"He seems..." She searched for the right word. "Contained."
Delia's eyebrows rose. "That's an interesting way to put it."
"Is it wrong?"
"No." Delia set her cup down, her expression thoughtful. "No, it's actually quite accurate. He holds himself apart. Even from the people he cares about. And he does care, deeply, about the clan. About Northwatch. But there's always a distance. A wall."
"Has he always been like that?"
"I don't know." Delia paused. "But Ralvar says he's been warchief for nearly twenty years. That's a long time to carry a clan's weight."
"It must be lonely," Verity said.
"Yes. I imagine it is."
Verity turned her cup in her hands, watching the steam curl upward. The fire crackled between them.
"You're thinking very loudly," Delia observed.
"I'm always thinking loudly. It's a professional hazard." Verity took a sip of her tea. The mint was sharp and bright, cutting through the fog of too many hours in candlelit rooms. "This is good. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Delia stretched her feet toward the fire. "And you're deflecting."
"I'm not deflecting. I'm appreciating tea."
"You can do both." Delia's smile was knowing. "But I won't push. I remember what it was like, being new here. Feeling like everyone could see right through me."
"Can they?"
"Orcs? Sometimes. They're more observant than we give them credit for. They read body language, tone, the things we don't say." Delia shrugged. "And their sense of smell..."
"Smell?"
"They can smell emotions. Fear, anger, attraction. The chemical changes our bodies make when we feel things strongly."
Verity's cup stopped halfway to her mouth. "They can what?"
Delia's expression was sympathetic but amused. "I know. Apparently humans are quite... fragrant, when we're feeling things."
Verity thought about standing in the courtyard. About watching the warchief spar, cataloguing the movement of muscles beneath sweat-slicked skin. About the prickling flush that had overtaken her when Delia appeared beside her.
About Targesh turning, finding her with his gaze, that slow deliberate lift of his chin.
Oh no.
"How much can they smell?" Her voice came out slightly strangled.
"Quite a lot, apparently." Delia took a sip of her tea, watching Verity's expression with poorly concealed amusement.
Verity set her cup down very carefully, because her hands had started to tremble. "So when I was standing in the courtyard—"
"Watching the warchief train?"
"I was observing martial customs—"
"While he was shirtless and sweating?"
Verity closed her eyes. "He could smell that I was—"
