"But he stayed."
"He stayed." Ralvar's mouth curved. "Says someone has to keep me from working myself into an early grave."
Delia laughed. "I think I like him."
"He'd be insufferable if he heard you say that." Ralvar offered her the cheese slice, and she took it, their fingers brushing.
She bit into the cheese, sharp and crumbly on her tongue.
"What about you?" she asked. "Before Northwatch. Before captain. What were you like?"
Ralvar's brow furrowed, as though the question genuinely puzzled him. "Younger. Angrier. Convinced I had something to prove."
"To who?"
"Everyone." He leaned back on one elbow, the movement pulling his tunic tight across his chest. "I was the youngest warrior in my training cohort to earn full marks. Thought that meant something. Thought if I was strong enough, fast enough,goodenough—" He shook his head. "Youth makes fools of us all."
They talked until the bread was gone and the sun had shifted enough to throw their patch of courtyard into dappled shade. Other orcs drifted by, some stopping to exchange words with their captain, others simply nodding acknowledgment. A young female warrior named Kessan, who Delia vaguely remembered from the celebration feast, asked if she needed anything from the next supply run ("Needles, maybe? Thread? I could look for finer stuff than what Brenneth stocks—").
She had been there barely a day, and already she had a place. Already she had people.
"You're crying," Ralvar said quietly when Kessan left them.
Delia touched her cheek, startled to find it wet. "I'm not—I don't know why—"
"I do." His arm came around her shoulders, gathering her against his side. "You're happy. Sometimes that feels like grief, when you've gone long enough without it."
She turned her face into his chest and let herself be held.
Around them, the courtyard continued its cheerful chaos. No one stared at the crying human curled against their captain. No one made comments or pointed or laughed. If anything, several orcs went out of their way to give them a wider berth, offering privacy without making a production of it.
This was her life now. This impossible, wonderful life.
She was just lifting her head, ready to tell Ralvar that they should get back—he probably had duties, and Brenneth was expecting her—when the horns sounded.
One long blast from somewhere high above them. Then a pause. Then a second.
Ralvar went rigid.
"What—" Delia started.
A third blast.
All around them, the courtyard had frozen. Warriors stood with hands on weapons, heads turned toward the main gates. The cheerful chaos of moments before had vanished, replaced by something taut and waiting.
"Ralvar." Delia gripped his arm. "What is it? What does three mean?"
He was already rising, pulling her to her feet. "Humans," he said, his voice gone flat and hard. "Humans requesting entry under treaty protocol."
Delia's blood went cold.
"The guards," she whispered. "They tracked me here. They—"
"We don't know that yet." But his jaw was tight, his hand on her arm more protective than guiding. "It could be traders. Diplomats. Any human party approaching the gates sounds three horns."
"But if it is them—"
His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth there. The guards had told her plainly: her contract was legal. Her disappearance was theft. The men pursuing her had every right, under human law, to demand her return.
