Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Riona
The gathering keeps moving around us—drums easing into a slower rhythm, orcs drifting toward the food tables, the ceremony folding into celebration. Vraag is very still beside me. He’s waiting, I realize. For whatever comes next.
“Were you ever planning to tell me?” I ask, aiming for lightness, though my heart is hammering.
“I wanted to be sure my feelings would be welcome before I gave them weight,” he says, genuine distress etched across his face. “I did not want to damage what we have by moving too quickly.”
“So instead, you just…” I gesture vaguely between us. “…let me walk around in your protective claim without knowing that every orc here had a preconceived notion about us being a couple?”
He doesn’t answer. There’s nothing to say.
The laugh that comes out of me has an edge to it.
“You made a decision about me. Without telling me. And then you let me keep making it, every time I accepted something from you, every time I wore what you gave me.” I stop.
The thing I’m feeling isn’t just embarrassment—it’s older than that, and it has a shape I recognize.
My father never asked either. He just arranged things and called it love.
“I have spent a very long time making sure no one does that to me.”
Vraag is very still. He doesn’t flinch from it.
“You’re right,” he says quietly.
The silence sits between us. I let it.
Then I take a breath and check in with myself—past the anger, past the fear—and find what’s actually there underneath.
“I’m not asking you to take it back,” I say finally. “I’m asking you to never do it again.”
His shoulders ease, just slightly. “You have my word.”
“Then no. I’m not angry.” I pause. “Although, I’m a little embarrassed to be the last to know.”
Something happens to his face. It’s subtle, Vraag is always subtle, but I catch it. The careful stillness he maintains like armor shifts, just slightly, and underneath it is something that looks almost like relief. And beneath the relief, something warmer.
He exhales once, slow and controlled, like a male who has been holding something for a long time and has just been given permission to set it down.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. More careful. As if the words matter more now.
“The traditional response would be to either return the clan token immediately if the attention is unwelcome,” he says, “or…”
He stops.
“Or?” I prompt, my voice quieter now, because whatever comes next isn’t theoretical.
“Or to accept it and wear it publicly, signaling willingness to consider the warrior’s claim.” Vraag exhales slowly, his gaze dropping. When he glances back up, something quieter and more vulnerable has replaced his earlier formality.
“There is something I must say,” he adds, low enough that only I can hear.
I brace instinctively, not with fear but with awareness, the sense that we’ve crossed into more honest ground.
“When I offered you the necklace,” he continues, “I told myself it was practical. That it would ease your presence here.” His jaw tightens slightly. “That was true. But it was also convenient.”
Something warm and tight settles in my chest.
“I knew what it would signal,” he says quietly. “To every orc here. And I chose not to tell you.” His gaze meets mine, steady and unflinching. “That was not protection. That was assumption. You deserved the choice.”
A pause. Then, simply, “I am sorry.”
The apology lands softly—but solidly. Not defensive. Not dramatic. Just owned.
Something loosens inside me. Not because he apologized, but because he saw it clearly.
Named it without being asked. Chose accountability before I could decide whether to ask for it.
I have spent a long time being careful about men who make decisions on your behalf and call it care.
This is not that. This is the opposite of that.
I feel the difference in my chest, specific and unmistakable, and I don’t push it away.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. “I didn’t feel trapped. But I needed to know you understood why it mattered.”
His shoulders ease, just a fraction. “Yes.”
The shift around us is subtle but unmistakable, conversations quieting, attention turning.
Whatever I decide here, I realize, isn’t private.
My cheeks warm as I remember how I’d kept his poncho close when I had it, how I’d wrapped myself in his coat all day. No wonder Grulk has been insufferable.
The drums change rhythm again, and orcs begin moving toward the central fire for what appears to be the ceremony’s next phase.
“We should join the gathering,” Vraag suggests. “The frost blessing begins soon.”
As we move through the crowd, his hand finds its now-familiar place at my lower back. The touch feels different now that I understand its significance—not just courtesy, but a subtle declaration to other orcs, marking me as under his protection—important to him.
Near the fire, clan representatives continue adding ceremonial offerings, creating flames that shift through jewel-like colors. The elder speaks again, her words rising and falling in cadence with the drums.
“She calls on each clan to receive the blessing,” Vraag translates quietly. “After which, the formal announcements begin.”
The atmosphere feels charged with something beyond just ceremony.
Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar setting, the strange music, or the way Vraag stands so close to me that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
Each time he speaks, his breath stirs the hair near my temple, sending awareness skittering across my skin.
As each clan steps forward to receive the elder’s blessing, I notice Vraag growing increasingly tense. His jaw tightens, his posture becoming more rigid with each passing moment.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
“StoneWatch will be called soon,” he says quietly. “I must step forward.” His hand slips from my back as he moves toward the fire.
When he’s called, something in me catches—not with worry, but with awe.
Among the gathered orcs, his presence shifts the air. Shoulders square. Conversations still. Heads turn.
He looks different up there. Not the careful, reserved male who walks school hallways or weighs every word before speaking—but something older, surer. A male shaped by tradition and expectation, carrying both with quiet authority.
The elder speaks to him in their language, voice resonant in the hush. She dips two fingers into the fire’s ash and presses it to Vraag’s brow.
Vraag bows his head—not submissive, but reverent. The gesture is precise. Earned.
I hadn’t realized how deeply attractive competence could be until this moment. Power worn without arrogance. Duty shouldered without complaint.
My pulse quickens as the truth settles into me: this is who he is when no one is asking him to soften himself.
A ripple of approval moves through the gathered orcs. More than one gaze flicks back toward me—curious now, measuring not him, but my place beside him.
When the brief ceremony concludes, Vraag returns to my side, relief evident in his expression.
“Thank you for honoring this,” he says quietly.
“It’s an honor to be here, Vraag.”
The elder continues calling other clans, the ritual unfolding with ancient precision. One by one, representatives step forward: StoneWatch, HammerFall, WarmHearth, and others whose names I don’t yet know, each receiving the sacred blessing.
After all the clan leaders have come forward, the ceremonial drums shift into a livelier rhythm. The gathered orcs begin to disperse—some drawn toward the food tables, others forming conversational clusters, a few brave souls already beginning to dance near the fire.
Vraag leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “Would you like to step outside for a moment? The air can become… intense during celebrations.”
I hold his gaze. “Is this about the air?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “No.”
He guides me through the crowd toward a side door that opens onto a wide stone terrace overlooking the rolling hills. The night air is crisp but not uncomfortable, especially with my wrap. Stars blanket the clear sky, sharper and more numerous here, far from the wash of town lights.
We stand in silence for a moment, both gazing at the surrounding trees silhouetted against the night sky.
“I didn’t bring you out here to explain,” Vraag says at last. His voice is quieter now, stripped of ceremony. “I brought you out here because I needed to know where you stand.”
I turn toward him, my heart giving a small, anticipatory lurch.
“You understood what tonight meant,” he continues. “How it was read. And you chose not to step away.”
“Right,” I say softly. “I didn’t.”
In the moonlight, his green skin takes on a silvery quality, his features more sharply defined. For a long moment he studies me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. My pulse kicks up, skin prickling with awareness.
He takes a step closer, towering over me yet somehow not intimidating. “I can’t pretend anymore.”
“Good,” I say softly. “Because neither can I.”
The last word is barely out of my mouth before he moves.
Not the careful, measured movement I’ve come to associate with him, the physical economy of a male who has spent eight years calculating how much space he takes up.
This is something older than that. Something that has been waiting behind all that careful control and has finally, finally been given permission to exist.
His hands find my face first. Both of them.
Cupping my jaw with a thoroughness that makes me understand, for the first time, what it means to have someone’s complete attention.
His thumbs trace my cheekbones as if he’s been wanting to do this for a long time and intends to do it properly now that he’s allowed.
In the moonlight, his eyes are very dark and very certain, and there is nothing careful in them.