The leather was different from what her uncle had worked with.
Delia had known that, it would be. She had realized as much yesterday during her test. But sitting at a proper workbench in the tannery's main workshop, surrounded by materials and tools and the scent of oil and smoke, the reality of it settled into her hands.
Orc leather was thicker. Tougher. Made to withstand blades and claws and the brutal impacts of combat. Her uncle's cobbler shop had dealt in shoes and belts and fine goods for merchants who wanted to look prosperous. This was armor. This was survival.
She loved it.
"You're holding the awl too tight."
Brenneth's voice came from over her shoulder. Delia glanced up to find him watching her work, his expression unreadable.
"Sorry," she said automatically, then caught herself. She'd noticed that orcs didn't apologize the way humans did—constantly, reflexively, for things that weren't their fault. "I mean, thank you. For the correction."
A grunt. "Better. Loosen your grip. The leather will tell you how much pressure it needs. You don't force it. You work with it."
She adjusted her hold and tried again. The awl slid through more smoothly this time, the resistance giving way in a way that felt almost collaborative.
"Good." Brenneth set a second damaged piece beside her—a pauldron with buckles that had torn loose from their anchors. "When you finish that vambrace, this one next. Take your time. Quality matters more than speed."
He moved away to deal with another task, and Delia bent back to her work.
The workshop hummed quietly around her. Two other orcs worked at benches further down the long room—an older female with silver threads in her braids, and a young male barely past adolescence who kept sneaking glances at Delia when he thought she wasn't looking. Neither had spoken to her beyond brief greetings, but their silence felt comfortable rather than hostile. Professional.
She was one of them. A worker among workers.
The thought made warmth bloom in her chest.
The sun had climbed high enough to stripe the workshop floor through the windows when Brenneth's gruff voice cut through her concentration.
"You have a visitor."
Delia looked up from the pauldron to find Ralvar filling the workshop doorway.
He had to duck to enter. Even then, his head nearly brushed the ceiling beams. He was in his captain's gear, she noticed—leather and metal and the silver insignia of his rank—but when he looked at her, his expression was anything but official.
"I brought food," he said. "If you can pause."
"She can pause," Brenneth said before Delia could respond. "Take her outside. Fresh air. The fumes in here aren't good for humans unused to them."
"Come." Ralvar held out his hand. "I have a blanket in the courtyard. And more food than two orcs could eat."
"You'll make me fatter," she said, but she was already taking his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.
"I'm trying." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Is it working?"
She swatted his arm—a gesture that would have been unthinkable a week ago—and let him lead her into the sunlight.
The courtyard was alive with midday activity.
Warriors crossed in groups of two and three, heading to or from training. Servants carried baskets of linens and trays of dishes. Somewhere nearby, a smith's hammer rang in a steady rhythm. It was organized chaos, a community in constant motion, and as Ralvar guided her toward a spot near the eastern wall, Delia realized she was part of it now.
People nodded as they passed. Some called greetings—"Captain," and then, more curiously, "Delia." A few smiled. One young warrior with fresh war-marks on his forearms actually stopped to bow his head before hurrying on.
"They know my name," Delia murmured.
"Of course they do." Ralvar spread the blanket with one hand, pulling her down beside him with the other. "You're the woman who finally conquered their stone-faced captain. Half of them have been waiting years to see me smile without it looking like a threat."
"And now?"
