On the fourth morning, she encountered the warchief in the courtyard.
She emerged from the archive building to clear her head, her eyes aching from hours of close work in candlelight. The morning air was sharp and cold, carrying the smell of pine and forge-smoke, and she stood on the breezeway for a moment simply breathing it in.
The training yard was active.
She had noticed it before, in passing. The sounds of combat drifting up from somewhere below her window, the clash of weapons and the grunts of exertion. But she had not stopped to watch. The archives had consumed her attention, and everything else had become background noise.
Now she watched.
A dozen orcs moved through combat drills in the yard below. They were enormous, all of them, but they moved with a precision that belied their size. Controlled. Careful. Each strike measured, each block intentional.
And in the center of them was Targesh Ironhide.
He was shirtless.
Verity's brain, which had been composing a mental catalogue of Varresh's filing patterns, went abruptly silent.
The warchief's skin gleamed with sweat despite the cold morning air, the dark green of it catching light across planes of muscle. Scars mapped his torso: a long diagonal slash across his ribs, a starburst pattern on his shoulder, smaller marks scattered like punctuation across his chest and arms.
He was sparring with two opponents simultaneously.
And he was winning.
Verity watched him deflect a strike from the left while simultaneously driving the orc on his right back three paces. His movements were economical, almost lazy, as though he was operating at perhaps half his actual capacity and still outmatching warriors a decade younger. The practice sword in his hand looked like a toy, proportioned for his grip but still somehow inadequate.
What is wrong with me?
The thought surfaced with uncomfortable clarity. She was an archivist. She was here to study documents. She had spent a long time planning this assignment, driven by grief and determination and the desperate need for answers about her brother. She was not here to stand in a courtyard, mouth slightly open, watching an orc's muscles move beneath sweat-slicked skin.
And yet, she could not seem to look away.
He pivoted, and the motion drew her eye down the length of his spine, to the way the muscles of his back shifted and bunched, the sheer scale of him. His trousers hung low on his hips, and there was a trail of darker hair descending from his navel that she traced all the way down before she caught herself.
Verity. Stop.
She did not stop.
She reached for her pocket, fingers finding the edge of her journal, and made herself leave it there. She was absolutelynotgoing to take notes on this.
Targesh disarmed one opponent with a twist of his wrist, sent the other stumbling with a shoulder check that looked almost gentle and probably would have shattered human bones. He stepped back, chest heaving, and said something to the warriors that made them laugh.
Then he turned.
His eyes found her immediately.
Her breath stopped. Her fingers tightened on the stone wall, and for a count of three she could not remember where she was standing or why.
She should wave. Nod. Acknowledge him like a normal person who had not just been cataloguing his musculature with scholarly intensity.
Instead, she stood frozen.
His jaw shifted. His chin lifted a fraction in acknowledgment, slow and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it looking at her.
Then he turned back to his warriors, and Verity remembered how to breathe.
"You must be Verity."
The voice came from her left, and Verity spun so quickly she nearly lost her footing on the slick stones.
