I step into the kitchen and see Clover standing by the Reviver with a smile on her face. The sight tightens my stomach, and not all of my hunger is for the food.
“I see you’ve figured out when dinner time is,” I tease, walking to the fridge for a bottle of grog.
“You usually eat around now, right?” she asks, verifying her internal clock. “And you missed lunch.”
I pause with the fridge open. “You noticed that?”
“I made myself something earlier,” she adds quickly, like she thinks I’m about to reprimand her. “After everyone left the kitchen. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Good,” I grunt, grabbing the bottle. “You don’t need permission to eat.”
“Okay. Thank you,” she replies, and her smile gets a little wider.
I hate that I notice the difference. Hate that I like seeing her smile. Human smiles used to irritate me because I always felt like they were plotting behind them. Hers seems genuine. Just another ray of sunshine shining through all the bleakness.
Once we’re seated and eating, I also notice how settled she is. Like this haunted fortress is some sort of home. She’s getting comfortable here. Finding her place. Even if Zrogmul doesn’t offer the best accommodations, I’m sure they’re better than what she’s used to.
“I’m sorry I lied earlier,” she says quietly, cutting her meat with the knife that still looks comical in her small hand.
I glance at her over my grog. “You already apologized.”
“I know. I just…” She looks down at her plate, pushing a piece of vegetable around with her fork. “I didn’t want you to think I was weak.”
“You are weak,” I say bluntly. Her face falls, and something twists in my chest. Annoying. Inconvenient. “Physically,” I add. “Compared to orcs. Compared to most things in this world that could hurt you. That isn’t the problem.”
She looks up, cautious. “Then what is?”
“Nobody taught you how to be strong.” I take a drink of grog, giving myself a moment to hate how true that sounds. “They taught you how to endure. How to duck your head. How to survive. That isn’t the same thing as strength.”
“Are you going to teach me how to be strong?” she inquires innocently.
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I can already see it. Clover learning to stand straighter. Clover looking some sneering orc woman in the eyes. Clover realizing the fortress doesn’t get to swallow her unless I allow it.
“I don’t think I have to,” I answer.
“Why not?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“Because you already figured out how to use your weakness to your advantage,” I explain.
“I did?” She sips her water, giving me a curious look.
“You ran into my throne room because it was the safest place in Zrogmul.” I tear into my meat, then point my knife at her. “Thatwas smart. You told me enough of the truth to make me act. That was smarter.”
“I lied first,” she sighs, taking a bite of her meat.
“Yes. Don’t do that again,” I growl, leveling my dark gaze at her. “I mean that. I need to be able to trust you, and I can’t trust you if you don’t tell me the truth. Always.”
“I won’t lie again,” she whispers.
I study her face. The softness of it. The way she still looks at me like I’m something that might hurt her and something that already saved her at the same time.
“Strength is useful,” I say. “But it can make fools arrogant. Weakness makes clever creatures pay attention.”
She blinks at me. “So… weakness can be better than strength?”
“Sometimes, if you know what to do with it.”
Her gaze drops to her plate, but I catch the small smile before she hides it.
