Page 18 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“How many men have you killed? A hundred? Two hundred?”

Egon frowned. “Killing isn’t something to boast about.”

“Oh.” Samha’s brow furrowed. “But you protect people, right? Like in the stories?”

The question caught him off guard. “I… try to.”

“That’s what warriors do.” Samha nodded sagely, as if confirming a universal truth. “Are you protecting Miss Lyric now?”

He paused, the digger halfway into the earth. “I’m just helping with chores.”

“Where’d you get your sword? Can I see it? Can you teach me how to fight? Do orcs eat different food than humans? Why are your teeth so big? Can you?—”

“One question at a time,” he said, surprised to find his lips twitching toward a smile.

Two hours later Samha finally departed, the boy’s boundless energy still not exhausted after helping—or trying to help—with every task Egon undertook. Despite himself, he’d grown fond of the child’s endless questions and earnest attempts to assist, even when those attempts created more work.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” Samha asked.

“If you want.” The words surprised him as much as they seemed to delight the boy.

“Really? I can help you sharpen your sword?” Samha bounced on his toes.

“We’ll see.”

He ruffled the boy’s hair, marveling at how natural the gesture felt, and went back to work.

As evening settled over the valley, he washed up at the outdoor basin, scrubbing dirt from beneath his nails. The day’s labor had been satisfying in a way that battle never was. Creating rather than destroying. Fixing instead of breaking.

Inside, Lyric had prepared a savory dish of grains and roasted vegetables. The rich aroma filled the small cottage, making his stomach growl appreciatively. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the awkwardness of the previous night somewhat diminished.

“Samha seemed to enjoy himself,” she said finally, breaking the quiet. “I think he looks up to you.”

He grunted, uncomfortable with the implication. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is.” She smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened.

A sharp knock at the door cut through the moment. She frowned, setting down her spoon, as she rose to answer.

“Who could that be at this hour?”

He tensed, his hand automatically dropping to the knife at his belt, and shifted his weight, ready to move if necessary.

Lyric opened the door to reveal two elderly villagers—a gray-haired man with a face like weathered leather and a thin woman whose sharp eyes immediately fixed on Egon.

“Evening, Lyric,” the man said, his voice neutral but his posture rigid. “Word reached us that you’re housing a… visitor.”

“Elder Tomas, Elder Harta.” Lyric’s voice remained calm, though he could see her tension in the set of her shoulders. “This is Egon, an old friend of mine. He’s helping with repairs around my holding.”

He stood, conscious of how his height forced him to duck beneath the ceiling beams, and nodded politely. He did his best to keep his expression neutral, though he recognized the fear and suspicion in their eyes. He’d seen it countless times before.

“We don’t often see orcs in these parts,” Elder Harta said, her thin lips pressing together. “Especially not since Lord Trevain aligned with Lasseran.”

“I’m just passing through,” he said, keeping his voice low and non-threatening. “Helping Lyric with some work before I move on.”

The elders exchanged a look that spoke volumes, then politely asked Lyric to step outside. Once again he bit back a protest and simply moved to one side as they left. They didn’t close the door completely, and fragments of their conversation drifted back to him. He remained perfectly still, his enhanced hearing catching every word.

“—harboring an orc?” Elder Harta’s voice was sharp with disapproval. “Have you lost your senses, girl?”

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