Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Riona
The drums reach us before we’re even out of the truck.
The road crests a hill, and the cultural center comes into view—a massive lodge built of stone and timber, unlike any architecture I’ve seen before.
Angular roof lines rise and fall in a pattern that somehow echoes the surrounding mountains, with large windows capturing the sunset’s glow.
Dozens of vehicles fill the parking area, ranging from trucks like Vraag’s to what appear to be custom-built transports designed for orc proportions.
As we park, I hear the distant sound of drums and what might be singing—deep, resonant voices in a language I don’t recognize.
“Are those… traditional orc instruments?” I ask, a flutter of excitement replacing my earlier nervousness.
Vraag nods, something like pride crossing his features. “Storm drums. The sound carries for miles in mountain valleys.”
As we approach the entrance, I notice several other orcs arriving, all in similar ceremonial attire to Vraag’s, though with variations in color and ornamentation. They nod respectfully to him, but I don’t miss the curious, and sometimes surprised, glances they cast my way.
“Is it unusual for humans to attend these gatherings?” I ask quietly.
“Not prohibited,” Vraag hedges, “but uncommon. Especially as personal guests rather than official representatives. While each clan has its own traditions and territories, we gather for major seasonal celebrations,” he explains.
“StoneWatch, HammerFall, WarmHearth—we may have different specialties and lineages, but we share the sacred rhythms of the year.”
Before I can ask a follow-up question, we reach the massive wooden doors. Vraag places his hand on my lower back and guides me inside. I can feel every fingertip through the fabric, and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
The interior takes my breath away. A central space soars three stories high, with a circular fire pit at its center currently hosting a controlled blaze.
Along the walls, weapons, tapestries, and artifacts from the orcs’ home world are carefully preserved and displayed with clear reverence.
Around the perimeter, tables groan under the weight of food, while groups of orcs gather in conversational clusters.
But it’s the music that captures me completely.
In one corner, six orcs play instruments I’ve never seen before—including what appear to be the “storm drums” Vraag mentioned, massive stretched-hide drums that produce a sound more felt than heard.
The melody is haunting; its harmonies drifting in patterns I don’t quite recognize but feel in my chest.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, afraid to break the spell.
“A welcoming song,” Vraag explains, his voice close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Traditionally played when clan members return from long journeys.”
I’m about to ask more when a booming voice cuts through the ambient noise.
“VRAAG! YOU CAME!”
A familiar figure approaches, and I recognize Grulk, though he looks completely different outside his maintenance uniform.
He’s resplendent in a tunic of rust-red with gold accents, a drinking horn in one massive hand.
Beside him walks a female orc with similar coloring and facial features, her dark hair elaborately braided with gold and copper beads that catch the firelight.
“And you brought your—” Grulk begins enthusiastically.
“Colleague,” Vraag interrupts firmly. “Ms. Walker, you remember Grulk of HammerFall, and this is his sister Marga.”
“Just Riona,” I say gently—though he already knows that—extending my hand. “Thank you for including me in your celebration.”
Marga takes my hand with surprising gentleness. “Any friend of Vraag’s is welcome.” There’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes me wonder what exactly Grulk has told her about me.
“Come, come!” Grulk gestures expansively. “Food first, then ceremony. You must try the thunder root stew—the elders approved it for this First Frost.”
Vraag stiffens beside me. “The elders approved thunder root stew?”
Something passes between them that I don’t understand—some significance beyond mere food.
“It wasn’t a decision made lightly,” Marga says, her voice calm but weighted. “Thunder root stew belongs to StoneWatch tradition. This year, the elders asked cooks from several clans to prepare it together—using what Earth could offer, but guided by the old ways.”
She lets the words settle, her gaze moving over the gathered clan before continuing.
“For a long time, we kept these dishes from the table. The grief of losing our world was still too close. To taste home was to feel the loss of it all over again.” She pauses, her eyes moving across the gathered clan.
“But grief held too long becomes its own kind of forgetting. Tonight the elders decided that eight years is long enough to mourn. It is time to remember with joy instead of pain.”
Vraag inclines his head, a restrained gesture that nonetheless carries real weight. His hand returns to my lower back as we follow Grulk and Marga through the crowd. More orcs acknowledge him as we pass, some with formal nods, others with gestures that feel ritualized rather than casual.
“You seem well-respected,” I observe quietly.
“StoneWatch held an honored position,” he replies, his usual formality more pronounced in this setting. “And my father was clan leader before the Emergence.”
This new information startles me. “Your father was a clan leader? So you’re basically…” I search for the right comparison.
“Not royalty,” he clarifies quickly. “Leadership was earned, not inherited. But yes, there were… expectations of my path.”
As we near the food tables, my attention is drawn to one of the cauldrons at the edge of the gathering. An orc stands there alone, tasting, adjusting, stirring with unhurried precision. No one directs him. No one needs to.
“Rhazgar,” Vraag murmurs, following my gaze. “WarmHearth clan. He tends the food.”
Something in the way he says it makes me pay closer attention. Not just that Rhazgar is cooking—that he’s the one who cooks. Like it’s a designation. A role that carries weight.
He’s enormous, built like the others, but he moves through the food tables with a stillness that doesn’t match his size. Every adjustment is small, deliberate. He lifts a lid, considers, and replaces it exactly. He doesn’t talk to anyone. No one approaches him while he works.
There’s something almost lonely about it.
As if sensing my attention, he glances up. His eyes—deep amber, serious—find mine across the gathering. Not threatening. Just… aware. He holds my gaze for one beat, then returns to his work without expression.
“Not much for conversation,” I observe.
“He doesn’t need to talk,” Vraag says simply. “His food speaks for him.”
I watch Rhazgar a moment longer, a faint pull catching my attention. Then Vraag’s hand finds the small of my back, and I let myself be guided forward.
Before I can ask more, we reach the food tables. The spread is impressive: platters of meat prepared in various ways, roasted vegetables, breads, and several steaming cauldrons of what must be stews. The aromas are complex and unfamiliar, spicy and earthy at once.
Grulk hands each of us a plate sized for orc appetites, comically large in my hands but appropriate for Vraag. “Eat well! The blessing ceremony starts in one hour.”
As Grulk and Marga move on to greet other guests, Vraag guides me through the offerings. “This is deer meat,” he explains, indicating a platter of dark meat. “These are parsnips with hints of garlic, a close approximation to our mountain tubers.”
He points to a cauldron emitting a rich, spicy aroma. “And this is thunder root stew.”
The reverence in his voice catches my attention. “The dish you mentioned before, your clan specialty.”
“Yes.” Something unreadable crosses his features. “I haven’t had anything prepared this way since the Emergence.”
The weight of that settles between us; not just the food, but everything it carries. “I’m glad the elders chose to make it tonight,” I say softly.
As he ladles generous portions onto our plates, I notice several orcs watching us with undisguised interest. Their gazes feel assessing rather than hostile, but their attention is unmistakable.
“Everyone’s staring,” I whisper as Vraag guides me to a quieter corner with high tables suited to standing rather than sitting.
“Your presence is unexpected,” he says, placing his plate beside mine. “Humans rarely attend clan gatherings, especially…” He hesitates.
“Especially what?”
“Especially accompanied by unbonded warriors,” he finishes, focusing intently on his food.
“Unbonded? You mean single?” I clarify, suddenly understanding the nature of the attention. “They think we’re… oh.” My first instinct is to dismiss the assumption entirely. The second is to acknowledge that it doesn’t feel wrong.
I look at him—really look, the way I’ve been carefully not doing all evening.
The ceremonial clothes. All that gorgeous green skin I don’t get to see in his school uniform.
The way he’s been positioning himself between me and the crowd all night without making a production of it.
The way his hand finds my back so naturally it barely registers until it’s gone.
“Vraag.”
He glances up from his plate.
“Does it bother you? What they assume?”
Something moves through his expression, held in check, but not completely. His jaw tightens slightly. His gaze holds mine for a beat longer than is strictly neutral.
“No,” he says finally. The single word lands with the weight of something much larger behind it.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the kind that asks a question neither of us is quite ready to answer out loud.
“I apologize for any discomfort,” he says, his voice returning to its formal register. “Cultural misunderstandings are inevitable.”
“That’s not what that was,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t argue.