Tales of humans were whispered to orc children in the quiet of the night, not as stories of wonder, but as warnings. They were meant to keep little ones tucked beneath their furs, to stop them from running amok like the wild things they were. Even Torgan, when he was small, had felt a prickle of fear at the thought. His father—chieftain before him—had made certain of that.

It had been many moons since Torgan’s father passed, and the weight of leadership had long settled over his shoulders. He had been shaped for this life, honed by the hands of his people, forged into the leader they needed. He had faced every trial, met every challenge with the wisdom and strength expected of him.

Until now.

Until his village had been approached by a small… pitiful… human.

His lip curled as he watched you settle into the lodgings his people had hastily prepared at his command. The rumors had reached him before now—whispers of humans seeking out orcish tribes, speaking of liaisons, of alliances, of forging some kind of understanding between their kinds.

You were harmless-looking. Soft-skinned, bright-eyed, small. Lacking in strength. No warrior, that much was clear. But no one questions a berry so sweet before choking on its poison.

Torgan exhaled sharply as one of his kin handed him a plate of food—nothing elaborate, just enough to keep you until morning. Then, at last, you could be properly fed and, more importantly, questioned. He strode forward and set the dish down beside the palette of furs you were attempting to arrange into something more comfortable.

“You will eat,” he said flatly. “And then you will sleep.”

Pushing your hands aside, he adjusted the bedding himself, his brow furrowing as he smoothed out the furs. You were struggling with something so simple?

“You are lucky it was a child who found you first,” he muttered. “Others would not have been so merciful.” His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. Then, after a moment:

“If you’ve got a god, little human, now would be the time to thank them.”