Chapter 22
The leather was different from what her uncle had worked with.
Delia had known that, it would be. She had realized as much yesterday during her test. But sitting at a proper workbench in the tannery's main workshop, surrounded by materials and tools and the scent of oil and smoke, the reality of it settled into her hands.
Orc leather was thicker. Tougher. Made to withstand blades and claws and the brutal impacts of combat. Her uncle's cobbler shop had dealt in shoes and belts and fine goods for merchants who wanted to look prosperous. This was armor. This was survival.
She loved it.
"You're holding the awl too tight."
Brenneth's voice came from over her shoulder. Delia glanced up to find him watching her work, his expression unreadable.
"Sorry," she said automatically, then caught herself. She'd noticed that orcs didn't apologize the way humans did—constantly, reflexively, for things that weren't their fault. "I mean, thank you. For the correction."
A grunt. "Better. Loosen your grip. The leather will tell you how much pressure it needs. You don't force it. You work with it."
She adjusted her hold and tried again. The awl slid through more smoothly this time, the resistance giving way in a way that felt almost collaborative.
"Good." Brenneth set a second damaged piece beside her—a pauldron with buckles that had torn loose from their anchors. "When you finish that vambrace, this one next. Take your time. Quality matters more than speed."
He moved away to deal with another task, and Delia bent back to her work.
The workshop hummed quietly around her. Two other orcs worked at benches further down the long room—an older female with silver threads in her braids, and a young male barely past adolescence who kept sneaking glances at Delia when he thought she wasn't looking.
Neither had spoken to her beyond brief greetings, but their silence felt comfortable rather than hostile. Professional.
She was one of them. A worker among workers.
The thought made warmth bloom in her chest.
The sun had climbed high enough to stripe the workshop floor through the windows when Brenneth's gruff voice cut through her concentration.
"You have a visitor."
Delia looked up from the pauldron to find Ralvar filling the workshop doorway.
He had to duck to enter. Even then, his head nearly brushed the ceiling beams. He was in his captain's gear, she noticed—leather and metal and the silver insignia of his rank—but when he looked at her, his expression was anything but official.
"I brought food," he said. "If you can pause."
"She can pause," Brenneth said before Delia could respond. "Take her outside. Fresh air. The fumes in here aren't good for humans unused to them."
"Come." Ralvar held out his hand. "I have a blanket in the courtyard. And more food than two orcs could eat."
"You'll make me fatter," she said, but she was already taking his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.
"I'm trying." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is it working?"
She swatted his arm—a gesture that would have been unthinkable a week ago—and let him lead her into the sunlight.
The courtyard was alive with midday activity.
Warriors crossed in groups of two and three, heading to or from training.
Servants carried baskets of linens and trays of dishes.
Somewhere nearby, a smith's hammer rang in a steady rhythm.
It was organized chaos, a community in constant motion, and as Ralvar guided her toward a spot near the eastern wall, Delia realized she was part of it now.
People nodded as they passed. Some called greetings—"Captain," and then, more curiously, "Delia." A few smiled. One young warrior with fresh war-marks on his forearms actually stopped to bow his head before hurrying on.
"They know my name," Delia murmured.
"Of course they do." Ralvar spread the blanket with one hand, pulling her down beside him with the other. "You're the woman who finally conquered their stone-faced captain. Half of them have been waiting years to see me smile without it looking like a threat."
"And now?"
"Now—" He began unpacking the cloth bundle he'd carried—bread, cold meat, hard cheese, some kind of preserve in a clay pot. "Now they see me following you around like a lovesick youth and they don't know whether to congratulate me or check me for fever."
Delia laughed. The sound still surprised her sometimes, how easily it came now, how unguarded.
In Valdara, she'd learned to swallow her laughter, to keep herself small and quiet and unremarkable.
Here, with the sun warm on her face and this impossible orc laying a feast before her, she couldn't remember why she'd ever bothered.
"Eat," Ralvar said, pushing a loaded plate into her hands. "Brenneth works you hard."
"Brenneth barely speaks to me."
"That's how you know he approves." Ralvar tore a chunk from the bread loaf and stuffed it in his mouth. "If he didn't like your work, you'd know. Trust me."
Delia took a bite of the bread. It was dense and dark, nothing like the pale loaves she'd grown up with, and she found herself making a small sound of pleasure. Someone had mixed savory, unfamiliar herbs into the dough that made her want to eat the whole loaf.
"Good?" Ralvar was watching her intensely, like her enjoyment of bread was somehow fascinating.
"Very good." She reached for the preserve, dipping a corner of bread into the dark paste. Berries, she thought, but sweeter than any she'd tasted. "What is this?"
"Thornberry. Grows wild on the upper slopes. The cooks harvest it in autumn, before the first frost." He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers. "Careful, it stains. You'll have purple fingers for a week."
Too late. Delia looked down at her fingertips, already darkening where the preserve had touched. She laughed and licked them clean, then caught Ralvar staring at her mouth with an expression that made heat climb up her neck.
"Eat your own food," she said, nudging him with her elbow.
"I'm eating." But he didn't look away, and his voice had dropped to something rougher. "I'm also enjoying the view."
She ducked her head, hiding her smile behind another bite of bread. The cold meat was next—thinly sliced, well-seasoned, tender enough to melt on her tongue.
"You're staring again," she said without looking up.
"I like watching you eat." No shame in his voice, no apology. "You spent too long starving. Seeing you enjoy food—" He shrugged, a massive roll of shoulders. "It pleases me."
A shadow fell across their blanket. Delia looked up to find Sergeant Korah standing over them, his graying temples catching the afternoon light.
"Captain." Korah's gaze flicked between them. "Delia."
"Sergeant." Ralvar didn't stand, didn't shift from his sprawled position beside her. "Something urgent?"
"Nothing that can't wait until you've finished your—" Korah paused, surveying the spread of food, the blanket, the way Ralvar's hand rested possessively near Delia's knee. "Picnic."
"Good." Ralvar picked up another chunk of bread. "Then it can wait."
Korah snorted. "The supply manifest needs your mark before evening. And Thessaly wants to know if your krenna needs more of the ankle poultice."
"I'm fine," Delia said quickly. "It barely twinges anymore."
"I'll tell her." Korah nodded to them both, then paused. "It's good to see you out here, Captain. In daylight. Not scowling."
"I scowl plenty."
"Not lately." Korah walked away before Ralvar could respond, his shoulders shaking with what might have been silent laughter.
Delia watched him go. "Does everyone here tease you?"
"Only the ones who've known me long enough to survive it." Ralvar's voice was dry, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Korah's been my sergeant for eleven years. He's earned certain liberties."
Delia smiled, tucking her legs beneath her on the blanket. The afternoon sun warmed her shoulders pleasantly.
"Eleven years," she said. "That's a long time to serve under someone."
"He was here before me. Served under the previous captain, and stayed when I took command.
" Ralvar reached for the cheese, cutting a thick slice with his belt knife.
"Most don't last that long on the border.
The work wears on you. Cold winters, long patrols, too much time watching for threats that may never come. "
"But he stayed."
"He stayed." Ralvar's mouth curved. "Says someone has to keep me from working myself into an early grave."
Delia laughed. "I think I like him."
"He'd be insufferable if he heard you say that." Ralvar offered her the cheese slice, and she took it, their fingers brushing.
She bit into the cheese, sharp and crumbly on her tongue.
"What about you?" she asked. "Before Northwatch. Before captain. What were you like?"
Ralvar's brow furrowed, as though the question genuinely puzzled him. "Younger. Angrier. Convinced I had something to prove."
"To who?"
"Everyone." He leaned back on one elbow, the movement pulling his tunic tight across his chest. "I was the youngest warrior in my training cohort to earn full marks.
Thought that meant something. Thought if I was strong enough, fast enough, good enough—" He shook his head. "Youth makes fools of us all."
They talked until the bread was gone and the sun had shifted enough to throw their patch of courtyard into dappled shade.
Other orcs drifted by, some stopping to exchange words with their captain, others simply nodding acknowledgment.
A young female warrior named Kessan, who Delia vaguely remembered from the celebration feast, asked if she needed anything from the next supply run ("Needles, maybe?
Thread? I could look for finer stuff than what Brenneth stocks—").
She had been there barely a day, and already she had a place. Already she had people.
"You're crying," Ralvar said quietly when Kessan left them.
Delia touched her cheek, startled to find it wet. "I'm not—I don't know why—"
"I do." His arm came around her shoulders, gathering her against his side. "You're happy. Sometimes that feels like grief, when you've gone long enough without it."
She turned her face into his chest and let herself be held.
Around them, the courtyard continued its cheerful chaos. No one stared at the crying human curled against their captain. No one made comments or pointed or laughed. If anything, several orcs went out of their way to give them a wider berth, offering privacy without making a production of it.
This was her life now. This impossible, wonderful life.
She was just lifting her head, ready to tell Ralvar that they should get back—he probably had duties, and Brenneth was expecting her—when the horns sounded.
One long blast from somewhere high above them. Then a pause. Then a second.
Ralvar went rigid.
"What—" Delia started.
A third blast.
All around them, the courtyard had frozen. Warriors stood with hands on weapons, heads turned toward the main gates. The cheerful chaos of moments before had vanished, replaced by something taut and waiting.
"Ralvar." Delia gripped his arm. "What is it? What does three mean?"
He was already rising, pulling her to her feet. "Humans," he said, his voice gone flat and hard. "Humans requesting entry under treaty protocol."
Delia's blood went cold.
"The guards," she whispered. "They tracked me here. They—"
"We don't know that yet." But his jaw was tight, his hand on her arm more protective than guiding. "It could be traders. Diplomats. Any human party approaching the gates sounds three horns."
"But if it is them—"
His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth there. The guards had told her plainly: her contract was legal. Her disappearance was theft. The men pursuing her had every right, under human law, to demand her return.
"Go to Brenneth," Ralvar said. "I need to see who's at the gates."
"No." The word came out before she could think. "I'm coming with you."
"Delia—"
"If they've come for me, I need to face them." Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady.
For a moment, she thought he would argue. Saw the war in his eyes between his need to protect her and his respect for her choices.
Then he nodded once and took her hand, his grip tight enough to hurt. "But if it comes to violence, you stay behind me. Promise me that much."
"I promise."