FORLA
Ifind excuses to visit the barn more often than I should. Checking on stored grain that doesn't need checking, mending tools that aren't broken, reorganizing hay bales that are perfectly fine where they are. Anything to justify the time I spend with him, to steal more moments in the presence of this unexpected stranger who's turned my quiet world upside down.
Thoktar, he calls himself. The name sounds like thunder rolling across distant mountains, all power and barely contained force. He's healing faster than should be possible, orcish constitution showing its strength. The fever broke yesterday, the wound edges are already knitting together, and color has returned to his green skin.
But it's not his body that fascinates me—it's his mind. Beneath the warrior's exterior lies unexpected depth, intelligence that cuts through problems like a well-honed blade. He notices everything: the way I favor my left foot on rainy mornings, how my hands shake when thunder rolls overhead, the careful way I arrange the medicine bottles to avoid making noise.
"You see too much," I tell him this morning as he watches me reorganize the same shelf for the third time.
His laugh rumbles like distant earthquakes. "Observation keeps warriors alive. But I see other things too."
"Such as?"
"The way you hum when you think no one's listening. How you always feed the animals before yourself. That you sleep poorly—there are shadows under your eyes that speak of nightmares."
Heat climbs my cheeks. When did anyone last pay such attention to my habits, my moods, my quiet sufferings? Talia and Brom love me dearly, but familiarity has made my quirks invisible to them. This orc warrior sees me with fresh eyes, notices details that others miss.
"Your turn," he says, settling back against the hay bale that's become his preferred resting spot. "What do you see when you look at me?"
The question catches me off-guard. What do I see? A killer, certainly—his hands bear calluses from weapon-work, and his body carries scars that speak of violence survived. But underneath that...
"Pain," I say finally. "Guilt that eats at you worse than any wound. And loneliness so deep it's become part of who you are."
His expression shifts, walls dropping for just a moment before snapping back into place. But I saw what hid beneath—raw vulnerability that makes my chest ache with sympathy.
"You see too much as well," he murmurs.
We're both survivors bearing invisible wounds, I realize. Both alone despite the kindness of others who've taken us in. The recognition creates something dangerous between us—understanding that bridges species, past, everything that should keep us apart.
Today he asks about my scars, the question I've dreaded and hoped for in equal measure. The words stick in my throat at first, but his patient silence draws them out like poison from a wound.
I tell him about the slave markets, about being sold like livestock to the highest bidder. About masters who saw me as property, as something to be used and discarded. About the desperate years before Talia and Brom found me, broken and bleeding at a crossroads auction, and paid my price without question.
His jaw tightens with controlled rage as I speak—not at me, but for me. His hands clench into fists, and for a moment, I glimpse the warrior who's killed to protect what he values. The sight should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel safer than I have in years.
"They're dead," he says quietly when I finish. "Tell me they're dead."
"Some. Others live free because good people chose mercy over profit." I touch his arm without thinking, feel the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Violence isn't always the answer to old wounds."
"It's the only answer I know," he admits. "Strength, steel, blood—that's how orcs solve problems. But sitting here with you... it makes me wonder if there might be other ways."
He shares fragments of his past in return. Lost brothers scattered by shipwreck, a failed mission that weighs on his shoulders like armor made of guilt. The crushing responsibility of being second-in-command to warriors who trusted him to bring them home safely.
We're more alike than different, despite everything that separates us. Both carrying burdens too heavy for one person to bear, both searching for redemption in a world that offers little mercy to the broken.
The connection forming between us feels dangerous and inevitable, like walking toward a cliff edge knowing you'll jump. Every conversation draws us closer to something that can't be taken back, something that will change everything.
I'm arranging his medicine bottles when sunset paints the barn walls gold, lost in thoughts of tomorrow's visit, when a familiar shadow darkens the doorway. Nazim slithers inside, serpentine lower body moving with the fluid grace that still sometimes startles me despite years of friendship.
"Forla," he says, then stops short when he sees Thoktar. His yellow eyes flick between us, taking in the intimate tableau—me kneeling beside the orc warrior, hands still gentle on his bandages, both of us looking guilty as children caught stealing sweets.
"Nazim," I breathe, scrambling to my feet. "It's not what you think?—"
"It's exactly what I think." His voice carries the weight of old wisdom and fresh worry. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?"
Thoktar's hand moves toward his axe, but I step between them quickly. "He's a friend," I tell Thoktar. "Reformed slaver, yes, but he's chosen a different path. He brings news from the wider world."
Nazim's serpentine features soften slightly at my defense, but concern still creases his scaled brow. He's seen too much of the world's cruelty to trust easily, but years of friendship have taught him to value my judgment.
