Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Riona
We eat in silence for a moment—not uncomfortable, but brimming with unspoken sentences and paragraphs.
Around us, the gathering continues, voices rising and falling, drums shifting rhythm.
Gradually, I become aware again of the glances.
The small adjustments in posture when Vraag moves.
The way space opens for him without being asked.
“There are certain traditions regarding guests at clan gatherings,” he says finally, his voice back in its careful register. “Your presence will be interpreted regardless of intention.”
I take a bite of the thunder root stew, partly to buy time to process his words. The flavor explodes across my tongue—earthy and spicy, with a deep umami base and something almost electric that makes my lips tingle pleasantly.
“This is incredible,” I murmur, genuinely impressed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
Vraag watches my reaction with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “You enjoy it?”
“It’s amazing,” I confirm, taking another spoonful. “The spices are so complex, layered in a way I can’t quite pull apart. Like something my palate doesn’t have a word for yet.”
“The original has properties no Earth ingredient can replicate,” he says quietly.
He finally tastes his own portion, and the transformation on his handsome face is immediate. His eyes close briefly, his massive shoulders relaxing as if a weight has lifted. When he opens his eyes again, they shine with emotion he doesn’t attempt to hide.
“It’s close,” he says softly. “Very close.”
Where our hands are joined, I feel it again—that low vibration from the gathering, the one I filed away. It’s different now. Quieter. More settled. I have the sudden, inconvenient thought that it started when I touched his arm, not before.
He seems like a male who’s been holding his breath for a very long time… and finally lets it out. Without thinking, I reach across the table and touch his forearm. “I’m glad you got to taste it again.”
He covers my hand with his own, engulfing it completely. “Thank you for being here, Riona.”
The use of my first name, so rare from him, sends a pleasant shiver through me. His thumb brushes almost imperceptibly across my knuckles, and the simple touch feels more intimate than it should. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
We continue eating, sampling the various offerings while Vraag explains their significance as well as what Earth-based substitutions were used.
Throughout, more orcs approach, exchanging brief words with Vraag in their native language before moving on.
I watch him during these exchanges—the way he sits tall, no careful diminishing of his presence.
His tusks are visible when he speaks their language, no hiding them behind careful smiles.
His shoulders are squared, his posture commanding.
He stands revealed as a warrior among his people, not a security guard trying to make himself less intimidating for human comfort.
It’s attractive in a way that catches me off guard. He’s finally showing me who he really is.
Each conversation with the other orcs seems to follow a pattern: a formal greeting, a glance at me, a pointed sniff directed toward the stone resting against my chest, a question in Orcish to Vraag, his increasingly terse response, and then departure.
“What are they asking you?” I finally inquire after the fifth such interaction.
Vraag hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. “They are… curious about your presence.”
“That much I gathered,” I say dryly. “What exactly are they curious about?”
Before he can answer, drums sound in a new rhythm, drawing everyone’s attention to the central fire pit where an older orc now stands. Her elaborate tunic and multiple ceremonial bands mark her as significant, as does the immediate silence that falls.
“The clan elder, Korgath,” Vraag explains quietly. “She will begin the blessing ceremony.”
The elder speaks in the Orc language, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall despite her apparent age. The gathered orcs respond at certain intervals, a rhythmic call and response that clearly follows traditional patterns.
“What’s she saying?” I whisper.
“A traditional greeting to the changing season,” Vraag translates, his breath warm against my ear. “Honoring the first frost as a bringer of rest and renewal.”
The ceremony continues, with different clan representatives approaching the fire to add specific woods or herbs that release fragrant, colorful smoke when burned. The combined scents create a heady, almost intoxicating atmosphere.
As I watch, entranced, Vraag leans close to my ear. “The First Frost Feast celebrates transition—not just of seasons, but of life phases. In our world, it was when younglings would declare their chosen paths, warriors would announce bondings, and new clan alliances would form.”
“So it’s like a combination of New Year’s and engagement season,” I suggest, trying to find human parallels.
“Similar in significance, yes.” His voice rumbles pleasantly against my ear, and I lean imperceptibly closer to him.
Something beneath that rumble catches my attention: steadier, lower, a vibration that has nothing to do with speech.
I feel it where his chest brushes my shoulder.
Because I don’t have a word for it, I file it under orc and turn my attention back to the ceremony.
“A time of announcements and new beginnings.”
The gathering quiets as a couple steps forward from the outer ring, an orc woman I recognize from the buffet and a broad-shouldered male whose pride is unmistakable even from this distance. They stand before the elders, hands clasped, foreheads bowed.
The room’s energy shifts. Not celebratory. Reverent.
The elder speaks in Orcish—slow, deliberate syllables that ripple outward like a held breath. The young male lifts his head, reaches into the fold of his sash, and produces something small that nevertheless draws every eye.
Firelight glints off hammered silver.
It’s a band, but not a closed circle. The ends curve toward each other, leaving a deliberate span of space between them. The surface is worked with stamped geometric designs, not ornamental so much as intentional, as if each mark was placed with purpose rather than mere decoration.
Vraag steps close behind me. His chest brushes my shoulder as he leans down, his voice low and warm against my ear.
“Connection band handmade by Krall, the male,” he murmurs. “Formal courtship.”
My attention snaps back to the couple. Krall offers the band with open hands. The woman doesn’t smile. She inhales sharply, like someone bracing for something that will alter the shape of her life.
When she extends her wrist, the room falls utterly silent.
He fits the open band around her wrist, then brings both hands around it, palms covering the silver, thumbs resting lightly against her skin. He bows his head and steps closer as though shielding the moment from the rest of the world.
Seconds pass.
Long enough that I realize what’s happening.
When silver warms, it becomes more malleable. His body heat. Hers. The metal responds to both.
Only when it yields does he move—pressing gently, carefully, shaping the band so it conforms perfectly to her wrist. No force. Just patience and intention.
Only then does Vraag speak again, his breath stirring the fine hairs near my ear.
“The band is shaped by shared heat,” he says softly. “It cannot be fitted alone.”
The male releases her wrist. For a heartbeat, she simply stares at it, at the way the silver now fits her exactly, no gap remaining. Then she lifts her arm.
The room exhales as one.
A murmur spreads through the gathered orcs—not applause, but acknowledgment. Space subtly shifts around the couple. Respect reorients itself.
I swallow.
“That’s a big deal,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Vraag replies quietly. “It declares intention, witnessed and recognized. Not binding—but never casual.” A pause. “Many never offer one at all.”
The woman lowers her arm, her partner watching her with open vulnerability—no triumph, no swagger. Only hope.
The gathering does not pause for reflection. The moment I’ve just witnessed is absorbed back into the larger rhythm of the ceremony—voices rising, bodies shifting, energy turning outward again.
With a broad gesture, the elder says something that causes the gathered orcs to cheer and raise drinking horns. Servers begin circulating with vessels of varying sizes.
“Now comes the ceremonial drink,” Vraag explains as a server approaches with a tray. “Mountain flower mead. Potent for orcs, so perhaps just a taste for little humans.”
The server offers us two drinking vessels—a large horn for Vraag and a smaller cup clearly reserved for human guests. The liquid inside glows amber in the firelight.
I take a cautious sip; the mead is warm, honeyed, and stronger than it has any right to be. Around us, voices rise, not in song, but in expectation. People turn subtly, attention shifting inward toward the elders’ ring.
Grulk appears before us, ceremonial horn in hand and an alarmingly wide grin on his face.
“StoneWatch!” he booms, clasping Vraag’s forearm in what appears to be a ritual greeting. “The elders wish to know if you have an announcement this First Frost.”
Vraag goes rigid beside me. “No announcements, HammerFall.”
Grulk’s eyes flick meaningfully between us. “No? The protection gift has been witnessed. Twice, I’m told.”
“That was not—” Vraag begins tensely.
“And you bring her to the gathering as your personal guest,” Grulk continues as if Vraag hadn’t spoken. “Marked with your token for all clans to acknowledge.”
My confusion must show on my face, because Grulk turns to me with exaggerated surprise. “Has our warrior not explained orc courtship traditions to you, little teacher? How protection garments carry meaning when offered? How bringing you to a clan gathering signifies formal intention?”
“Grulk,” Vraag warns, his voice dropping to something quiet and absolute. “This is inappropriate.”
But understanding is already dawning. The rain poncho. The coat. The strange looks from other orcs tonight. How Vraag has been simultaneously attentive and uncomfortable.
“Wait,” I say slowly. “Are you saying that when Vraag lent me his coat, it meant something specific in Orc culture?”
Grulk’s tusked grin widens impossibly further. “The first protection garment could be excused as a practical necessity. The second establishes a pattern. And you’re wearing his token openly among the clans.”
“Enough!” Vraag’s command is quiet but absolute. Even Grulk falls silent. “This conversation dishonors us all.”
Marga materializes at Grulk’s side, taking his arm firmly. “My brother forgets himself,” she says smoothly. “We have old friends to greet.”
She leads a still-grinning Grulk away, leaving us in a bubble of awkward silence. The ambient noise of the gathering seems suddenly distant compared to my thundering heart.
“Vraag,” I say carefully. “You need to explain yourself.”
Vraag looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen him, his usual stoic expression replaced with something remarkably like embarrassment.
“StoneWatch tradition holds that offering personal protection garments carries specific meaning,” he finally says, eyes fixed somewhere above my head. “Especially when the garment bears clan scent markers.”
“Scent markers? You mean that cedar and spice smell?”
He nods stiffly. “Ritual oils applied to all personal items. Identifies clan affiliation and… individual claim.”
The implications slowly crystalize. “So, when you gave me your poncho, and then your coat…”
“In traditional interpretation, it would signal a protective claim,” he confirms, finally meeting my eyes. “An invitation to consider formal courtship.”
And suddenly, nothing about the last few weeks feels accidental anymore.
It feels as though I’ve stepped onto ground that’s already shifting beneath me.
My first instinct is a familiar one—the pull toward distance, toward the exit, toward the version of myself that doesn’t need anyone’s coat. I notice it. I don’t move.