2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Riona
“Ms. Walker, is Mr. Vraag stronger than the Hulk?”
“Ms. Walker, can I touch his tusks?”
“Ms. Walker, why is his skin green? Is he sick?”
The questions haven’t stopped for ten minutes straight.
My kindergartners, normally focused on morning circle time, can barely contain their excitement about our new security specialist. Even with Vraag standing unobtrusively by the door (well, as unobtrusively as a seven-foot orc can stand), every child’s attention keeps drifting his way.
“One more question,” I say, using my firm teacher voice, “then we need to start our day.”
Twenty hands shoot up. I point to Theo, the quietest boy in class, who rarely volunteers to speak.
“Does…” he hesitates, voice barely above a whisper, “does it hurt? Having teeth that big?”
I glance at Vraag, silently asking if he wants to field this one. To my surprise, he steps forward, then carefully lowers himself to one knee. Even kneeling, he towers over the seated children.
“Tusks,” he corrects gently. “These are tusks, not teeth. And no, they do not hurt. They are…” he searches for the right word, “part of me. Like your ears or nose.”
Theo nods, visibly relieved. Something in the careful way Vraag addresses him, without a hint of impatience, stirs a quiet warmth in my chest. And when he shifts position, the movement reveals his tusks more fully—smooth, polished, curving from his lower jaw in a way that’s distinctly non-human but somehow…
compelling. I’ve been carefully not noticing how they frame his mouth, how they catch the light.
I can’t not notice anymore.
“Alright, friends,” I clap my hands twice, our signal to focus. “Let’s get started with our morning song. Mr. Vraag will be keeping us safe while we learn.”
As we sing our good morning song, I catch Vraag watching with fascination. His expression is respectful, intent—like he’s memorizing a world he doesn’t want to break. The thought makes me smile.
By midmorning, my class has mostly stopped staring at him.
Mostly. During math centers, Lily holds up her drawing for my approval—a row of stick figures in front of a building, one of them green and roughly twice the height of the others.
The proportions are accurate. I show it to Vraag on my way past.
He studies it for a moment. "She included my tusks."
"She noticed everything," I say. "They all did."
Something in his expression shifts, not quite pleased, but close to it. He hands the drawing back with the same care he uses for everything in this classroom.
One of the boys raises his hand during circle time. "Mr. Vraag, do you know karate?"
"StoneWatch combat training differs from—" He stops. I give him the smallest headshake. "I know how to protect people without hurting anyone."
This satisfies them entirely.
At recess, I step outside to supervise the playground, grateful for the open air after the classroom’s contained chaos.
“They are very… resilient.”
I startle slightly. I hadn’t heard Vraag approach. He stands beside me now, watching the playground where my students are climbing, swinging, and chasing each other with boundless energy.
For a moment I’m distracted by how quietly someone that large can move.
Standing this close, the difference in scale between us is impossible to ignore.
His shoulder is nearly level with the top of my head, and the sleeve of his uniform stretches over muscle that appears carved from something much harder than flesh.
If he stepped between a child and danger, there would be absolutely no question about the outcome.
It’s oddly reassuring, and I notice that I find it comforting, which is its own small problem I don’t have time to examine right now.
I clear my throat and follow his gaze back to the playground.
“Children?” I laugh. “They’re practically indestructible. Emotionally, anyway.”
“The little one, Theo.” Vraag gestures with his chin toward the boy sitting alone under the slide, watching others play. “He is different.”
My protective instincts flare. “Different how?”
“Quiet. Watchful.” Vraag’s expression turns thoughtful. “Among orc younglings, the observers often become the wisest strategists.”
I hadn’t expected such insight. “He’s on the spectrum. High-functioning, but social interactions and loud noises can overwhelm him.”
He pauses, just a beat, like the words need a moment to land, then nods. “In the StoneWatch clan, such younglings are paired with elder mentors. Their different way of seeing is considered valuable.”
“That’s… remarkably progressive.” I study him with new interest. “Here, we have support systems, but integration can still be challenging.”
“Integration is always challenging.” The weight behind his words reminds me that he knows firsthand what it’s like to be the different one.
We watch the playground in comfortable silence for a moment. Then I notice a cluster of girls pointing in our direction, giggling behind their hands.
“Incoming,” I mutter. “Brace yourself.”
Vraag tenses visibly. “Threat?”
“Five-year-old girls with questions,” I clarify, biting back a smile. “Much more dangerous.”
Before he can respond, they approach, all big eyes and barely contained curiosity.
“Mr. Vraag,” one of them announces, “we want to know if you have a girlfriend.”
I gasp. Vraag looks like he’s been hit by a truck.
“I… do not,” he manages, clearly blindsided by the question.
“Why not?” another girl chimes in.
“That’s enough, ladies,” I intervene, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Personal questions are for grown-up time, remember? Mr. Vraag is working.”
They retreat, whispering and giggling. I turn to Vraag with an apologetic grimace.
“Sorry about that. They’re still learning what ‘private’ means.”
“I was not… adequately briefed on that possibility,” he admits. His usually impassive face shows a hint of discomfort.
“Welcome to kindergarten,” I say wryly. “Where privacy is a foreign concept.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “In orc culture, younglings do not ask about mating until they receive their first hunt marks.”
Heat creeps up my neck, partly at the word mating, partly because I’m fairly sure a girlfriend question and a mating question are not the same thing, and I have no idea how to explain that right now. “Right. Human five-year-olds are basically tiny gossip columnists.”
“Concerning,” he says with such seriousness that I can’t help laughing.
“Just wait until Valentine’s Day,” I warn.
The whistle blows, signaling the end of recess. As we herd the children back inside, I catch Vraag scanning the perimeter, his posture alert despite our casual conversation. He takes his job seriously, even surrounded by monkey bars and hopscotch grids.
Back in the classroom, I set the children up with art activities while I prepare for our next lesson. Vraag positions himself near the door, ever vigilant.
“Mr. Vraag,” I say quietly when I pass him, “you don’t have to stand guard the entire time. There’s a chair in the reading corner that might fit you.”
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Standing is preferable. I see more from here.”
“Security awareness. At the Play-Doh table?”
His expression remains serious. “I’ve learned not to assume anywhere is safe.”
The weight behind his words reminds me that he’s not speaking theoretically. I open my mouth to lighten the moment, but a crash from the art center interrupts us. Tyler and Jackson are arguing over the blue marker, their voices rising.
“It’s MINE! I had it FIRST!”
“NO! I NEED it for my OCEAN!”
Before I can intervene, the blue marker goes flying, and Tyler shoves Jackson hard enough to send him tumbling into the supply shelf. Crayons and safety scissors scatter across the floor as the shelf wobbles precariously.
I lunge forward, but Vraag moves faster than should be possible for someone his size. One massive hand steadies the shelf while the other gently separates the boys. The entire classroom freezes, watching wide-eyed as the giant orc kneels between the squabbling children.
“In the StoneWatch clan,” he says, voice low and calm, “warriors who cannot share resources do not join the hunt.”
The boys stare up at him, momentarily forgetting their argument.
“What’s the hunt?” Tyler asks, distracted from his outrage.
“A great honor,” Vraag says solemnly. “One that requires cooperation. And sharing blue markers.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling as the boys nod seriously, thoroughly chastised. Vraag produces the contested marker from where it rolled under a table.
“Perhaps you both can use it for different parts of your drawings,” he suggests, handling the tiny marker between his massive fingers with almost comical care.
The boys agree with the eager compliance I’ve never quite managed to earn in such situations. As they return to their seats, Vraag rises and resumes his position by the door as if nothing happened.
“The StoneWatch clan, huh?” I murmur as I pass him to collect the scattered supplies. “Convenient discipline technique.”
“Not entirely made up,” he admits. “Though younglings do not join actual hunts until their fifteenth cycle.”
“Well, your intervention skills are impressive.” I glance at the boys, now sharing the marker without complaint. “I think you missed your calling. You should be teaching kindergarten, not guarding it.”
He looks genuinely alarmed at the suggestion. “I would not survive it.”
“It was a joke, Mr. Vraag.” I smile up at him. “Though you handled that better than some teachers I know.”
He looks at me for a moment, just looks, and something in his expression goes quiet.
The transition bell saves me from whatever I might have said next.
As the children line up for the next activity, I watch Vraag pause beside Theo, saying something too quiet for me to hear.
He waits, a beat of stillness, until Theo nods, then reaches out to help him zip his jacket.
The gentleness with which those massive hands straighten the boy’s crooked collar leaves me with a warmth that has nothing to do with classroom temperature.
"You really take this seriously," I say quietly.
"Protection isn't a duty," he replies, eyes still on Theo. "It's a vow."
I don't have an answer for that.
I became a teacher because of a moment like this one, a grown-up who made a small person feel less alone.
It took me a long time to find a classroom that felt like mine. I'm not sure I realized until right now that I'd been waiting to feel that way again.
When dismissal finally empties the room, he turns to me.
"You survived," I say.
"I was not defeated," he replies. "That is acceptable."
I smile. Then, quieter: "I'm glad you're here. After the break-in… I've been a little on edge."
"Your response is rational," he says. "A perimeter breach makes people feel unsafe."
I exhale. "Thank you. No one else seems to understand that."
"Vigilance is appropriate."
In the hallway, we step aside to let a group pass. His arm brushes mine. We both pause.
"Sorry," I murmur.
"No apology needed."
He walks me to my car and waits until I've pulled out of the lot.
Driving home, I find myself thinking about the way he held that tiny marker. The care of it. Like everything in that room mattered to him—the children, the tiny marker, the crooked collar on a little boy's jacket—not because it was his job, but because it was simply true.
I've worked alongside people for years who never looked at my classroom that way.