Verity glanced back at the yard despite herself.
Targesh had resumed sparring, his practice sword a blur of controlled motion. As she watched, he executed a spinning strike that sent his opponent's weapon flying across the packed earth.
He did not look at her again.
"Fine," she said. "Tea."
Delia's quarters were warm.
That was the first thing Verity noticed. After days in the archives, where the air stayed cold and dry to preserve the documents, the temperature difference was almost shocking.
The second thing she noticed was the evidence of two lives intertwined.
A sewing basket sat beside a weapon rack. Dried herbs hung from the rafters alongside what looked like spare bowstrings. Two chairs faced the hearth—one sized for an orc, and one clearly added later for someone smaller. The quarters were military in their bones, all stone and iron and mounted weapons, but softened by domestic touches.
"Sit," Delia said, gesturing to the chairs. "I'll get the water heating."
Verity sat in the larger of the two chairs, leaving the other one for her hostess, and watched Delia move around the small space.
"How long have you been at Northwatch?" Verity asked.
"Eight months now." Delia hung a kettle over the fire and settled into the chair across from her, tucking her feet beneath her. "Though it feels longer. In a good way."
"And before that?"
"Valdara. A village called Iverton, specifically. I was—" Delia paused, her mouth thinning, her gaze dropping to her hands. "I was in a difficult situation. Ralvar found me. Brought me here."
The pause told Verity more than the words. "You don't have to explain," she said.
"I know." Delia's smile returned, though it was softer now. "I'm not ashamed of it. I just don't lead with it, usually. The short version is that I was running from something, and I found something better instead."
The kettle began to hiss. Delia rose to attend to it.
"The warchief," Verity said, when Delia returned with two cups of tea that smelled of mint and honey. "You mentioned him earlier. What should I know?"
Delia handed her a cup and settled back into her chair. "That depends on what you want to know."
"I don't—" Verity stopped. Started again. "He's been... unexpectedly accommodating. I expected resistance. Suspicion. I'm a Valdaran scholar in an orc fortress during a fragile truce. I expected to be watched constantly, restricted, treated as a potential threat."
"And instead?"
"Instead he gave me unrestricted archive access. He answers my questions. He—Well, he does not behave the way I expected a warchief to behave."
Delia blew on her tea, watching Verity over the rim of the cup. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. The histories—"
"The histories are wrong." Delia's voice was matter-of-fact. "About most things. I grew up on the same stories you did. Orcs as monsters. Orcs as savages. Orcs as something to fear." She took a sip of her tea. "Then I met them."
"And?"
"And they're people. Complicated, flawed, honorable people with their own customs and histories and ways of seeing the world." Delia's hand drifted to her stomach again, that unconscious protective gesture. "Targesh is the one who granted me sanctuary. Did you know that?"
Verity nodded. "I read the reports. A human woman claimed sanctuary at Northwatch. The details were sparse."
"The details usually are, when humans write about orcs." Delia's smile had an edge to it now. "The warchief could have refused. It would have been easier, politically. A human woman fleeing a human problem. Why make it the clan's concern? But he didn't refuse. He listened to my situation, considered it, and made a decision that prioritized what was right over what was convenient."
Verity thought about this. About the way he had appeared in the archives at three in the morning, barefoot and sleepless, and still somehow composed. Still measured. As though even alone, even unguarded, he did not permit himself to be anything other than in control.
