"I mean, not this small," I hurried to amend, letting out a hollow laugh. "In Oguk, the children are... older."
Malek blinked slowly, the corner of his mouth curving in a mix of amusement and sheer bewilderment.
“You like them?” he asked, gesturing toward the playing children. “Ashkem?”
I repeated the word carefully, trying to mimic his guttural pronunciation without sounding like a total idiot. Or rather, a brusak.
"They’re... small." I shrugged. "And chubby."
Malek nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer, and resumed walking. I noticed the other orcs gave a slight bow as he passed, touching their foreheads in a sign of respect. However, the moment their eyes fell on me, the atmosphere shifted. The same orcs who bowed to Malek stared at me with suspicion, their nostrils flaring as they caught my scent. A few even bared their fangs, letting out low, threatening snarls.
It definitely wasn't the warm reception I had hoped for as a fake orc, but considering I had spent hours lost in the forest and almost became a meal, it was still better than nothing. I squared my shoulders and walked with a confidence I didn’t feel, pretending I knew exactly what I was doing there.
We followed a stone path that cut through the heart of the village, flanked by huts with smoke curling from their chimneys, until we stopped before a structure larger than the others, though it lacked a door or even the bead curtain I’ve seen in most of the houses. Malek entered without announcing himself, and I followed, albeit with far less confidence.
The scent hit me first: burnt wood, fat, dried herbs, and meat. The hut was a sort of communal kitchen, spacious and bustling with activity. Wood-burning stoves lined one wall, spitting live embers while enormous dark clay pots bubbled atop them. Wooden barrels, which I imagined were filled with lard for preserving meat, lined the other side. In the center stood long workbenches where orcs worked tirelessly—cutting, seasoning, grinding, and sharpening knives longer than my forearm.
As soon as I stepped inside, the noise died down. I could feel their stares like fingers crawling over my skin. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room until an orc female with corded, muscular arms and skin marked with scars approached us.
She offered Malek a bow, touching her forehead with her fingertips. But when she shifted her gaze to me, her expression hardened. Her eyes, a deep forest-green like moss, locked onto mine. Her lashes were long and heavy, shadowed by striking brows that curved in a firm line. It was a beautiful face, in a brutal way.
Her hair tumbled down to the small of her back, every bit as dark as Malek’s, but where he wore only a few select braids, hers was a masterpiece of thick, interlocking plaits adorned with bone rings, wooden beads, and strips of weathered leather. Each time she moved, the ornaments chimed together, a delicate, musical sound that stood in stark contrast to her intimidating posture.
She lifted her chin and said something to Malek in Okshakai, the words rattling off her tongue far too quickly for me to grasp. He countered immediately, and the two of them spiraled into a heated exchange.
I took advantage of my guide’s distraction to sweep my gaze across the kitchen. The other orcs had resumed their work, but they continued to watch me from the corners of their eyes. Every so often, I caught one of them whispering to another, their hushed words followed by laughter.
I rolled my eyes at their childish display and returned to my survey of the kitchen, noting the stark contrasts with Ceilte. As a child, I had haunted the castle kitchens searching for sweets, so much so that I had struck up a friendship with thehead cook—a charming dwarf who adored doting on the Lord’s daughter. The castle kitchen was vast and airy. There, the cooks and their assistants used magic for everything, from enchanting a spoon to stir a stew to levitating pans over the flame.
Orcs, however, couldn’t access magic as we did. They relied heavily on runes, yet remained incapable of casting even the simplest of spells. They did everything by hand. With their corded, massive arms, the orcs stirred pots, ground spices in heavy stone mortars, and hauled baskets of ingredients that, in Ceilte, would have been moved with a casual flick of a wrist.
The orc female speaking with Malek shook her head vehemently, gesturing wildly as she jerked her chin toward me and then pointed at the floor. She was livid. Malek met her fury in kind, fire blazing in his eyes as he snapped something back in the same heated tone.
Finally, he huffed like an enraged bull and barked a single word—Kalisha. I stiffened, straightening my posture as I waited for him to offer some explanation in Common as to what that meant, but he didn't even spare me a glance. Instead, his eyes continued to sweep across the kitchen, searching for someone among the crowd of busy orcs.
It only dawned on me that it was a name when a short orc female, her black hair braided at the temples and her eyes a warm brown, emerged from between the workbenches.
"Kar, Ruk’hai?"
To my immense relief, Malek answered her in Common.
"Kalisha, this is Fiona." He glanced at me briefly, as if to confirm he had pronounced it correctly. I nodded, suppressing a smile at the sight of a giant like him checking his pronunciation. "She’ll sleep with you. Find work for her."
My smile vanished. I stood there, rooted to the spot, completely blindsided.
Sleep with her? Work?
I opened my mouth to demand exactly what he meant by that, and to make it crystal clear that I refused to sleep with anyone in exchange for a roof over my head, but he simply turned around and strode out. His heavy footsteps made the utensils on the tables rattle.
I stared after him, jaw agape at the sheer audacity of leaving me alone with a total stranger, when Kalisha pulled my attention back.
"Fio-nah." She butchered the pronunciation, dragging out the last syllable with a heavy emphasis on the na. "Come."
She reached out and grabbed my hand, and only then did I see it. Her fingers were gnarled and stunted, noticeably smaller than those on her other hand. The sight caught me by surprise for a heartbeat longer than it should have. Sensing the weight of my scrutiny, Kalisha jerked her hand back with a defensive motion, tucking it away beneath the folds of her apron.
Her shoulders turned tense, and her jaw locked tight.
"Hurry up," she growled, refusing to meet my eyes.
