8. Thrag

8

THRAG

T he cold wind claws at my face as I stand at the mouth of my cave. I watch Claire as she trudges through the snow, her steps uncertain and faltering.

"She could die out there," I mutter to myself, my jaw tightening as I grip my axe. The weapon feels heavy in my hand. "Not my problem."

But the words taste like ash in my mouth. I've seen enough death to last a dozen lifetimes. I've watched my family butchered, my clan scattered to the winds. I tell myself I'm better off alone, that the pain of loss is a burden no one should bear. Yet, as I watch Claire disappear into the white expanse, something within me stirs—a flicker of something I can't quite name.

Without conscious thought, my feet move, carrying me forward into the biting cold. I follow her at a distance, my massive frame swallowed by the dense woods. "I'm just making sure she gets back to her settlement," I tell myself. "That's all."

The lies come easily, but they do nothing to quiet the pounding of my heart. I've spent months wandering these lands alone, shunning the company of others. And yet, here I am, trailing behind a human female like some love-struck pup. The thought makes me snort in derision.

Claire stumbles, her arms flailing as she tries to regain her balance. She's vulnerable, exposed—a stark contrast to the strength and resilience she showed back at the cave. "Humans are weak," I whisper to the wind, trying to convince myself. "She'll find her way back... or she won't."

But the words feel hollow, and with each step I take, the truth becomes harder to ignore. I'm not following her because I owe her anything. I'm not doing it out of some misguided sense of duty. No, there's something about Claire that draws me to her—something beyond her frailty and the strange, soft light in her eyes.

I keep my distance, my footsteps muffled by the snow. The forest is alive with sounds—the creak of branches, the distant call of a snow owl—but I tune them out, focusing solely on Claire. She pauses, her body tensing as she looks around.

Then I hear it—the unmistakable howl of a winter wolf, its cry echoing through the frozen landscape. My blood runs cold, and without a second thought, I break into a run, my axe at the ready.

Claire turns, her eyes wide with terror as she spots the pack of wolves emerging from the tree line. They're lean and hungry, their yellow eyes fixed on their prey. "Stay back!" she shouts, brandishing a branch like a sword. But her voice wavers, and I know she won't last long on her own.

The wolves circle Claire, their growls a low, menacing rumble that sets my teeth on edge. She screams, scrambling backward.

I can't let her die.

With a roar that shakes the snow from the branches above, I lunge forward. My axe sings through the air. The first wolf barely has time to register my presence before the blade bites into its flank, spraying crimson across the pristine white.

The pack turns on me, snapping and snarling, but I am fury incarnate. A wolf lunges, its jaws clamping around my arm. Pain flares, bright and hot, but I refuse to yield. With a snarl of my own, I wrench the beast free and hurl it to the ground with enough force to crack the ice beneath. My axe descends, silencing its growls forever.

Claire, wide-eyed and trembling, swings a heavy branch at another wolf. "Stay back!" she shouts again, her voice surprisingly strong.

The remaining wolves, wise enough to recognize defeat, slink back into the forest. I lean on my axe, the adrenaline beginning to ebb, leaving only the biting chill of the wind and the throbbing ache in my arm.

Claire rushes to my side, her hands fluttering over the wound. "You're hurt!" she cries.

I pull away instinctively, but her determined gaze holds me in place. "It's nothing," I growl, trying to convince myself as much as her.

She insists we return to the cave, half-dragging me despite her smaller size. "You're more stubborn than a mountain troll," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind the words.

Once we return and are inside the cave, she rummages through my supplies with the efficiency of someone well-acquainted with hardship. Her hands move deftly as she prepares a poultice, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"You're lucky I know a thing or two about healing," she says. "What were you thinking, running after wolves like that?"

I watch her, confusion warring with the strange warmth that spreads through my chest at her concern. "You worry too much," I reply.

She looks up at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and says, "Of course I worry. You saved my life—again. The least I can do is care about yours."

Her words hang in the air between us, and I find myself at a loss for a response. No one has worried about me since... I can't even remember. I'm an orc, a former warrior—self-sufficiency is in my blood. And yet, here is this human woman, fretting over me as if I matter.

After she finishes tending to my wound, I stand up, the cave suddenly feeling too small. "I'll take you back to your settlement," I say.

Her face lights up, the fatigue and fear momentarily forgotten. "Thank you, Thrag," she says, her smile radiant. "You're... you're amazing."

I grunt in response, feeling a flush creep up my neck. Her gratitude is unsettling, and the way she holds onto my arm, her body so close to mine, sends my heart pounding wildly.

"We'll leave tomorrow," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "We need to prepare."

I abruptly step out into the cold, leaving Claire behind in the warmth of the fire. The snow crunches beneath my boots, the sound a welcome distraction from the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my mind.

What is this strange feeling that claws at my insides whenever I look at her?