6. Rakk
RAKK
Kaelen's dwelling feels smaller every time I visit lately.
Not physically—the carved stone chambers are generous, decorated with tapestries Lola wove and weapons Kaelen collected over years of service.
But the atmosphere has shifted since they mated, becoming something intimate and comfortable that makes me feel like an intruder even when they insist I'm welcome.
Tonight wasn't different. We shared ale and conversation while Lola worked on some embroidery project, occasionally joining our debate about patrol rotations and border security. Everything perfectly normal, perfectly fine.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about Serah.
About the way she looked three days ago when those warriors cornered her verbally near the training yard.
About the panic that flooded her scent, sharp and acrid, before I could position myself between her and them.
About how she's been avoiding populated areas since then, only venturing out during quiet hours when fewer people might notice her passing.
I want to see her. Want to talk to her beyond the careful, minimal exchanges we've managed so far. Want to understand the layers of trauma my magic revealed that first day, want to know what put those scars on her back and that wariness in her eyes.
But wanting doesn't grant permission. And pushing too hard will destroy whatever fragile tolerance she's developed for my presence.
So I've been restraining myself. Keeping interactions brief. Maintaining careful distance. Staying quiet instead of falling into the natural humor and easy conversation that usually defines my relationships.
It's exhausting.
Being this controlled, this measured, this constantly aware of every word and gesture—it scrapes against my nature like rough stone against skin.
I'm not built for brooding silence. Never have been.
But every time I consider relaxing into my actual personality, I remember the terror in her face when she first woke in the healing chambers.
Remember how she clutched that stolen knife like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
I can't risk adding to that fear. Can't be one more threat in a life that's clearly been full of them.
The night air hits cool against my skin when I leave Kaelen's dwelling. Stars scatter across the canyon sky, sharp and bright against darkness. Training yard sounds have faded hours ago. Most of the settlement sleeps now, only a few scattered fires still burning in windows carved into rock.
I should go home. Should retreat to my own chambers and try sleeping despite the restless energy crawling beneath my skin. Should stop obsessing over a human female who flinches every time someone moves too quickly near her.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the river.
The path winds down through lower terraces, past empty livestock pens and storage structures, into the narrow canyon where water cuts through stone in perpetual motion.
Moonlight reflects off the surface, turning everything silver and shadow.
The sound of current drowns out most settlement noise, creating pockets of privacy along the banks.
That's where I find her.
Serah sits on a flat boulder near the water's edge, legs pulled up, hunched over something in her hands.
Even from a distance, I recognize the stolen knife—the one Zurkar confiscated after she woke in the healing chambers.
She must have reclaimed it somehow, probably while Zurkar was distracted with other patients.
The blade catches moonlight as she works, cleaning rust and dried blood from the metal with methodical precision. Her movements are practiced, efficient, the kind of muscle memory that comes from repetition. From necessity.
I could announce myself. Should, probably. Approaching quietly might startle her, might trigger whatever defensive instincts keep her perpetually braced for violence.
But something stops me. Some instinct that says announcing my presence will give her time to hide the knife, to rebuild her walls, to retreat behind that careful neutrality she wears like armor.
So I just move closer, boots crunching deliberately against gravel so she hears me coming, and settle onto the boulder beside her. Not touching, leaving generous space between us, but close enough that the river's sound doesn't completely swallow conversation.
She tenses immediately. I feel it through the air between us, that coiled readiness to bolt or fight depending on circumstance. But she doesn't run. Doesn't demand I leave or threaten me with the blade currently balanced across her knees.
Instead, she just keeps cleaning. Wiping rust away with a scrap of cloth, testing the edge with careful fingers, examining the metal for weak points or cracks.
Other orcs might object to her having a weapon. Might see it as dangerous, as an insult to clan hospitality, as evidence she doesn't trust the safety we've provided.
But I don't care. If carrying that knife makes her feel less vulnerable, less exposed, then she should have it. Should have a dozen knives if it helps her sleep at night.
We sit in silence while she works. Minutes stretch between us, measured by the river's constant motion and the quiet scrape of cloth against steel. The tension is there like it always is—that awareness crackling between us, that pull my magic creates whether I want it or not.
Finally, Serah breaks.
"Are you always going to be this quiet around me?" Her voice carries sharp edges, irritation mixed with something that might be curiosity.
The question catches me off guard. I exhale slowly, considering how honest to be. "No," I admit. "This isn't actually who I am."
She glances sideways, one eyebrow arching in clear skepticism.
I shrug, the gesture feeling inadequate. "I didn't want to scare you by being my normal self. Thought the quiet approach might be less threatening."
"Your normal self," she repeats, tone flat.
"Loud," I offer. "Apparently charming. Some even find me funny."
She snorts. Actually snorts, the sound escaping before she can suppress it. Her face immediately closes off, like she's angry at herself for the involuntary reaction.
But I heard it. And something warm expands in my chest at the small, unexpected victory.
"You have a sense of humor," I observe, fighting the grin threatening to break across my face. "I wasn't sure."
Her glare could probably melt steel. "Don't sound so shocked."
"Can't help it." I lean back on my hands, deliberately relaxed despite the way my heart kicks against my ribs. "You've been glaring at everyone for weeks. Starting to think your face was stuck that way."
"My face is fine."
"Is it though?" I tilt my head, pretending to examine her features critically. "Because I'm seeing a lot of scowling. Concerning amount of scowling, really. Might want Zurkar to check that."
She tries maintaining the glare but I catch it—that tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, that microscopic crack in her defensive walls. She's fighting a smile, and badly.
The realization hits me with unexpected force. Maybe the brooding orc routine isn't helping. Maybe standing around staring at her silently, being this massive presence she can't ignore but can't quite read, is making everything worse instead of better.
My magic pulls toward her constantly, that persistent awareness I've learned to suppress around everyone else. With Serah, suppression feels impossible. Every time she's near, something in my chest tightens with the need to reach out, to understand, to close the distance between us.
But maybe forcing myself to be someone I'm not isn't the answer. Maybe I should just... be myself. Let her see the person behind the careful restraint and strategic silence.
Not overwhelming. Not the full force of personality I use with Kaelen or during clan gatherings. But gentler. Honest. Real.
So I let some of that natural energy out, just a fraction of what normally defines my interactions.
"You know," I say conversationally, flexing one arm in exaggerated fashion, "if you're going to carry that knife around, you should probably have someone teach you proper technique. Wouldn't want you accidentally stabbing yourself."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you... flexing right now?"
"Demonstrating," I correct solemnly. "There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
"Sure there is. Flexing is showing off. Demonstrating is educational." I flex the other arm for emphasis, making the muscles bunch dramatically. "See? Educational."
Her mouth twitches again, harder this time. She's actively fighting the smile now, jaw tight with the effort of maintaining her severe expression.
"You're ridiculous," she mutters.
"Ridiculous and charming," I agree cheerfully. "Don't forget charming."
"I'm not forgetting anything because you're not charming."
"You're smiling though."
"I am not—" She catches herself, realizes her lips have curved upward despite her best efforts, and immediately forces them back into a scowl. "Shut up."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Low and genuine, rumbling up from my chest with surprising force. "There it is. Knew you had a sense of humor hiding under all that suspicion."
"I'm not suspicious. I'm cautious."
"You're both. And smart to be, considering everything." I let the humor fade slightly, wanting her to know I'm not mocking her survival instincts. "But maybe you can be cautious and occasionally smile. Wouldn't kill you."
"Might," she counters, but there's less edge in her voice now. Less immediate hostility.
She goes back to cleaning the knife, movements slightly less rigid than before. The tension between us hasn't disappeared—I doubt it ever will completely—but something has shifted. Eased. Like we've stumbled past some invisible boundary into territory that feels marginally safer.
"How'd you get that back anyway?" I gesture toward the blade. "Zurkar keeps his supplies locked up pretty thoroughly."
"I have skills."
"Clearly." I pause, considering. "Good skills to have. Terrible ones to need."
Her hands still briefly before resuming their work. "Yeah."
The single word carries weight I feel through my magic, even without touching her. Pain and exhaustion and bone-deep weariness that has nothing to do with physical injury.
I want to ask. Want to know what put that heaviness in her voice, what experiences taught her to pick locks and steal weapons and expect violence from everyone she meets. But pushing for answers she's not ready to give will undo whatever small progress we've made tonight.
So instead I just sit beside her, watching moonlight play across water while she finishes cleaning the knife. The silence between us feels different now—less fraught, more companionable. Like we're two people sharing space instead of predator and prey circling each other.
Eventually she slides the knife into her boot, securing it against her calf with practiced ease.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better," she confirms quietly. Then, after a pause: "Thank you. For the other day. The training yard."
The gratitude sounds uncomfortable in her mouth, like she's not used to offering it. Like thanking people for basic decency is a foreign concept.
"Don't thank me for that," I tell her. "They were out of line. Shouldn't have been discussing you like livestock."
"Happens a lot," she says. Flat statement of fact, no emotion coloring the words.
My jaw tightens. "Shouldn't happen at all."
She looks at me then, really looks, amber-hazel eyes searching my face for something I can't identify. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her because she nods once, sharp and decisive.
"You're weird," she announces.
I grin despite myself. "Weird how?"
"For an orc." She waves vaguely. "The quiet thing, then the loud thing. The flexing. The actual respect for boundaries."
"Most orcs respect boundaries," I point out.
"Most orcs I've met didn't." Her expression closes off slightly, walls rebuilding. "But maybe I just met the wrong ones."
There's a story there. Probably multiple stories, none of them good. My magic churns restlessly, wanting to understand, wanting to absorb whatever pain she's carrying so she doesn't have to bear it alone.
But that's not my choice to make. Not my burden to claim without permission.
So I just nod. "Yeah. Sounds like you did."
We lapse into silence again. She shifts slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest, gaze fixed on the river's constant motion. I stay where I am, presence steady but not demanding, just existing beside her in this small pocket of peace we've carved from the night.
It's not much. Not compared to the conversations I have with Kaelen or the easy camaraderie I share with other warriors. But it's something. A beginning, maybe, fragile and uncertain but real.
And when she doesn't immediately leave, doesn't retreat back to the women's quarters or demand I go, I count it as a victory.
Small. Quiet. But mine nonetheless.