"Durgan." Delia's voice carried a warning note. "Perhaps Ms. Dunmore doesn't need a full assessment over breakfast."
Durgan looked genuinely confused. "I was complimenting. Humans do compliment each other, yes?"
"Not typically about—" Verity gestured helplessly at herself. "About abundance."
"Strange." Durgan shook his head, apparently genuinely baffled by human customs. "You have a body worth celebrating. Why would you not speak of it?"
Verity had no answer for this. In Valdara, her body was something to be managed, accommodated, dressed in ways that minimized rather than emphasized. No one had ever looked at her softness and called it plenty to hold. No one had ever suggested that her hips—her wide, inconvenient hips that made fitting into archive ladder spaces a constant negotiation—were strong for bearing.
She turned back to her porridge.Abundance.The word sat in her chest, taking up space she hadn't cleared for it.
"It's a cultural difference," Delia said smoothly, rescuing her. "Humans are more... private about bodies."
"Private." Durgan tested the word like it was slightly spoiled meat. "You hide them under all those layers. Cover everything. How do you know what you're getting?"
"We rely on other qualities," Verity said faintly. "Conversation. Shared interests. Intellectual compatibility."
Durgan considered this. "And that works?"
"Sometimes."
"Seems inefficient." He rose from the bench, apparently finished with the exchange. "The fish. Don't forget." He nodded to Delia, then ambled toward the serving area, leaving Verity staring after him.
"That," she said, "was unexpected."
"Welcome to Northwatch." Delia's voice was warm with suppressed laughter.
"Is it always like this?"
"Not always. But you're new, you're human, and you've been watching the warchief." Delia shrugged. "People notice. People talk. And orcs don't see any reason to be subtle about what they notice."
Verity returned her attention to her plate, but her appetite had diminished. The porridge was still good. The bread was still warm. But she was thinking about abundance and plenty to hold and the way Durgan had said the warchief has good taste as though his interest in her were established fact rather than speculation.
The meal wound toward its conclusion. Warriors rose from their benches, heading toward training or patrol or the dozen other duties that kept Northwatch functioning. Verity was contemplating her escape route when a shadow fell across her table.
She knew who it was before she looked up. The quality of the silence around her shifted, conversations nearby faltering. Even Delia went very still.
Verity raised her eyes.
Targesh stood at the end of their table, hands clasped behind his back, expression revealing nothing.
"Ms. Dunmore," he said. His voice carried no further than their immediate vicinity, but she suspected everyone in the hall was listening anyway. "Your first weekly report is due."
Verity's mind, which had been unhelpfully supplying images of his bare chest, scrambled to catch up with the actual words.
"Yes," she said. "I have it prepared. I can have it delivered to your—"
"No."
The word was flat. Final. She waited.
"You will present it in person," he said. "This evening. My quarters."
Verity's throat constricted. "Your quarters."
"There are matters to discuss that require privacy." His expression remained impassive, but his eyes flashed. "The report. And other things."
Other things.
