the stillness of the cave.

I turn to face her, and my heart—a muscle I thought had hardened beyond such weaknesses—lurches unexpectedly. She's dressed in one of my spare tunics, the fabric hanging loose on her slender frame, the hem brushing against the tops of her boots. Her auburn hair, damp and darkened, clings to her face in loose tendrils.

"Why are you wearing that?" I ask, the harshness in my tone surprising even me.

She tugs self-consciously at the fabric, her eyes downcast, and replies softly, "I thought you left it for me. If it's a problem, I can?—"

"Keep it," I interrupt, the sharpness of my words belying the strange jumble of emotions roiling within me. I turn back to the fire, the flames no match for the heat rising in my cheeks.

We sit in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional pop from the fire and the distant howl of the wind. I can feel her gaze on me, like the weight of a physical touch, and it unnerves me. I'm not used to such scrutiny, especially not from a human—least of all one who wears my clothes and occupies my space as if she belongs here.

"Thank you, Thrag," she says softly, the sound of my name on her lips both foreign and oddly comforting.

I grunt in response, not trusting myself to speak. This human, Claire, is a puzzle I haven't yet figured out how to solve. She's unlike any creature I've encountered before—resilient, resourceful, and far too trusting for her own good.

As the night deepens, I find myself acutely aware of her presence. She moves to sit closer to the fire, the light playing across her features, highlighting the scars that mark her as a survivor, much like myself.

"You're welcome here for the night," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I'm not accustomed to playing host, especially not to someone who represents everything I've been taught to distrust.

"I appreciate that, Thrag," she replies softly.

We return to a comfortable silence for several moments. She sits close by the fire, her hands clasped together, her eyes alight with curiosity as she surveys my cave.

"Do all orcs live in caves?" she asks, her tone light. "Or is this just your thing?"

I grunt, the sound rumbling from deep within my chest. The truth is, I've never given much thought to where I lay my head at night. A cave, a clearing—it matters little when you're always on the move, always looking over your shoulder.

"No," I say finally, my voice a low growl. Her questions make me uneasy. I'm not used to sharing my space, let alone my thoughts. But there's something disarming about her chatter—it fills the silence that has haunted me for months.

"You… talk a lot," I say, my voice gruffer than intended.

Her face falls, a flicker of hurt passing over her features before she masks it with a shrug. "Sorry. I didn't mean to annoy you," she says quietly.

I shift uncomfortably, the weight of my axe a familiar presence at my side. "I'm just not used to company," I mutter, surprised by my own admission. This woman, with her endless questions and her relentless optimism, is slowly chipping away at the walls I've built around myself.

Her stomach growls, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the cave. Without a word, I rise and retrieve a handful of fresh fruit from my supplies—a rare find in this frozen wasteland. I extend the food to her, my movements grudging, as if I'm not entirely comfortable with this act of kindness.

"Eat. Then sleep," I command, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She smiles—a small, genuine smile that catches me off guard. "Thank you, Thrag. For everything," she says, her voice filled with gratitude.

I don't respond, but as she eats, I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her presence shouldn't be a comfort, yet I find myself strangely at ease.

The cave grows quiet, save for the occasional snap from the fire. Claire finishes her meal and curls up near the warmth, her eyes fluttering closed. I watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and I can't help but feel a strange sense of protectiveness toward her.