And—though I barely dared acknowledge it—for myself.
If I was being honest—and I tried to be, even when the truth carved like a blade—I wasn't seeking Jordan solely for my nephew's sake.
The human female had been... captivating.
Small, yes, as all human females were compared to me, the top of her head barely reaching my chest even when she'd stood straight and defiant in that sterile room. But there had been a lushness to her form beneath that white coat, curves that had drawn my gaze despite every reason not to look. Her hair had fallen in thick waves of honey-brown, catching the harsh lights overhead. And those eyes—ancestors preserve me—those deep green eyes had locked with mine without flinching, without the instinctive recoil I'd learned to expect from humans.
And her scent. By all the old gods, her scent.
Sweet, yes, but layered with something richer beneath—something warm and alive that had bypassed my conscious mind entirely and spoken directly to some primal part of me I'd thought long dormant. Even now, days later, I could summon it with perfect clarity. The ghost of it haunting my senses like smoke from a sacred fire.
I shook my head sharply as I stepped out into the afternoon light, disgusted with myself. This was foolishness. Worse than foolishness—it was a dangerous distraction. She was human. I was Orc. Our worlds touched only at their edges, and rarely without friction. And more importantly, my nephew lay dying while I stood here dwelling on a female's scent like some moon-addled youth experiencing his first rut.
Still, as I made my way toward the council hall, I couldn't quite banish the memory of those fearless green eyes from my mind.
The village unfurled before me, a secret kept from the modern world. A living testament to the old ways, cradled deep in Nantahala's most remote reaches where even the boldest humans thought twice before venturing. Our isolation was our shield, our sanctuary. Here, over a hundred Orcs lived as our ancestors had intended, joined by a handful of humans who'dtraded their world of screens and steel for something more rustic, more real.
The weight of chieftainship had settled on my shoulders eight years ago when my father's spirit joined those who came before. Some might think the transition seamless—after all, I'd been groomed for this role since I could walk. But knowing the steps of a dance and feeling the music in your bones are different things entirely. I'd learned quickly that a chieftain who hoarded every decision was a fool courting disaster.
That's why I'd surrounded myself with those whose strengths compensated for my weaknesses. Argon, my war chief and right hand—a mountain of muscle and battle-tested instinct. Sarsa and her council of elders, whose combined wisdom had weathered more storms than I could imagine. Zuhra, who kept the village's heartbeat steady with ruthless efficiency. And Morg, our healer, whose gnarled hands had pulled more souls back from the ancestors' threshold than anyone could count.
The council hall rose at the village's center, a monument to orcish craftsmanship—timber and stone woven together to withstand the mountain's fury. Inside, I found Argon exactly where I expected him, hunched over the great table like a general planning siege, his scarred fingers tracing routes across our territorial map.
"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?"
"Especiallyfor 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 intotheirworld 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.