Chapter Three
The sound of voices outside Boarstaff’s hut woke him sooner than he would’ve liked. Hushed conversations carried the particular tension of a community processing unsettling news. The emergency council meeting had ended barely three hours earlier, leaving him with precious little sleep and a mind that refused to quiet.
He dressed quickly, the familiar ritual of leather and weapons providing some comfort against the morning's uncertainties. Outside, the village moved with its usual rhythms, but underneath lay an undercurrent of unease. Clusters of orcs gathered near the communal kitchens, Their conversations stopped as he approached, then resuming in even lower tones.
"Warchief." Moonsinger approached with two steaming cups, her silver-streaked hair braided with the efficiency of someone who'd also gotten too little sleep. "The council's decision has... stirred discussion."
Boarstaff accepted a cup gratefully, inhaling the bitter warmth of bark tea. "What kind of discussion?"
"The productive kind, mostly." She gestured toward the bread ovens where smoke was already rising. "People want to understand what happened. Why he came. Why the child called for him."
Through the morning bustle, Boarstaff caught sight of Sarah near the largest oven, her small hands dusted with flour as she worked alongside Mira, one of her caretakers, whose patientmovements spoke of natural teaching instincts. The older orc woman guided the child's hands as they shaped dough into the flat rounds that would feed the morning meal.
"She seems... settled," Boarstaff observed.
"Mira has that effect," Moonsinger said with a fond smile. "Always has. Found her calling with the little ones who need extra care."
Boarstaff watched as Mira showed Sarah how to press seeds into the dough's surface, creating patterns that would crisp and brown in the ovens. The steady hands, the quiet competence, the way she'd opened her home to a traumatized human child without hesitation—all of it spoke to why the council had felt comfortable placing Sarah in her care.
"Any word from the eastern boundary?" he asked, though he tried to keep the question casual.
Moonsinger's knowing look suggested he'd failed. "Dawn patrol reported all quiet. He's keeping to the new restrictions."
The new restrictions. No movement beyond the eastern cave without an escort. No approach to the village boundary without explicit permission. No response to calls from within the village, regardless of circumstances. Harsh terms, but necessary to maintain the fragile trust that kept Sebastian alive and the village stable.
Still, as Boarstaff moved through the morning's duties, checking patrol reports, settling disputes about resource allocation, reviewing the day's training schedules… his mind kept drifting eastward. To that stark cave where Sebastian spent his days in isolation that Boarstaff could barely imagine.
Surrounded by the constant hum of community life, Boarstaff had never experienced true solitude. Even in his private hut, voices carried from neighboring homes. Children's laughter echoed from the training yards. The smell of cookingfires and the sound of daily work created a tapestry of connection that he'd taken for granted until that moment.
What did Sebastian do with his hours? Did he miss the mechanical precision of vampire society, or had his transformation made that impossible? Did he watch the village from his distant vantage point and wonder what it felt like to belong somewhere, or did he prefer the isolation, find peace in the absence of expectations and judgments?
"You're thinking about him again." Rockbreaker appeared at Boarstaff's shoulder with the stealth that belied his massive frame.
"The eastern boundary needs monitoring," Boarstaff replied automatically.
"Aye, it does. But that's not what's got you staring toward that cave like it might have answers."
Boarstaff sighed, abandoning the pretense. Around them, the village continued its morning work. Warriors headed to training. Crafters organized their workshops. Children darted between adults on whatever errands occupied young minds. Life proceeded as it should, as it had for generations.
"Do you think he's lonely?" The question emerged before Boarstaff could stop it.
Rockbreaker was quiet for a moment. He rubbed at the leather wrapping of his hammer handle. "Hard to say. Vampires aren't built for community the way we are."
"But he's not fully vampire anymore." In so many of his questions about Sebastian, Boarstaff’s mind went back to that little fact. He’d changed, and none of them really knew what he truly was anymore.
"No," Rockbreaker agreed. "He's not. And that might be the problem. Too changed to fit his old world, too foreign to fit ours."
The observation settled uncomfortably in Boarstaff's chest. He'd witnessed Sebastian's transformation firsthand. Over the weeks, he’d watched as mechanical precision gave way to something more fluid, more natural. But natural didn't necessarily mean compatible with orc society. It might simply mean Sebastian was becoming something entirely new, something with no place in either world.
A burst of laughter drew his attention back to the bread ovens, where Sarah was attempting to flip one of the flat breads with a paddle nearly as tall as she was. Mira steadied her efforts with patient hands, and when the bread landed successfully, both woman and child grinned with shared triumph.
"She's adapting," Boarstaff noted.
"Children do. It's what they're built for." Rockbreaker's expression softened as he watched them work.
"The council made the right choice," Boarstaff said, as much to convince himself as Rockbreaker.
"Probably. But right choices don't always feel comfortable." Rockbreaker turned and sauntered off, heading toward his forge.
