Chapter 12
News spread like wildfire through the village. Malek didn’t say a word, but his posture, the way he led me, and the fact that I walked at his side rather than behind him spoke volumes. Whispers turned into bows—the orcs who had once regarded me as a stranger now touched their foreheads in respect.
It was uncomfortable.
Kalisha watched from a distance, her expression stunned. Her brown eyes tracked Malek, then lingered on the flower in my ear, before she offered a hurried bow.
Malek led me to his hut; the bone beads clattered as they closed behind us. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, as if dozens of orc eyes remained fixed on my back, even through the walls.
I watched the Ruk’hai settle into his massive chair before he gestured for me to do the same.
I had to admit, I was confused. I didn't understand what my role was now; the shaman had seemed convinced that I belonged in this place, which was impossible.
As for Malek… I had no idea what he wanted from me.
I sat in the chair across from him. The leather was surprisingly comfortable, softened by time and use. I crossed my legs and rested my hands in my lap, waiting for him to speak.
Malek furrowed his brows briefly before settling back into his usual stern expression. “Repeat. Orok mekut’er okshakai.” He pointed first at me, then at his own mouth.
I stared at him, bewildered. "You want me to... repeat the phrase?"
Malek crossed his arms and said it again. "Orok mekut’er okshakai."
I swallowed hard. "O… orok mekut’er… okshakai," I tried, stumbling over the harsh sounds.
Something shifted in his gaze. It wasn’t exactly approval, but it wasn’t disapproval either.
“It means: you learn Okshakai,” he said slowly. “Mekut’er rhark’n.” He raised his clenched fists and mimicked a strike in the air. “To fight.”
Then he changed the gesture.
“Mekut’er kranshak.” This time, his movement mimicked a spear being thrown. “To hunt.”
I followed every gesture, trying to absorb it all.
When I dared to pronounce the words, however, my tongue faltered; they came out harsh and strange in my mouth.
Okshakai didn’t flow like Common, the standard High Fae tongue, melodic and smooth.
The orc language was all sharp cuts, strong consonants, and guttural sounds that demanded a lot from my vocal cords.
When I faltered, Malek didn't give up. With the patience of someone training a cub, he repeated the words, corrected every slip, and introduced new vocabulary, always linking the sound to the gesture.
"Knum," he said, thumping his own chest. "Mine."
"Knum," I repeated, mimicking the gesture and touching my own chest.
His eyes narrowed for an instant, weighing my pronunciation, before he moved on.
We spent the rest of the morning inside the hut.
Malek pointed to objects, repeated words, and corrected my mistakes with endless patience.
I struggled to keep up, repeating syllable by syllable, even when my throat began to burn, and my head throbbed with the buildup of strange sounds.
I only interrupted him when hunger finally stole my concentration.
"Ek kur’bek," I said, using what he had taught me to say I was hungry. As if to reinforce the request, my stomach growled loud enough for him to hear.
I held my breath, expecting an impatient huff, an eye roll, or an order to keep going. But, to my shock, something unexpected happened.
Malek laughed.
It wasn’t a loud laugh, only a low, quiet sound that seemed unfamiliar to him. The corner of his mouth turned up, and his broad chest vibrated with amusement. I stared at him, my mouth hanging open.
That simple sound, strange coming from an orc like him, was more disturbing than any threat. Because for the first time since I had arrived at that village, Malek stopped looking like just the leader of an enemy clan who hated my family.
His eyes still shone with delight, and his nose crinkled slightly, drawing my attention to the ring in his septum. Without his usual guarded expression, his face softened, the hard lines easing to reveal someone—against all logic—almost... handsome.
Realizing that I found Malek handsome caught me off guard. I choked on my own saliva and began to cough, gasping for air as I tried to regain my breath in a way that was anything but elegant. I brought my hands to my chest by reflex, my face burning, struggling to contain the sudden fit.
Malek’s smile vanished. In an instant, he was beside me, landing a hard slap against my back. The impact forced a startled sound from me, but the air rushed back into my lungs all at once.
"Why did you do that?" I asked, turning my face to glare at him, my voice still raspy from the coughing fit.
"You were choking," he replied, as if he had simply followed a simple instinct.
"I know, but I nearly spat my lungs out with that slap!"
Malek stared at me as if the idea were completely absurd. "It worked," he said. "You’re weak. You need strength."
I rolled my eyes, tired of being called weak all the time, and rose from the chair, brushing my hands over my frayed skirt in a useless attempt to reclaim my dignity.
"Next time, warn me before you slap me," I snapped, still trying to control my ragged breathing.
Every trace of amusement vanished from his face, replaced by a seriousness that made the air between us grow cold. His gaze dipped just enough to make me acutely aware of our proximity before returning to my face.
"I protect," he said, his tone simple and final. "No matter how."
Then, he stood and led me out of the hut, his large hand heavy on the small of my back.
The contact was brief, but enough to make my body react before my mind could.
Irritation came first, quickly followed by an unsettling awareness of the place where he touched me, a feeling that infuriated me even more.
What was I thinking? A handsome orc? I pressed my lips together, annoyed with myself. Whatever herbs they used at breakfast must have been hallucinogenic.
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The village was in full swing when we reached the bonfire. The rhythmic sound of axes, guttural voices, and the easy laughter of children had replaced the morning silence.
Kalisha sat by the fire, sharpening a knife against a whetstone. She watched me with an expression that was impossible to read.
“Kuran’k,” she said, pointing toward the pot of stew. Lunch. I felt a small spark of relief that I still remembered the word.
Malek sat on his usual log and gestured to the one beside it. This time, the meal wasn’t stew. On the rustic surface of the table lay portions of roasted fish, their golden skin releasing an irresistible scent, accompanied by soft, steamed tubers and a dense, salty dough still steaming.
My stomach growled immediately, approving the choice before I even took the first bite.
If there was one thing I was beginning to love here, it was the food.
With Malek sitting so close, it was hard not to notice his mannerisms. He ate quickly and without waste, using his hands to tear chunks of fish and tuck them into the dough. There were no forks or knives, none of the rigid etiquette of Ceilte.
He chewed in silence, which was a relief.
Leone always made a point of chewing loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the dining hall, all because I had told him once that it bothered me.
That had been enough for him to provoke me whenever he could.
The memory of my brother came with a sharp pang of longing.
He was the only one I hadn't been able to say goodbye to. I hoped he was alright.
"Why do you eat so slowly?" Malek asked, breaking the silence.
I looked up, offended. "I’m not eating slowly, I’m savoring it. In Ceilte, meal time is a moment for appreciation, not a race."
He knit his brows. "Ceilte?"
My heart froze. "I meant… Oguk," I corrected too quickly, trying to sound casual even as I felt cold sweat trickle down the back of my neck. "In my… in my clan, things are done with less hurry."
Malek stared at me, his nearly black eyes searching mine, weighing every thought I was trying to hide. In the end, he didn’t press me. He simply looked away and returned to his meal. My shoulders sagged with relief.
I resumed eating in silence, aware of the sounds around us—the crackle of firewood, the deep voices, and the muted sound of footsteps.
I stole glances at the other orcs, trying to decipher conversations I still couldn't understand.
When I swallowed the last piece of fish, I stared at the empty bowl with a nagging pang of disappointment. I was still hungry.
Before I could say anything or find the courage to ask for more, Malek took a piece of fish from his own portion and placed it on mine.
"Here. You need to eat more."
That was all he said before turning back to his food.
In Ceilte, if someone dared to touch my food, they would have received a severe reprimand at the very least. It was a clear boundary that no one questioned.
In contrast, the way Malek noticed I was hungry without me saying a word made something strange stir inside me, a subtle, disconcerting warmth that unfurled in my chest, pulling at me in ways I couldn’t understand.
With the fish still in my hand, my hunger urged me to devour it, but I couldn’t. I held it like it was precious. "Thank you," I said at last, feeling heat rise to my face.
Malek looked up—the indifference from before dissolved, replaced by something calmer and more attentive.
"Maka’ri," he corrected, his heavy accent shaping every syllable. "That’s how we say it."
I nodded, absorbing the lesson without rolling my eyes or complaining.
"Maka’ri," I repeated.
He leaned slightly forward and, when he spoke again, his voice dropped to a tone that made my breath hitch.
"Eat."
I obeyed, and the fish now seemed to me the most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted.
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