Page 9 of The Orc’s Comfort

“Securing the warrior to their mount with unbreakable bindings while claiming it’s for ceremonial purposes.”

I stare at him for a beat before realizing. “You’re joking.”

“WarmHearth humor. Rare but potent,” he says, his expression hardly changing, though his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners.

I’m about to ask more questions when a thunderous pounding at my door makes me jump, sending a fresh bolt of pain through my ribs.

“RHAZGAR! ARE YOU IN THERE?” The booming voice is unmistakably orc, but the opposite of Rhazgar’s measured tones.

Rhazgar sighs, a surprisingly human gesture of exasperation. “Grulk,” he explains to me, before calling out, “Yes, I am here.”

The door flies open without further ceremony, revealing an orc in maintenance coveralls, his green skin a shade lighter than Rhazgar’s, his build stockier, his tusks prominent against his wide grin. His eyes lock onto me, then flick to the bowl in my hands, and his grin splits wider.

“Ah! The healing broth!” He turns to Rhazgar. “You cooked it yourself? With your own hands?” He sounds delighted.

“Grulk,” Rhazgar says with strained patience, “Julia Whitaker suffered injuries from a falling bookcase. I am providing traditional assistance.”

“Traditional, yes.” Grulk strides in, already eyeing the damaged door. “Very traditional for a WarmHearth warrior to bring healing broth to an injured female. HammerFall clan approves.”

I look between the two orcs. “You know each other?”

“All orcs know each other.” Grulk doesn’t wait for Rhazgar to answer. “But Rhazgar and I share a special bond. I tease, he growls. Perfect friendship.”

“Grulk is HammerFall Clan,” Rhazgar explains. “He serves as maintenance supervisor for an elementary school and handles part-time work here as needed.”

He sets to the door, fast and unbothered, talking as he works. “Rhazgar’s healing broth is famous among the clans. His grandmother was a master healer, taught him all the secret recipes. You are very lucky.”

“There is no bond,” Rhazgar says, his voice dropping to a register that makes my furniture vibrate slightly. “I am providing neighborly assistance as tradition requires.”

“If you say so.” Grulk doesn’t push it, already moving to the bookcase. “I’ll check what Rhazgar already stabilized. Four hands are better than two for the bracket.”

Rhazgar moves closer, lowering his voice. “I apologize for Grulk’s enthusiasm. HammerFall are known for their directness.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “He seems nice, if a bit overwhelming.”

“Nice is one word for it,” Rhazgar mutters, dry humor surprising me.

Grulk straightens from the bracket, and for a second the grin drops. “You did good,” he says to Rhazgar, quieter than anything else he’s said since walking in. “Most would just leave the pot at the door. You stayed.”

Then, before either of us can react, the grin is back. “Door’s fixed! Bookcase secured!” He claps the frame once, testing it. “I’ll check in tomorrow.”

He claps Rhazgar on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a human, gathers his tools, and leaves, taking the noise with him.

“He’s… energetic,” I observe.

“Grulk means well,” Rhazgar says, sounding pained. “But subtlety is not a HammerFall virtue.”

“I gathered that,” I say, unable to suppress a smile. “Is he always so…”

“Interfering? Yes,” Rhazgar finishes for me, a hint of that same dry humor returning.

We share another moment of understanding, and I find myself relaxing further into the cushions, the combination of the healing broth and unexpected laughter easing my discomfort.

“You should rest now,” Rhazgar says, gathering the empty bowl and spoon. “I’ll return at midday with the next preparation.” He retrieves a baggie from his pocket and sets it on my coffee table. “Here is some more moon willow. Chew it if you have breakthrough pain from the meds the medics left you.”

“Thank you,” I say, suddenly realizing how much I’m looking forward to his return. “For everything.”

He pauses at the door, his expression softening slightly. “It is my honor to assist in your recovery, Julia Whitaker.”