Page 50 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
As if summoned by her words, the sound of heavier footsteps echoes from the stairs below. My twin sons appear moments later, their six-year-old forms already showing the robust build that marks them as unmistakably orcish despite their mixed heritage. Unlike their sister, they bear no obvious signs of human blood—broad shoulders, the beginning of tusk development, skin that carries the green tint of their father's people.
"Sorry, Mama," Drak says, his voice carrying the careful responsibility of the older twin. "We tried to stop her, but you know how she gets when she wants something."
"She's too fast," Kael adds, though his expression holds the protective fondness that marks all his interactions with his younger sister. "And she threatened to tell Papa we weren't watching her properly."
The manipulation tactics make me smile despite my concern for safety protocols. Kira has learned to leverage her brothers' protective instincts with the strategic precision of someone who's observed political maneuvering from birth. Her apparent fragility masks a will of iron that she's inherited from both parents.
"All of you, come here," I command, settling onto the stone bench that provides seating while maintaining clear sightlines across the settlement.
They arrange themselves around me with practiced ease—Kira claiming my lap while the twins position themselves on either side, close enough to provide protection while maintaining the dignity that their emerging warrior status requires. The family tableau we create speaks of bonds that transcend species boundaries, love that creates rather than constrains.
"Tell me what you see," I say, gesturing toward the bustling activity below.
"Trade caravans from the Greycliff territories," Drak observes, his tactical awareness already impressive for someone so young. "Three wagons, maybe forty guards, moving toward the main market square."
"Human refugees setting up permanent workshops in the artisan quarter," Kael adds, his attention drawn to the construction projects that mark ongoing expansion. "The metalworkers from the eastern settlements, I think."
"Children playing," Kira says simply, her focus on the mixed groups of youngsters whose games ignore the species boundaries that divided previous generations. "Orc children and human children and some who look like both."
The different observations reflect their emerging personalities—Drak's strategic mind, Kael's interest in craftsmanship and construction, Kira's intuitive focus on social dynamics. Each carries pieces of what their father and I have tried to build, though filtered through perspectives shaped by growing up in a world where cooperation is normal rather than revolutionary.
"And what does that tell you?" I ask.
"That the alliance is working," Drak says with the certainty of someone who's never known a world where such cooperation was impossible. "That different peoples can live together when they choose to."
"That building things together makes everyone stronger," Kael adds, his young mind already grasping principles that eluded most adults for generations.
"That families come in all shapes," Kira concludes, her small hand patting my arm with the casual affection that marks her as entirely secure in her place within our unconventional household.
The insights warm my heart while highlighting how much their generation takes for granted. They've never known a world where human refugees lived in desperate camps, where clan warfare consumed resources that could have been used for prosperity, where cooperation required constant negotiation rather than simple common sense.
"Zahra." Rogar's voice carries across the platform as he emerges from the stairs, his massive frame moving with the controlled power that still makes my pulse quicken after years of marriage. The silver threading his black hair speaks of accumulated responsibility rather than mere age, while new scars map the ongoing challenges that leadership demands.
But it's his expression when he spots our children that truly demonstrates how fatherhood has changed him. The fierce warrior who once ruled through strength alone melts into protective gentleness whenever Kira's amber eyes meet his, while pride radiates from every line of his body as he studies the twins' developing capabilities.
"Papa!" Kira launches herself from my lap toward his arms with the absolute confidence of someone who's never doubted her welcome. He catches her with practiced ease, lifting her high enough to survey the settlement from his elevated perspective.
"Have you been climbing the watchtower without permission again?" he asks, though his tone carries more amusement than reproof.
"Only a little bit," she replies with the diplomatic precision she's learned from observing alliance negotiations. "And I was very careful, and my brothers were watching me, and Mama wasn't really angry."
"Were you not?" Rogar asks, turning his attention to me with the knowing look that acknowledges our daughter's political maneuvering.
"Mildly concerned about safety protocols," I correct. "Though impressed by her tactical use of emotional leverage to achieve her objectives."
The twins exchange glances that speak of siblings recognizing when their parents engage in the coded communication that marks long partnership. They've learned to read such interactions, understanding that their parents' relationship provides the stable foundation that makes their own security possible.
"Council session results?" I ask, noting the satisfaction in Rogar's posture that suggests positive developments.
"The Westmarch territories voted for full alliance membership. Unanimous decision, effective immediately." His smile carries the fierce pride of someone who's watched impossible dreams become political reality. "That brings our total membership to fifteen separate political entities, covering roughly sixty percent of the borderland territories."
"And the dark elf response?"
"Officially? Continued protests about our 'harboring of criminal elements' and 'violation of traditional territorial agreements.'" His expression grows more serious. "Unofficially? Intelligence suggests three separate noble houses are reconsidering their approach to refugee populations.Apparently, our success has inspired similar resistance movements in their own territories."
The implications make my chest tighten with a mixture of satisfaction and concern. Success breeds imitation, but it also attracts attention from enemies who view change as fundamental threat to established hierarchies. Our children will inherit a world where cooperation has become possible, but they'll also face pressures that we're only beginning to understand.
"Will there be war?" Drak asks, his young voice carrying the careful precision of someone who's learned that adult conversations often reveal important information.
