Ralvar was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. "Tell me about human meals."
The subject change was so abrupt that Delia blinked. "What?"
"Meals. How do humans eat? What are your customs?"
It took her a moment to shift gears. "I... we eat at tables, usually. Sitting down. With utensils—forks and knives and spoons."
"Not your hands?"
"Only for bread. Sometimes fruit." She looked at the rabbit meat in her grip, the grease shining on her fingers. "This would be considered uncivilized."
"Why?"
"Because..." She tried to think of a real reason. "I don't know. It's just how it's done."
"What else?"
"Women eat less than men. Usually." The words came out carefully, each one measured. "We're served smaller portions. We're supposed to leave food on our plates to show we're... restrained."
"That is foolish."
"That's custom."
Ralvar shook his head. "Among orcs, everyone eats according to their hunger. A warrior preparing for battle eats more than one who's resting. A mother nursing a child eats more than a maiden. A body doing hard work—" He gestured at her. "A body recovering from injury and cold needs fuel. It would be foolish to restrict it."
"Human women aren't supposed to be hungry." The bitterness crept into her voice before she could stop it. "We're supposed to be... contained. Small appetites. Small voices. Small—" She stopped. Set down the meat. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm—"
"Don't apologize." His voice was quiet but firm. "You're explaining your world to me. I asked."
She tried to read his expression in the firelight. He didn't seem disgusted or bored or pitying. He seemed... angry. But not at her. At the world that had taught her these things. At cruelty no blade could cut down.
"It must seem strange," she said. "From the outside."
"It seems like cruelty." He bit the words off, each one sharp-edged. "And I have seen much cruelty. This ranks among the worst."
The fire popped. A log shifted, sending sparks spiraling toward the ruined ceiling. Delia watched them rise and fade, orange stars winking out one by one.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Ask."
"The pull. The thing you mentioned last night that made you help me." She hesitated. "Does it... mean something? To orcs? When you feel it toward someone?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavier than Delia had intended. She'd meant it to be academic. Curious. Instead it had come out sounding... hopeful.
"It means many things," Ralvar said finally. "Depending on context. Between warriors, it can mark future shield-brothers. Between kin, it deepens blood-bonds." He paused. "Between a male and female of mating age..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Delia's mouth went dry. "Oh."
"I told you before," he said carefully, "that I would not act on instinct alone. That my choices remain my own, whatever my blood demands."
"I remember."
"That has not changed." His hands flexed against his thighs. "The pull does not create obligation. It is not a claim or acontract. It simply... exists. What we do about it is a matter of choice."
