He'd just never expected to feel it.
Certainly not with a human.
Humans betray.
The old wound throbbed. Keth, Marrus, Thren, Vella—their names carved into stone, their blood on his conscience because he'd believed a human when he should have known better.
That lesson had cost four warriors their lives. Had taught him, in the most painful way possible, that human words were worth nothing.
And yet—
And yet here he was. Watching this particular human sleep. Thinking about the way she'd felt in his arms when he carried her, the weight of her settling against his chest like she belonged there. Thinking about those brown eyes looking up at him with fear and confusion and something fragile he wanted to protect even though he barely understood what it was.
She's human,he reminded himself.She'll leave when she's able. Return to her own kind. And you'll be what you've always been—alone.
The thought should have been comforting. He'd been alone for a long time. Had made peace with it, or thought he had. The pull was a myth for other orcs, a destiny he'd assumed wasn't meant for him.
Except she was here.
And his blood knew what his mind refused to accept.
The hours crept past.
Ralvar marked time by the fire's consumption of wood, by the subtle changes in the darkness beyond the watchtower's walls. His eyes were made for night—another gift of MountainClan blood—and he could see the forest clearly through the doorway. Could see the rain that had started again, lighter now, a steady pattering against stone and leaf.
She slept through all of it. Exhaustion pulling her under, keeping her there despite the hard ground and the strange surroundings and the presence of a creature she'd been taught to fear.
Because she's too tired to be afraid,he told himself.That's all.
But part of him wondered if it was something else. If some instinct in her—quieter than his, perhaps, buried deeper—recognized what his own body already knew.
It was a foolish thought. The delusion of a warrior who'd gone too long without connection.
He reached for his weapons. He’d already cleaned them twice, but the familiar motions gave his hands something to do besides ache to touch her. The blade whispered against the oiled cloth. Steel that had ended six raiders tonight. Six men who'd thought to cross into orc territory and take what they wanted.
They hadn't expected to meet him.
The captain who held the northern border. The orc human traders whispered about in fearful tones. The warrior whose name alone was sometimes enough to turn raiders back.
Now, looking at Delia's sleeping face, he wondered how many years she'd heard similar stories. How deep the fear went. How much he'd have to undo before she could look at him without that careful wariness on her face.
If she ever does.
The thought ached more than it should have.
Near dawn, she began to dream.
Ralvar noticed the change before it became obvious—a subtle shift in her breathing, a tension entering her limbs. His body went alert without conscious decision, every sense focusing on her even as his hands continued their mechanical work on the blade.
She made a sound. Small. Wounded. Like an animal caught in a trap.
His jaw tightened.
Her head turned against the furs, restless and sharp, and her fingers curled into fists. The sounds grew louder. Distressed syllables that weren't quite words, whimpered protests.
Nightmare.
He knew them. Had them himself, sometimes, in the worst hours before dawn. Dreams where his dead warriors looked at him with accusation in their eyes. Dreams where the human envoy smiled as the trap closed. Dreams where he arrived too late, always too late, and the people he should have protected paid for his failure.
