The forest flowed past them in a blur of green and shadow. Ancient trees towered overhead, their canopy so thick that the daylight filtering through turned everything emerald and gold.
"How are you not tired?" she asked against his shoulder. They'd been moving for hours. The sun had shifted from morning to afternoon, and still he ran.
"I am tired." His voice was even, barely winded. "But not of carrying you."
"That's not an answer."
She felt more than heard his low laugh, a rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. "Mountain Clan warriors train from childhood for long campaigns. Days without rest, if needed. Carrying weight across difficult terrain."
"I'm not exactly a light pack."
He slowed slightly, turning his head to catch her eye. "You are precious cargo," he said. "The weight is irrelevant. Only the value matters."
The feeling came again, twisting in her chest, the one she kept getting around him. Like old wounds being reopened and cleaned and finally allowed to heal.
She pressed her face against his neck and breathed him in.
"Tell me about Northwatch," she said. Partly because she wanted to know. Mostly because the silence gave her too much room to think about what waited ahead.
"Northwatch is an outpost." His rhythm didn't falter as he spoke. "It sits at the head of Blackridge Pass—different from Stonehall, where your wagon traveled. Blackridge cuts deeper into the mountains, into territory humans rarely see."
"And you are its captain?"
“I command the patrol, yes. Northwatch is my permanent station. My home. The warrior garrison rotates, but the settlement itself is permanent. Support staff, families, craftsmen. About twenty warriors currently, plus perhaps thirty others who live there year-round.”
Twenty warriors. All orcs. All as massive and terrifying as Ralvar.
"Will they—" She stopped, swallowed. "What will they think of me?"
"They will think their captain has lost his mind." His voice was dry, but when she leaned over to look at his face, there was amusement in his expression. "A human woman. Carried in from the border. It will be the most interesting thing that has happened in months."
"That's not reassuring."
"It's not meant to be." He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, adjusting his grip on her thighs. "I will not lie to you, Delia. There will be stares. Questions. Some may be hostile. We are not so different from humans in that. Prejudice exists among my people as well."
Her stomach clenched. She'd expected this, but hearing it confirmed was different.
"However." His voice shifted, taking on an edge that sent a shiver down her spine. "You are under my claim."
"Your claim?"
His shoulders tensed slightly beneath her arms. "A poor choice of words," he said. "I do not claim you as property. You are not owned. But in the terms my people understand, you are... mine to protect. Mine to speak for, until you can speak for yourself. It is a position of honor, not subjugation."
"What does it mean, exactly? Practically?"
"It means no one may approach you without my permission. No one may challenge your presence without going through me first. If you need something, you ask me, and I provide it. If someone harms you—" His voice dropped to a growl. "—they die."
The matter-of-fact way he said it didn't frighten her. It should have. She was trusting her life to a creature who could casually discuss killing without raising his heartbeat. But instead, she tightened her arms around him and pressed closer.
"And the sanctuary?" she asked. "How does that work?"
"There is a ritual. Simple, but formal. You state your name, your origin, your reason for seeking protection. An elder hears your claim and accepts it into clan record. From that moment, human law has no authority over you. You belong to the mountain."
"Belong to the mountain," she repeated. "Not to you?"
His stride faltered for just a moment. Just a heartbeat. Then he was moving again, steady as ever.
"The mountain," he said quietly, "would not object to sharing."
