Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Riona
The HearthHouse building is nothing like I expected.
Unlike the grand lodge where the First Frost celebration took place, this is a low, unassuming structure set back from the street—the kind of building you’d pass without noticing if you didn’t know to watch for it.
Only a simple sign in both English and the angular script of the Orc language marks it as something other than an ordinary neighborhood hall.
But even from the parking lot I can smell woodsmoke, and something spiced and warm underneath it.
“People assume every orc gathering happens in some grand, dramatic structure,” Vraag says as he helps me out of the truck. “But day-to-day culture values function over ceremony.”
“Practical spaces for practical needs,” I say, nodding. “Like how a school auditorium isn’t the same as a regular classroom.”
His eyes light up. “Exactly.”
As we approach the entrance, I smooth my dress nervously—a simple wrap style in deep blue that I hope strikes the right balance between respectful and casual.
The past week at school has been a careful dance of professional distance, with Principal Winters monitoring our interactions and Janet from first grade dropping not-so-subtle comments about “workplace romances.” The strain of pretending has left me eager for this opportunity to be ourselves away from scrutiny.
“Elder Korgath can be… direct,” Vraag warns as he opens the door.
“HammerFall elders generally are, quite different from StoneWatch’s more formal approach.
While we belong to separate clans, the Emergence forced all orc clans to unite more closely on Earth.
Elder approval transcends clan boundaries now, and her acceptance would carry significant weight among all orcs in the region. ”
The interior transformation is immediate and stunning.
The warehouse has been divided into cultural sections where orcs of various ages practice traditions from their homeworld—textile work, physical training, cooking, and crafting.
Unfamiliar spices scent the air as conversations pause to observe our entrance.
Vraag’s hand rests lightly at the small of my back as we approach the cooking area, where the elder female from the Frost Festival presides over several steaming pots.
“Elder Korgath,” Vraag addresses her formally, placing his closed fist over his heart with a slight bow. “May your fires burn strong.”
She turns, assessing us both with sharp eyes that miss nothing. “StoneWatch,” she acknowledges, her voice deeper than I remembered, “you bring the human teacher to our hearth.”
“Riona Walker of Sunshine Valley,” Vraag introduces me formally. “She seeks understanding of our ways.”
I step forward, offering my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Elder Korgath. Thank you for allowing me to visit your community space.”
Instead of taking my hand, she leans forward, inhaling deeply near my shoulder. The action startles me, though I try not to show it. Her eyes widen slightly before she straightens, shooting Vraag a knowing look.
“StoneWatch protection scent runs deep in your skin,” she observes bluntly. “Not just garment lending, then.”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks as I realize she isn’t reacting to the garments at all. The scent she’s detecting must come from bare skin pressed against his, from his mouth on mine, from being held close enough for his scent to soak into me again and again.
“Ah, the human custom of handshaking,” Korgath finally says, accepting my offered hand. “Come, you will help prepare the binding spice. Test your abilities.”
The abrupt shift to participation takes me by surprise, but I follow willingly.
For the next hour, I work under Korgath’s critical eye, crushing seeds with stone tools clearly designed for orc strength.
What begins as a test gradually transforms into genuine teaching, her initial assessment giving way to cultural explanation.
“These must be crushed precisely,” she demonstrates.
“Too much force destroys essential oils. Too little leaves texture that disrupts the binding.” She gestures at the steaming pots.
“We use binding spice in every significant ceremony—bonding, naming, burial. It marks moments that cannot be undone. That is why precision matters.”
I focus intently on the task, acutely aware of Vraag nearby even when he isn’t looking directly at me.
He takes up a position at a neighboring work surface, assisting with prep while keeping me squarely within his awareness.
Throughout, Vraag allows the interactions to unfold without intervention—present, attentive, but never intrusive.
“You have good hands and ask proper questions,” Korgath finally declares. “Rare qualities in outsiders. StoneWatch, show your human the craft circle. Old Torgun has been watching her since you arrived.”
The craft circle consists of several orcs working with various materials. At their center sits an ancient-looking male with deep emerald-green skin, his tusks yellowed with age, but elaborately decorated with metal inlays.
“Elder Torgun,” Vraag addresses him respectfully. “May I present Riona Walker?”
The elder glances up, assessing me with knowing eyes. “Sit, young human. These old eyes would see you closer.”
His gaze moves to my throat—to the stone resting there—and something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. Assessment.
“StoneWatch protection,” he says, as if confirming something he’d already suspected. His gaze moves to Vraag briefly, then back to me. “Willingly worn.”
“Yes,” I say. “Willingly.”
He studies me for a long moment, fingers tracing the edge of the leather in his lap, as if weighing something unseen.
“The question,” Torgun continues thoughtfully, “is whether she understands what she’s entering. StoneWatch protection carries obligations alongside privileges.”
I straighten, sensing another test. “I’m still learning,” I admit honestly, “but I understand that protection is sacred—that it’s not just about physical safety but about honoring what matters, preserving what’s valuable, standing between harm and those under your care.”
Torgun’s eyes widen slightly, then crinkle at the corners. “Well answered, teacher. You’ve listened beyond words.”
“She has a talent for that,” Vraag says quietly, pride unmistakable in his voice.
For the next hour, Torgun guides me through basic leatherworking techniques, sharing stories of clan markings and warrior traditions.
The materials are thicker, more substantial than human crafts would use, requiring specialized tools and techniques I struggle to master with my smaller hands.
Despite my clumsy attempts, Torgun’s patience never wavers.
“StoneWatch warriors carried the highest markings,” he tells me, nodding toward Vraag. “His father bore seventeen honor bands. A clan leader of exceptional standing.”
I glance at Vraag, who appears slightly uncomfortable.
“What are they?” I ask quietly.
“Forga.” He says the word like it carries weight. “Metal from our world. A band is shaped for a warrior when he earns it, witnessed by elders. One deed, one band.” He pauses. “Vraag has four. Earned before the world changed.”
He says nothing more. The implication sits in the air: four, and nothing since.
I look at Vraag. The four narrow bands of darker metal I’d noticed the night of the gathering—the ones beneath his silver ceremonial bands that I’d wanted to ask about and hadn’t—suddenly make sense.
He’s watching Torgun, his expression neutral in the way that means he’s feeling something he isn’t going to name.
There’s so much about him I’m still discovering—layers of history and responsibility I hadn’t imagined when we first met.
When it’s finally time to leave, several orcs cup their palms against their upper chest with slight bows—a farewell gesture I recognize from watching Vraag. Korgath approaches with a small package wrapped in leaves.
“Binding spice,” she explains, pressing it into my hands. “You helped prepare, you should have a portion. Return when you wish to learn more.”
As we make our way toward the exit, Torgun steps into our path. He says nothing—only closes Vraag’s fingers around a small object with a look that carries unmistakable weight. Vraag pauses, then inclines his head in solemn acknowledgment before tucking it carefully into his pocket.
Outside, once we’re settled in the truck, Vraag turns toward me with an intensity that steals my breath. “You exceeded all expectations. Few humans have ever been welcomed so readily into traditional spaces.”
“I enjoyed myself,” I say honestly. “Once they realized I was genuinely interested, they were generous with their knowledge.”
“What happened today matters, Riona.” He reaches into his pocket and opens his hand.
Resting in his palm is a narrow leather band, intricately worked with symbols I don’t recognize—subtle, deliberate, unmistakably crafted by skilled hands.
“This is a recognition band. It’s given when elders formally acknowledge someone who has earned respect through action rather than birth. ”
Understanding settles slowly. “So… this means I wasn’t just tolerated.”
Something eases in his expression—not quite a smile, but the particular stillness of a male who is quietly, completely satisfied. “It means you were seen. And accepted.”
The weight of that presses into my chest in the best possible way. “That is a big deal, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “It marks you as someone welcome among us. Understood, not merely observed.”
I hesitate only a moment before holding out my wrist. “Will you?”
His eyes widen slightly—surprised, but not uncertain. He fastens the band with careful precision, his touch reverent rather than possessive. The leather settles warm against my skin, fitted as if it had been meant for me all along.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, tracing the patterns with my thumb.
His gaze lingers on me, something deep and unmistakable there. “You wear it naturally.”
The intensity between us sharpens, humming through the small space of the truck. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then I lean across the console, and he meets me halfway. Our kiss is gentle at first, then deepens as everything unspoken presses forward.
When we finally part, I thread my fingers through his. “So what comes next, traditionally?”
“Traditionally,” he says, voice low, “recognition is followed by proof. Shared trials. Commitment demonstrated through action rather than symbols.”
“That part we’re already doing,” I point out. “Security concerns at school. Administrative politics. Cultural differences.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Then perhaps tradition must bend to this world. Our challenges will not be like those we faced in the mountains.”
The band rests warm against my wrist, grounding in a way I can’t fully explain. I look at him—at the steadiness of him, the particular quality of his attention that has never once felt like surveillance—and think that might be exactly right.
As we near the turn for my apartment, he slows, the engine idling a moment longer than necessary. His hand finds mine across the console, fingers warm and steady.
“I don’t want the night to end yet,” he says quietly.
I follow his gaze toward the foothills, understanding blooming slowly. “Your place?”
He glances at me then, heat and restraint braided together in his expression. “Only if that’s acceptable.”
I squeeze his hand, my pulse quickening. “More than acceptable.”