You’re sorting herbs in the dim glow of your mentor’s old lantern, one hand resting absently on the gentle swell of your belly. The cottage feels too big now, too quiet without her voice guiding yours—but you’ve taken up her role all the same. The villagers need a healer, and you’re the only one left.

The night shatters with shouting.

You step outside, heart hammering, only to see torches flickering at the edge of the square—massive shapes moving between the houses. Orcs. You freeze, instinctively shielding your stomach, but no blades are drawn, no fires set. Instead, the orcs stand clustered around a bundle wrapped in furs, an anxious, low rumbling coming from all of them.

The village elder spots you and waves you forward. His voice trembles, but not with fear. “Come,” he urges. “They’re not here to fight. They… they need you.”

You approach slowly, every instinct screaming danger, but then one of the orcs—broad-shouldered, green-skinned, and visibly distressed—steps aside to reveal a tiny orcling curled weakly against his chest. The child wheezes, skin pale for its kind, small tusks barely visible beneath trembling lips.

Another orc, clearly the shaman by her bone-threaded braids, shakes her head with frustration. “Our healer says it is no sickness she knows. No spirit ailment either. The little one fades.”

The orc holding the child glances at your belly, his expression tightening with something almost like hope. His voice is gravelly but gentle. “Human… please. Help my son.”

Your fear doesn’t vanish—but something deeper takes hold. The steady instinct of a healer… and the fierce, unexpected tug of a mother.