Chapter 2
Ella
I was hoping the infamous Arch Orc Settlement would be less intimidating in person, but I couldn't be more wrong.
The main gate towers before me, carved from mottled granite the color of storm clouds, its surface etched with swirling runes that seem to shimmer with an inner light.
It stands at least twice the height of a city bus, and it's not even the largest arch in sight—just the entry-level intimidation, like the opening act at a rock concert where the bouncer's got veiny tree-trunk arms, a jaw that could crack walnuts, and a strict no-smiles policy enforced by tusks that gleam like polished ivory daggers.
I have to crane my neck to see the top. The stone is not just carved but sculpted, every block fitted so precisely it looks like the arch is growing out of the valley wall.
The gates themselves are open, but the six Orc guards standing in front of them look like they’d rather drag them shut than let in any suspicious humans.
Spoiler alert: I am a very suspicious human.
My hair, for one thing, is a beacon. I can feel every set of eyes on me as I wait at the threshold, the only redhead for miles, clutching my purse so tightly the faux leather threatens to split.
The first guard to actually acknowledge me does it with a slow, exaggerated blink, as if I’m some species of slow-moving fauna. “Name?” he grunts. I hold my breath, hoping to sound confident, even when my knees are two seconds from knocking together.
“Ella Blume. I have an appointment with—” I squint at my phone, then back up at the guard. “—Aric Arch.”
The orc grunts again, less like a person and more like an industrial meat grinder. He mutters something in guttural Orcish, and the others relax their death stares by maybe half a percent. Progress. A little.
A shadow falls over me, and I turn to see another Orc approaching—this one not in the olive uniform of the guards, but in a tidy button-down shirt and pressed slacks that make him look more like a high-end bodyguard than anything else.
The first thing I notice is his height. The second is the baby strapped to his chest, snoozing in a purple and gray sling that somehow fits him perfectly, like it was tailored for a linebacker.
“Miss Blume?” His voice is a full octave deeper than any I’ve heard in real life, but there’s a gentleness to the edges. His tusks are neat, the left one chipped at the tip, and his black hair is cut military short. “Welcome. I’m Aric Arch.”
He offers a hand the size of a snow shovel.
I hesitate just long enough to look like an idiot, then shake it.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Arch.” He’s warm, not clammy at all.
The baby in the sling stirs, and Aric’s whole demeanor shifts; he goes from stone wall to soft clay in a heartbeat, all his attention instantly on the squirming bundle.
“Call me Aric.” His smile almost reassures me. “And this is Ainsley,” he adds, shifting the baby upright so she can peer at me with clear blue eyes and a little drool on her chin. She is possibly the only thing in this whole valley that looks more out of place than me.
“Hi, Ainsley,” I say, with a smile just for her. The baby blinks, then sneezes so explosively I nearly duck for cover. Aric just pulls a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes her face, calm as ever.
“We appreciate your punctuality,” he says, motioning me through the gates. “It’s rare for a candidate to actually arrive on time.”
“I’m allergic to lateness,” I reply as he leads me down the curved path toward a huge town center.
He gives a sound that might be a laugh, then leads me between rows of arches, some wide enough for a marching band, others just decorative.
The streets are paved with cobbles that glint faintly green in the afternoon sun, and every ten meters there’s a lantern on a spiked post, the glass glowing with a mineral light I can’t identify.
Moss grows in all the cracks, but it’s not the weak, limp stuff you find in old garden fountains; this moss is vibrant, almost electric, casting a soft glow in deep emerald and neon chartreuse.
I have to physically stop myself from reaching out to touch it.
Aric walks like he’s counting steps, his spine perfectly straight, every muscle moving as if it’s been calibrated.
The baby seems immune to all of this, burbling happily as she tugs at the edge of his shirt collar.
I try to keep up, not just with his pace but with everything happening around me.
There’s a constant metallic clang from somewhere up the hill, the unmistakable sounds of creatures rushing around.
We pass a group of Orc children playing some sort of hybrid soccer game with a ball made of stitched hide.
They pause to look at me, curiosity written clearly on their faces.
One of them sticks out her tongue, then immediately hides behind her friend, mortified.
I grin and wave, and the bravest of the bunch waves back with both arms.
“Settlement population is six thousand and growing,” Aric says, as if reading my thoughts. “Mostly Orc, but we have a few permanent human residents now. It’s still an adjustment.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the weight in his tone says “adjustment” involves more than a few cultural clashes.
He stops in front of a low, wide building fronted by a triple arch and a sign engraved in both Orcish script and English: “Arch Residence.” The stone facade is softened by climbing vines, and a square of grass out front boasts a little play structure shaped like a siege tower.
The windows are modern, double-glazed, with the same faintly tinted glass as the lanterns.
It’s a bizarre blend of medieval fortress and suburban split-level, and it somehow works.
“We’ll do the interview inside,” Aric says, opening the heavy door with one hand and holding it so I can step through first. I half-expect it to creak ominously, but it swings open on a whisper-smooth hinge.
The interior is surprisingly light, thanks to the glass panels and more of those glowing minerals set into the walls.
There’s a distinct lack of taxidermied heads or battle banners.
Instead, the entry is tidy, with a row of shoes by the door and a set of hooks for bags and coats.
Ainsley begins to fuss the moment we’re inside, her face scrunching with pre-cry tension.
Aric bounces her gently in the sling while talking over his shoulder to me.
“Would you like tea or coffee? Or something stronger?” It’s the most hospitable thing I’ve heard since arriving, and I accept the tea, if only so I have something to do with my hands.
He gestures for me to follow down the hall and into a kitchen.
It’s big enough for a professional catering team, with gleaming appliances and a double oven, but the dominant feature is a long, sturdy table scarred by decades of use.
He sets the baby, sling and all, in a padded chair and begins the tea ritual—water boiled in a battered steel kettle, mugs set out, honey spooned from a pot labeled in thick black marker.
Ainsley stares at me throughout, her attention unblinking.
“Have you worked with Orc families before?” Aric asks, measuring loose tea leaves into a mesh strainer.
“Not officially, no,” I admit. “My last job was with a family on the East Coast. But I’ve read every book available on interspecies etiquette, and I’m a fast learner.
” The words tumble out faster than intended, so I dial back the eagerness and try for professional.
“I know how to cook for special diets and maintain a strict cleaning schedule. I can do first aid. I don’t scare easily. ”
“Good,” he says, not looking up. “The schedule is… unconventional. My work with the perimeter guard means I’m often on-call. You’d be responsible for Ainsley’s care,” he glances at the baby, “and light housekeeping.”
I nod, taking mental notes. “Are there any household taboos? Things I should never do or say?”
Aric leans on the counter, arms folded. The sleeves of his shirt ride up, revealing a tattoo that loops from his wrist almost to his elbow—a geometric pattern in black that’s sharp and intricate.
“No shoes on the main floor. We eat together whenever possible, and no one takes food before the oldest at the table does. My oldest brother is the Prince Regent of the settlement, and my twin works irregular hours in security consulting, but we have family dinners at least once a week. If you break something, tell me. Otherwise, be yourself. It’s the only way to get through a day around here. ”
His directness is almost comforting. The interview continues with a series of practical questions—my availability, my expectations, and my tolerance for loud noises and occasional family drama.
At no point does he attempt to intimidate me; if anything, he seems to be holding himself back, making sure his size and voice aren’t too much.
It’s weirdly considerate. And the way he manages Ainsley, one-handed, always aware of her, tells me more than any reference ever could.
He finally pours the tea, sliding a mug across the table with a precision that stops the handle exactly where my hand is reaching. “Final question. Why did you want this job?”
I know he’s expecting the typical answer—the pay is good, and the benefits are unheard of for a human in this part of the world.
But that’s not the real reason. “I wanted a change,” I say, surprising both of us.
“And a challenge.” My cheeks flush, but I hold his gaze and mentally add, “and to finally freaking belong somewhere.”