“That’s my price.”
He nods once. Brief. Decisive.
“Tell me about the defenses.”
TWO
ARWEN
We find shelter in the hollow of a massive oak—one of the ancient trees that predates the monastery, its trunk split by lightning generations ago. The interior is dry, sheltered from the worst of the spores, wide enough that I can keep distance between us.
I talk. Hours of it. Every patrol pattern I memorized, every weakness in the Keepers’ rotations. The Bloom Garden’s dangers—the concentration of spores, the transformed humans who serve as living traps, the way breathing too deeply there can break a person’s will in minutes. The chapel’s ritual schedule. The Abbot’s private sanctum.
He listens without interrupting. Occasionally asks a clarifying question—terse, pointed, gathering exactly the information he needs. His focus is absolute. Unnerving. I’m not used to being listened to, not used to my words mattering to anyone.
The orc—I still don’t know his name, haven’t asked, don’t want to create that familiarity—builds a mental map I can almost see taking shape behind his assessing gaze. He adjusts plans I’m not privy to, discards approaches, selects new angles of attack.
Methodical. Detached. The way an executioner should be.
Dawn approaches. The darkness outside softens from black to gray, and exhaustion drags at my bones. My voice has gone hoarse, my throat raw from talking more in one night than I have in months.
A shiver runs through me. Then another. The cold is cutting through my torn clothing now that the adrenaline has faded, and my body—still thrumming with the Bloom’s residual influence—translates every sensation into something too intense.
I clench my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. Weakness. Any sign of weakness invites exploitation. I learned that lesson in the first week of captivity and never forgot it.
Movement in my peripheral vision. The orc shrugs off his outer layer—a heavy cloak, travel-worn but warm—and drapes it over my shoulders before I can react.
I freeze.
The fabric settles around me, carrying his heat, his scent—something earthy beneath the iron tang of old blood. My skin ignites where the material touches my wounds, the Bloom-enhanced sensitivity turning simple contact into something I have to breathe through.
Don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. Don’t show him that his touch—even this indirect—makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
“You didn’t have to do that.” The words catch in my throat.
“You’re shivering. Dead guides don’t provide intelligence.”
Automatic deflection. Practical reasoning. I’ve used the same tactic a thousand times to explain away any moment of softness.
I see through it anyway.
He’s not looking at me now. His attention has fixed on some point outside the hollow, watching for threats, maintaining vigilance. Giving me space to recover from the contact without an audience.
It’s a kindness. Small. Unspoken. The Abbot would have found ways to use it against me, to twist it into obligation and debt.
But the orc isn’t asking for anything in return. Isn’t even acknowledging that he’s done anything worth noting.
Something shifts inside me. Something that’s been frozen for years, fracturing just slightly around the edges.
I pull the cloak tighter around my shoulders and don’t say thank you. Neither of us needs words for things that are obvious.
The dawn light strengthens. His profile is sharper now—the hard line of his jaw, the careful set of his shoulders, the filed tusks that would mark him as practical rather than vain to anyone who knew orcs. The scars on his exposed arms tell stories of a hundred fights survived, a hundred enemies who didn’t.
He’s not handsome. Not by any conventional measure. But there’s something compelling about him anyway—the absolute certainty of what he is, the lack of pretense or manipulation. He kills people for a living and doesn’t pretend otherwise.
After years of men who hid their violence behind gentle smiles and spiritual platitudes, his honesty is almost refreshing.
Almost.
