Chapter 3 Thalia
THALIA
The tent canvas rustles in the evening wind, cold seeping through every gap in the threadbare fabric.
I arrange dried feverfew beside bundles of willow bark, my fingers working automatically through the familiar ritual.
The herbs smell like home—if I can call the servant quarters of Vaskyr home.
At least here, in this cramped space barely large enough for my bedroll and herb pouch, Rytha's voice doesn't echo off stone walls.
The tent flap tears open with a violence that sends my heart hammering against my ribs.
A massive figure stumbles through the entrance, dark blood streaking down armor that's seen recent battle. My mouth opens to scream—servants who witness what they shouldn't tend to disappear—but his hand clamps over my lips before sound can escape.
"Quiet." His voice rumbles low, rough as grinding stone. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The words should comfort me. They don't. His palm covers half my face, fingers long enough to wrap around my skull if he chose.
Heat radiates from his skin like a forge, and beneath the copper tang of blood, he smells of leather and sweat and something wild that makes my pulse flutter for reasons I don't understand.
"I need... stitching." Each word comes out measured, controlled despite the pain that tightens the corners of his eyes. "Saw your herbs."
My nod feels jerky against his hand. He releases me slowly, as if testing whether I'll bolt or scream. I do neither. Can't, really, when he fills the small space like a storm contained in flesh and bone.
He's enormous—taller than any orc I've served, with shoulders broad enough to block out the tent's entrance entirely.
Dark green skin bears the mottled scars of countless battles, and thick braids frame a face carved from granite.
Bone beads click softly when he moves, and his tusks gleam white in the lamplight.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Deep brown, almost black, they study me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed despite my modest traveling clothes. Not the casual assessment of a master evaluating property, but something sharper. Hungrier.
"You're afraid." He states it like fact, not accusation.
"I'm always afraid." The honesty slips out before I can stop it.
His head tilts slightly, those dark eyes never leaving mine. Blood seeps steadily through the gash in his side, staining the tent floor, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"Of me?"
"Of everything." Another truth I shouldn't speak. "But especially of orcs who bleed in my tent without permission."
Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe, or amusement. His mouth quirks at one corner, transforming the harsh planes of his face into something almost human.
My hands shake as I reach for my herb pouch, muscle memory overriding terror. Years of treating kitchen burns and training injuries have carved pathways deeper than fear, and my fingers find the familiar textures of dried comfrey and clean linen without thought.
He sways on his feet, that massive frame listing like a ship in rough water.
"Sit." I gesture toward my bedroll, the only soft surface in this cramped space. "Before you fall and crush what little I own."
A huffed laugh escapes him, but he obeys, lowering himself with careful precision. Even seated, he towers over me, those dark eyes tracking my movements as I gather supplies. The blood flow has slowed, but the gash runs deep across his ribs, angry and raw.
"This will sting." I uncork a vial of distilled spirits, the sharp scent cutting through the metallic tang of blood.
"Everything stings." His voice carries a weariness that speaks of more than physical wounds.
I pour the clear liquid over the wound, and his jaw tightens, muscles corded beneath scarred skin. But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound. Just watches me with those intelligent eyes that seem to catalog every detail of my face.
My needle slides through flesh with practiced efficiency, each stitch precise despite the tremor in my hands.
Up close, I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his dark braids.
This isn't some young warrior drunk on battle-lust. This orc has seen enough fights to know when to be still, when to trust.
Something shifts in his breathing pattern when my fingers brush the unmarked skin beside the wound. The steady rhythm falters, deepens, as if my touch carries more weight than simple medical necessity.
His head tilts, and I feel heat creep up my neck under his scrutiny. I've spoken too freely, revealed too much curiosity about a stranger who could snap my spine without effort.
My thread runs out halfway through the final stitch. I reach for more, and when I turn back, his eyes have closed, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of unconsciousness. Blood loss and exhaustion have finally claimed him.
I finish the last stitch in silence, my hands steadier now that those penetrating eyes no longer watch my every movement.
The final knot pulls tight beneath my fingers, and I sit back on my heels, studying the stranger who's commandeered my bedroll. His breathing remains deep and even, but something about the stillness feels too perfect. Too controlled.
Orcs are warriors first, and warriors don't survive by trusting strangers with herb pouches and trembling hands. My pulse quickens as I watch for the telltale signs—a flutter of eyelashes, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin that betrays consciousness.
"I know you're awake." I keep my voice low, testing.
Nothing. Not even a change in his breathing pattern.
I lean closer, close enough to catch the heat radiating from his skin.
This near, I can see the fine scars that crosshatch his knuckles, the way his tusks have been filed to sharp points.
A warrior's modifications. The bone beads in his braids catch the lamplight, and I notice symbols carved into each one—markings I don't recognize.
Still nothing.
Either he's genuinely unconscious, or he possesses the kind of discipline that comes from years of survival in hostile territory. Both possibilities unnerve me, though for different reasons.
I reach for his wrist, fingers hovering just above his pulse point. If he's faking, this will—
His hand doesn't move. Doesn't so much as twitch when I press two fingers to the steady throb beneath his skin. The rhythm feels strong but sluggish, exactly what I'd expect from blood loss and exhaustion.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a different kind of anxiety. He's truly vulnerable, unconscious in my tent, and I have no idea who he is or why he was bleeding in the first place. The smart thing would be to alert the guards, let them deal with whatever trouble he represents.
Instead, I find myself reaching for my spare blanket.
The wool feels rough beneath my palms as I shake it out, the fabric worn thin from years of use but still warm.
I drape it carefully over his massive frame, tucking the edges around his shoulders without touching the fresh stitches.
He dwarfs my bedroll completely—his feet hang off the end, and his broad shoulders strain the seams.
He looks younger somehow, with his eyes closed and the harsh lines of wariness smoothed from his features. Still dangerous, still capable of snapping my neck without breaking stride, but... peaceful. When was the last time I saw an orc at peace?
Never. The answer comes swift and certain. In Vaskyr, even sleep carries the tension of readiness, the constant preparation for the next order, the next punishment, the next reminder of place and purpose.
I retreat to the far corner of the tent, as far from him as the cramped space allows, and settle onto the bare ground with my traveling cloak pulled tight around my shoulders. The earth beneath me feels hard and unforgiving, but I've slept on worse.
His breathing continues its steady rhythm, occasionally hitching when he shifts in his sleep. Each small sound makes my heart skip, but he remains unconscious, lost to whatever dreams visit wounded warriors in strange tents.