He knit his brows. "Ceilte?"
My heart froze. "I meant… Oguk," I corrected too quickly, trying to sound casual even as I felt cold sweat trickle down the back of my neck. "In my… in my clan, things are done with less hurry."
Malek stared at me, his nearly black eyes searching mine, weighing every thought I was trying to hide. In the end, he didn’t press me. He simply looked away and returned to his meal. My shoulders sagged with relief.
I resumed eating in silence, aware of the sounds around us—the crackle of firewood, the deep voices, and the muted sound of footsteps. I stole glances at the other orcs, trying to decipher conversations I still couldn't understand. When I swallowed the last piece of fish, I stared at the empty bowl with a nagging pang of disappointment. I was still hungry.
Before I could say anything or find the courage to ask for more, Malek took a piece of fish from his own portion and placed it on mine.
"Here. You need to eat more."
That was all he said before turning back to his food.
In Ceilte, if someone dared to touch my food, they would have received a severe reprimand at the very least. It was a clear boundary that no one questioned. In contrast, the way Malek noticed I was hungry without me saying a word made something strange stir inside me, a subtle, disconcertingwarmth that unfurled in my chest, pulling at me in ways I couldn’t understand.
With the fish still in my hand, my hunger urged me to devour it, but I couldn’t. I held it like it was precious. "Thank you," I said at last, feeling heat rise to my face.
Malek looked up—the indifference from before dissolved, replaced by something calmer and more attentive.
"Maka’ri," he corrected, his heavy accent shaping every syllable. "That’s how we say it."
I nodded, absorbing the lesson without rolling my eyes or complaining.
"Maka’ri," I repeated.
He leaned slightly forward and, when he spoke again, his voice dropped to a tone that made my breath hitch.
"Eat."
I obeyed, and the fish now seemed to me the most delicious meal I’ve ever tasted.
???
After lunch, we crossed the village to a clearing a little farther away. The ground was marked with both old and new tracks. Weapons rested against wooden racks—spears with worn tips, broad-bladed axes, curved knives, and longbows of dark wood.
Malek stopped in front of one of the logs and picked up an axe with a metal head darkened by use, fixed to a thick wooden handle.
“Mekut’er rhark’n,” he said. I remembered the meaning right away: learn to fight.
“I know rhark’n,” I replied. “With daggers.”
He snorted disdainfully. "Dagger isn’t a good weapon." He pointed to the axe. "Kors’hk."
Before I could react, Malek’s large hand wrapped around mine and pulled it into the correct position, closing my fingers around the rough handle. When he stepped away, the weight of the weapon pulled my arm down instantly.
"It’s heavy," I remarked, surprised.
I was used to daggers—light, balanced, and forged from gnome steel. The axe, by comparison, felt crude, made of solid steel with no trace of finesse. But, as I held it, I realized that it wasn't made for delicate hands. Like everything in the Okshai culture, the weapons were also made for survival, not to decorate the belts of nobles who never had to lift a finger to fight.
"Come."
I followed Malek to a corner of the clearing where cut logs were arranged like targets. Some were splintered from raw force, while others bore deep grooves, scars etched by blades over countless strikes. Malek stood before a log and stared at it as if sizing up an invisible enemy.
"Here," he said. "You strike until your arms shake."
He picked up another axe and showed me the movement with practiced ease, bringing the blade down in a heavy strike that tore a thick splinter from the wood. The impact echoed through the clearing as Malek looked at me expectantly.
I lifted the axe with difficulty, feeling the handle slip in my hand. The weight threw me off balance, and when the blade hit the wood, the strike was weak, bouncing off the log with an ugly metallic sound that barely left a scratch.
