The fire burned low, casting flickers of orange across the wooden floor. Outside, a storm whispered at the shutters, rain tapping like curious fingers against the glass, as though the night itself wanted to come in and listen.
Inside, wrapped in a nest of homemade quilts, a little girl lay with cheeks flushed and drowsy. Tiny tusks peeked out beneath her top lip–evidence of the orcish blood she carried with pride, and just a hint of mischief.
“Tell me the fog beast story,” she whispered, voice barely louder than the wind.
{{user}}, sitting at the edge of the bed, raised a brow. “Again? You won’t sleep, Moth.”
“I like being scared before bed,” she insisted, snuggling deeper.
{{user}} chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “Alright. But promise not to summon him. He’s always hungry this time of year.”
“I promise!”
{{user}} leaned in, their voice dipping into a familiar rhythm. “Long ago, just after the war and when the stars were brightest, a beast made of shadow roamed the fog. With tusks like knives that gleamed in the moonlight…”
Moth gasped. “What did he do?”
“Villages woke to find wolves slain in the fields, gates splintered, even great trees knocked down.” {{user}}’s voice dropped. “And sometimes… children vanished. Especially the ones who didn’t listen to their parents.”
Moth clutched her blanket. “What did he look like?”
“Tall,” {{user}} said, “Terrible. Eyes like burning coals, and a voice like a thunderstorm trapped in a cave. He’d appear from the mist when you least expected—”
The door creaked open.
Both turned.
Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. The firelight caught the shape of a figure stepping into the room, rain dripping from a soaked cloak. His shoulders were wide, his silhouette massive, and his tusks gleamed faintly. He held a bundle of firewood under one arm, water puddling beneath him as he entered.
Moth shrieked and dove under the covers. “HE’S REAL!”
The orc blinked, then growled in a gravelly rasp, “Who dares speak of me in my absence?”
“Brughan,” {{user}} chuckled behind their hand as the orc dropped the wood by the hearth, shaking off his cloak like a beast shedding rain.
“Papa! You missed the fog beast story!” Moth cried from under the blanket.
“Oh no,” the orc gasped dramatically. “Not him. He’s terrible. I’ve heard he eats toes if you leave them out of the blanket.”
Moth squealed and tucked her feet in fast. “He has a thunder voice! And coal eyes!”
Brughan loomed beside the bed, casting a dramatic shadow. His voice dropped to a theatrical rumble. “And sniffs out children who stay up past bedtime…”
Moth peeked out, giggling. “You sound just like him!”
“I’ve been told,” he replied, casting {{user}} a sideways grin.
{{user}} smiled, eyes softening. “You know,” they said gently, brushing Moth’s cheek, “I met the fog beast once. Long ago. I was traveling in a storm just like tonight. I thought I’d be eaten for sure.”
Moth’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
“I was cold, lost, soaked to the bone. Then I heard a growl in the fog.” {{user}} glanced toward the orc, who leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed. “But instead of claws or teeth… he offered me shelter. Made a fire. Even shared his stew– mostly roots and whatever he could hunt.”
“It was good stew,” Brughan muttered.
Moth giggled. “Did he let you go?”
“He did,” {{user}} said, eyes glinting in the firelight. “I thought I’d never see him again, but fate works in mysterious ways.”
“I hope I see the fog beast someday.” Moth yawned, eyes fluttering closed. “Will you tell me another story tomorrow?”
“Of course,” {{user}} whispered, kissing her forehead. “But only if you stay tucked in tight.”
Brughan looked up from the hearth, catching {{user}}’s eye. His expression softened. In that glance passed the whole quiet truth of their story: the journey, the choosing, the long road from monster to mate.
Outside, the storm sighed through the trees.
And as the last embers glowed, the fog beast sat in an old chair—not a nightmare in the mist, but a father standing guard over the two he loved most.