Chapter 3 #2
"Chieftain." He straightened, and even that simple movement carried the weight of a lifetime's battles. His tusks bore notches like a warrior's tally, each one a story written in blood and survival. "Any word on the boy?"
"He clings to life. For now." I positioned myself beside him, letting my gaze sweep across the map's familiar contours.
Something dangerous flickered behind Argon's eyes. "Then we hunt down the bastards responsible and paint the trees with their entrails."
"What have you learned?"
"Three hunters. Tracks lead north toward the Watkins property.
" His finger stabbed at the map with barely restrained violence.
"One's dragging his left foot—old injury or drunkenness, hard to say.
I've got scouts watching the property with orders to observe only.
No engagement." He paused, jaw working. "Not yet. "
"Good." I studied the marked location, my mind churning through possibilities and consequences.
The Watkins clan and their neighbors had always viewed us with suspicion at best, outright hostility at worst. But suspicion was a far cry from attempted murder.
"We move only with certainty. I won't ignite a war over suspicion alone. "
"Even for your nephew?"
"Especially for my nephew." I held his gaze, letting him see the steel beneath my words. "Ardin wouldn't want his blood to water the seeds of war. We'll have justice, Argon. But we'll have it clean, with honor intact."
He nodded, though every line of his body screamed frustration. Patience had never been Argon's virtue—he was a blade that longed to be drawn. But loyalty ran deeper than impatience, and he would follow my lead even if it chafed.
I left him to his maps and fury, seeking the warmth of the kitchens where the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread wrapped around me like a welcome embrace.
Zuhra commanded this domain with the authority of a general, a formidable Orc female who had outlasted three chieftains and showed no signs of yielding her post. She was orchestrating two younger Orcs through the evening meal preparation when I entered, her voice cutting through the clatter of pots with the commanding tone of a general.
"Chieftain." She didn't bother looking up from the vegetables she inspected. "Come to sample my cooking, or do you have actual business?"
"Our stores," I said, unable to suppress a slight smile at her irreverence. "Winter waits for no one." The statement was premature—winter lay half a year distant, with the growing season still stretching before us—but complacency was a luxury that could cost lives when the snows came.
She wiped her hands on her apron with a satisfied grunt and beckoned me toward the storage rooms. "We're flush with preserved meats and vegetables.
Last year's harvest blessed us, and we've expanded the gardens this season.
The hunters bring steady game, and the young bucks are making the most of the warm weather—fish practically leap into their nets.
" She shouldered open a heavy door, revealing a treasure trove of provisions.
Shelves groaning under jars and barrels, dried meats and fish suspended from the rafters like some carnivore's dream.
"We could weather the cold months feeding twice our number, if it came to that. "
"And the humans? Pulling their weight?"
"More than." A hint of approval colored her tone. "That young couple, the Millers, have been sharing farming techniques with our tusklings. Good people." She pinned me with a look that could strip bark from trees. "Though rumor has it you've been venturing into their world lately."
News spread through the village like wildfire through dry grass. "I took Ardin to their hospital." The words were truth, yet they felt hollow, incomplete somehow.
"Mmm." Zuhra's skeptical hum spoke volumes, but she mercifully let it drop. "The boy will mend?"
"If the ancestors favor us." And if I could find Jordan again.
She nodded, satisfied with that answer, and we spent the next hour immersed in the minutiae of village management—reviewing supplies, cataloging repairs needed before winter's teeth bit deep, planning the rotation of hunting parties.
Tedious work, perhaps, but essential. A chieftain ignorant of his village's resources was a chieftain who would preside over starvation.
By the time I escaped the kitchens, the sun was bleeding gold across the western peaks. My feet carried me to the one place that always brought clarity—Sarsa's garden, where she'd be coaxing life from the earth as she did every afternoon.
Sure enough, there she was, ancient fingers dancing among her herbs with the precision of a master craftsman. Her skin bore the deep creases of countless seasons, her tusks yellowed like old ivory, but those dark eyes? Sharp enough to cut through any pretense.
"Ruka." She didn't even glance up from her pruning. "Sit. Tell me about the human female."
My breath caught. "How did you—"
"Please." Now she did look at me, one eyebrow arched. "The whole village is buzzing about your adventure. You carried Ardin to their hospital, had words with their healers." She set down her shears with deliberate care. "And met someone who rattled that iron composure of yours."
Heat crawled up my neck. I settled onto the weathered bench, watching her return to her work. There was no point in deflecting—Sarsa had always seen through me like spring water. So, I told her. The hostile reception, the hateful nurse. And Jordan. Especially Jordan.
Sarsa's hands never stopped moving, but I felt the weight of her attention. When I finally ran out of words, silence stretched between us like a held breath.
"This doctor," she said at last. "You trust her?"
"Yes." The answer came without hesitation.
"Why?"
I thought about Jordan's hands, gentle on Ardin's small body. Her voice, firm but kind as she explained each step. "She saw a child who needed help. Not an Orc. Not a threat. Just... a child."
"And when she looked at you?" Sarsa's voice carried a knowing lilt that made my skin prickle.
"What are you implying?"
Her laugh crackled like dry leaves underfoot. "I may have more winters behind me than ahead, but I remember what it feels like to be struck by lightning." She studied me with those penetrating eyes. "You speak her name differently."
"She's human," I said, perhaps too forcefully. "That's all there is to it."
"Hmm." She turned back to her plants, but I caught the smile playing at her lips.
"You know, our tusklings have been falling ill more frequently these past seasons.
Nothing Morg can't handle, but they seem vulnerable to whatever sicknesses the humans carry.
" Her shears snipped with precise rhythm.
"A healer who understands both worlds—one who sees us as people rather than monsters—that would be quite valuable to this village. "
"Sarsa—"
"I'm merely thinking aloud, chieftain." Another snip.
"What you do with an old woman's musings is entirely your affair.
" She paused, her expression softening. "But consider this.
Your sister fled to the surface to escape her grief.
You followed to protect her and the boy.
You built this village as a bridge between our people and theirs.
" She met my eyes again. "Perhaps it's time to stop merely maintaining that bridge and start strengthening it. "
The words settled over me like snow, quiet but impossible to ignore. Sarsa had always possessed this gift—the ability to speak truths I wasn't ready to acknowledge, to illuminate paths I'd been too afraid to see.
I rose, my joints protesting the movement. "Thank you, elder."
"Thank you for listening, chieftain." She was already back to her pruning, but her smile lingered. "Not all leaders do."
I was halfway across the village square when the hunters returned—three of them, a magnificent deer strung between them on a pole, its weight making their shoulders dip with each step toward Zuhra's kitchens.
Tonight's meal would be a feast. The clan always gathered when we could, breaking bread and trading stories in the common house the way our ancestors had done in the deep places, before the surface ever knew our names.
My stomach growled its complaint, reminding me I'd eaten nothing since before dawn painted the sky. Perhaps I should detour to the hall, grab something substantial before making the trek back to—
"Chieftain!"
A warrior sprinted toward me, urgency written across every line of his face. My body responded before my mind caught up—muscles tensing, hand dropping instinctively to the blade at my hip.
"What's happened? Is it the sheriff?"
Sheriff Dawson circled us like a vulture, always hungry for an excuse to descend on my clan with his brand of justice.
I'd been expecting him to show up regarding Ardin's shooting—it was only a matter of time.
I'd overheard Jordan and her assistant whispering in the clinic, something about delaying contact with the authorities, buying us time to leave first. I'd wanted to believe it was kindness.
Maybe even the first fragile thread of trust.
I forced my breathing to slow, smoothed the tension from my face. Whatever Dawson wanted, I couldn't let him see me rattled. Not with Ardin still fighting to heal.
"No, chieftain. It's..." He gulped air, steadying himself. "It's a human female. She's demanding to see you."
Something shifted in my chest—a strange, weightless sensation. "A human female?"
"Yes, chieftain. She says..." He shook his head like he couldn't quite trust his own ears. "She says her name is Dr. Jordan Bennett, and she's here about your nephew."
The world narrowed to a single point. I couldn't move. Couldn't draw breath. The warrior kept talking—something about her appearing at the forest's edge, asking for directions, refusing to leave without seeing me—but his voice seemed to drift from somewhere impossibly distant.
Jordan was here.
Not safely tucked away in some human settlement, but here. Now. Standing at the threshold of my village.
"Take me to her," I heard myself say, my voice iron-steady even as lightning crackled through my veins. I told myself it was relief—nothing more. Her presence meant hope for Ardin. That was the only reason my pulse hammered like war drums.
But as I strode toward the access road, I knew I was lying to myself.