#fantasy wip

Which was to be expected. It was part of the game, after all. When a lesser house sent an agent or two to another family’s estate in the dead of night, a solitary egg swaddled in their arms, it wasn’t to announce their intentions to the flock. When those agents slipped past the guards by the nurseries, through infiltration, bribe, or blackmail, to swap their egg into the incubating nest, it was for one purpose only: planting their own parasite heir to reap the rewards of in the coming years.

As their false heir grows up under the wing of their political competition, these lesser houses bide their time. They wait years, perhaps decades, to see whether the seed of their espionage bears fruit. If they do, reaching great renown for their false house, that is when their true family springs their trap. A grand announcement at a time most embarrassing, they reveal with detailed evidence the nature of their deception. A respected family’s most promising heir is, in fact, not theirs at all, but another’s all along. Surely mortified, the ruffled house has very few choices: disown their promising heir and their reputation along with them, or make a formal alliance with the family of their ire. Joined by blood and the pride of the flock, truer even than a truce of marriage, the lesser house has now raised themselves up to the station of their betters, regains a promising heir, and all the success along with it. Meanwhile, the tricked family seethes over a lost heir and an alliance they never wanted.

I have to rise onto my toes to reach the bar, ordering a mug and cradling it carefully in both hands as I make my way to an empty seat near the hearth. The fire’s warmth is immediate and indulgent, a welcome contrast to the snow still clinging to the world outside. I sink into the chair with a quiet sigh, leaning my staff against the wall beside me.

“Evening.”

My book nearly slips from my lap as I startle, blinking up at the orc now looming over me. "O-oh. Evening." I nod quickly, trying to return to the pages resting in my lap.

He chuckles, relaxed as he props himself against the wall. You were just so... small. The staff beside you caught his interest. “What’s that you’re reading?” He wasn’t one for books, but it was an easy place to start.

"Oh, it's on the flora of the southern isle? Just trying to get familiar." I offer a faint smile, hoping my nerves don’t read as fear. It’s not because he’s an orc. I’m just... anxious.

“That’s an… interesting subject. Are you a healer? Or something like that?”

"I... dabble. In healing. Among other things."

His gaze lingered, curiosity stirring. You were compact, delicate, with that staff hinting at something more. “You seem pretty young. You been doing this long?” He'd seen plenty of bright-eyed adventurers starting out just like you.

My fingers drift to the end of my braid, absently winding it around themselves. A nervous habit my mother despises. "A few weeks. It’s slow work on short legs." I crack a weak smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Short legs indeed.” You looked human enough, but you were damn near bite-sized. “How old are you?”

"Uh, 26?”

“You look surprisingly young for your age. Are you sure you’re not lying to me?”

I huff a small laugh. "Somewhere along the line, there are some halflings. At least, that's what my mother blames my lack of height and thick middle for."

He wrinkles his nose and lowers himself into the seat across from me. “What's so bad about a thick middle?” he asks, giving his own solid torso an unapologetic pat.

“If she had her way, I’d be as big around as a bedpost.” I grimace, my voice tinged with sour amusement. “What of you? Not too many orcs this far north.” My gaze flickers over him—his tunic long since sacrificed at the sleeves, leaving his tattooed arms bare save for the metal bands that glint faintly in the firelight.

He takes a sip from his mug and exhales slowly. “I am a traveler. Not much else to say, I suppose.”

"Just traveling to travel?" I lift my mug from the table, taking a long swallow.

“Just traveling to travel. I’ve got no business, no one to go to, nowhere I belong. I just… wander. Explore.”

"That sounds... a bit lonely."

Something in the word pierces him—lonely. You’d nailed it. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just the truth. He’d lived in the quiet ache of it for so long that it felt like part of his bones.

“Aye. It is lonely.” He lifts his mug again, as if the drink might soften the weight of it. “Don’t think about it much. What else is there to do?”

I tuck the book into my bag and curl my legs beneath me on the chair, letting the heat of the fire and the moment settle around me. "Well, you could always be lonely surrounded by others."

He chuckles softly. “You have a point.” His eyes linger as I shift into a more relaxed sprawl. “What’s your name, anyways?”

I hesitate, just for a beat. "Annora. And you, wanderer?"

“Thrall. Don’t let the size of me scare you off.” He winks, wearing that smirk like a second skin.

I laugh, warmth finally loosening my posture. "Most everyone is large to me."

His laughter rumbles deep and full, as though it starts in his chest and rolls out unbidden. “Yes, that is true. You’re quite the small thing, aren’t you?”

"It seems the farther south I go, the smaller I am.” I try to keep my tone light, joking. I’ve spent my life being teased for being short and soft around the edges—if I don’t laugh about it, it starts to sting.

“And why would a little girl like yourself want to make your way into dangerous southern territory?”

I hum thoughtfully, trying to distill something complicated into something simple. "Just… the need to get away from an arrangement."

Thrall leans in now, elbows braced on his knees, giving me his full attention. “What kind of arrangement?”

My nose crinkles at the thought. "Marriage. To an idiot who can't rub two brain cells together and likes to use a heavy hand.”

“I take it you’re not a fan of the arrangement?” He tries to keep his voice even, but there’s a tight thread of anger beneath it.

I grimace. "Is it that obvious?"

Thrall lets out a soft chuckle. “Yes, it is very obvious.” He watches me carefully, mug lifting again. “Do you have your own room for the night?”

"A room? No. I don't normally take one. I prefer to be outside." I take another hearty gulp from my drink, the warmth of it spreading through my limbs.

“You’d rather sleep outdoors than on a bed?” He raises a brow, the disbelief evident. “You’re either one tough girl or you’re truly insane.”

"If you asked my mother, she would choose the latter."

“Your mother might be a wise woman.” He grins, but the thought of you sleeping outside lingers behind his eyes, unshaken.

“You sure you want to sleep outside?” There’s something softer behind the words now, a gentle thread of concern.

I nod, steady. "Surely you aren't so worried about a woman you just met?"

“Just a little worry about the small thing who can’t handle her ale.” He teases, the edges of his smile curling up as the blush rises hot on my cheeks.

A scoff bursts from my chest. "Well now, that is quite the assumption! I can handle my ale just fine!"

He smirks at my indignation, one brow lifting in challenge. “Prove it.” His gaze is daring, eyes glinting with amusement.

Unfortunately, I am entirely incapable of backing down from a challenge.

Fortunately, I learned to drink from the best of them.

Gripping the mug in both hands, I tip it back without breaking eye contact, downing every last drop before slamming the empty tankard onto the table with a satisfying thud.

“Impressive,” he admits, clearly surprised. “And you’re not the least bit dizzy?”

My laugh rings out, maybe just a little louder than necessary. "Not in the least!"

He leans back slightly, more impressed than he’d care to admit. He hadn’t expected someone so small to take down a mug like that and still sit upright. “You’ve got a little more bite than I expected. Now, do you really plan on sleeping outside in the middle of winter instead of a warm room?”

"I do."

“You are really stubborn,” he mutters, shaking his head slowly. “You do realize it’s winter, right? It’s quite cold outside.”

I begin to gather my things, stuffing my book into my satchel. "I am quite aware, Thrall."

“Stubborn and cocky. What a dangerous combination you make, little one.” He rises smoothly to his feet and, before I can protest, snatches my bags from the table.

"Excuse you!" I cry, laughing as he holds them up just out of reach, dangling them with an infuriating grin.

“Yes?” His voice drips with innocent mockery, playing dumb as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

A tap on my shoulder interrupts the moment. I turn to find a man standing behind me, face twisted in something between disdain and concern. "Excuse me miss, is this creature bothering you?"

Thrall’s expression shifts instantly, his eyes narrowing. “We’re just having a conversation.”

My hands fly to my hips. "Did your mother teach you to be rude or did you come up with that yourself?" I ask, voice sharp.

The man reels back slightly, clearly not expecting any sass from someone of my stature. He glances between me and Thrall, his face curling into a sneer.

“He’s clearly bothering you, miss.”

"Quite the opposite, sir. You are being an ass, and I find that quite bothersome,” I shoot back, voice steady.

“What did you just call me?” he growls, taking a step forward.

I match him, planting my feet. "An ass."

His eyes go wide. “You little brat—” He lunges forward.

My hand moves fast. I grab my staff and swing, delivering a solid whack to the side of his head. "Maybe you need to be taught some manners."

He yelps in pain, stumbling backward, clutching the side of his skull. “How dare you—”

Thrall steps between us, cutting him off with a protective stance and a firm hand on my shoulder. “I think that’s enough.”

“You’re lucky this savage is in the way!” the man shouts, red-faced with fury.

I try to sidestep Thrall, but his grip tightens. "You're lucky I didn't hit you with something harder!" I hiss, barely restrained.

The man sneers, eyes full of venom. “Oh sure, a few more hits from your little stick and I’ll be on the ground.”

Thrall’s fingers flex against my shoulder as I surge forward again. "You can meet me outside and we’ll see who ends up on the ground, you half-baked waste of ale!"

His face goes crimson, rage bubbling over. He does not like being talked back to by someone he clearly underestimated. “Oh, you’d like that, would you?”

Thrall keeps me anchored, still holding me in place as I glare past him.

“You’re nothing but a scared little girl. You’d get knocked out in one hit if you weren’t hiding behind some beast,” the man spits, confidence swelling with every word.

"Outside." My voice is low and venomous as I smack Thrall’s hand with my staff. He pulls back in surprise, and the jackass laughs mockingly.

“You want to go outside?” he sneers, motioning toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I’m already moving, grumbling under my breath as I stalk through the tavern. The fool follows, dragging a small entourage of drunken spectators eager for a show.

“This ought to be good,” he boasts, puffing out his chest as his friends jeer and whistle behind him.

"Not for you." I shrug off my cloak and toss it aside.

He steps closer, trying to tower over me. “You really think you can beat me?”

"I'd be surprised if you could think at all. So how about you shut your ugly mouth and let's get this over with."

His smirk fades into a snarl, and he begins circling me. Around us, a crowd starts to form, drunken cheers egging him on.

I lean lazily on my staff, feigning a yawn behind one hand. Let the idiot have his moment.

His expression twists, drunk on bravado. “You must be stupid to not be scared of me.”

"Nah." I shift my weight, plant my feet, and let the magic pull just beneath my skin. The staff whistles through the air—then crack. Another sharp blow to the side of his head sends him toppling into the snow, crumpling in an unconscious heap.

Thrall lets out a low whistle of appreciation, then starts clapping—slow, deliberate, and clearly impressed.

I turn toward him, hand out expectantly for my bag, the murmur of the crowd fading behind me like snow melting into earth.

He hands it over without a word, eyes still wide with disbelief. “I have to say, I’ve never seen someone so small take down a man so easily.”

"I'm not like most people," I mutter, pulling my cloak over my shoulders again and swinging the pack into place. Without another glance at the fallen fool or the gawking crowd, I stride toward the tree line across the road.

Shaking his head, Thrall follows with long, easy steps. “That you’re not, little one.”

For a while, we walk in silence. The snow crunches underfoot, and the woods absorb the lingering tension. The trees here are tall and bare-limbed, the air hushed with winter's breath.

“You did well back there,” he says at last.

I can't help the grimace that twists across my face. "I can hold my own when the need arises."

He trails just behind as I wander deeper into the forest, my fingers trailing across bark and rough moss as I pass. Eventually, I stop in front of a gnarled old oak, placing my forehead gently against its broad trunk. There’s a soft, resonant hum that vibrates through the soles of my feet—a low thrum of awareness that travels up my spine, raising goosebumps.

I smile and take a step back. The old trees always hum louder. They like to be noticed.

Gripping my staff in both hands, I plant the tip into the soil, channeling the pulse of energy I pulled from the tree. The earth stirs beneath me, roots shifting and curling like fingers. Limbs creak and groan above as snow falls in lazy clumps, branches moving of their own accord, weaving and twisting together until a living shelter forms around me.

Thrall watches, mouth slightly open, awe shining in his eyes. He circles the structure slowly, reverent, as if afraid his touch might break it. “This is incredible,” he murmurs.

He turns to face me, his voice laced with quiet wonder. “How did you do this?”

"Earth magic," I reply simply, like it's as natural as breathing.

His brow furrows. “Earth magic?” he repeats, trying the words in his mouth like foreign fruit.

To someone unaccustomed to it, the idea of shaping the earth with will alone must sound impossible—maybe even dangerous.

"Well, that’s what I call it." I grab my pack and toss it inside the shelter. "I can draw energy from the earth. The staff helps me direct it—though it’s not strictly necessary."

“Pull the energy from the earth…” he echoes, still struggling to wrap his head around it. “You can control the very ground beneath us?”

"Yes." I step inside, placing a palm against the rough, living wall. "More or less. This old beauty has a wealth of it and gave me permission to use it."

He lingers just outside, gaze flicking from the structure to the oak that birthed it. “Permission? You… commune with the trees?”

"It’s the polite thing to do," I say, as if it's the most obvious truth in the world, while rummaging through my bag.

“And they always say yes?” he asks, crouching to peer through the opening.

“Gods, no,” I chuckle, pulling out my bedroll and smoothing it across a raised shelf made from braided roots. “But this area’s clearly kind to its woods. They’re more amenable here.”

Thrall watches me with a look I’ve seen before—the wary curiosity of someone trying to decide whether I’m entirely insane or quietly extraordinary.

“The staff,” he says after a moment. “You said it’s not necessary for your magic. But it helps?”

A wistful smile tugs at my mouth. "Yes. It was a gift."

His eyes drop to the staff, admiration blooming beneath his frown. “May I see it?”

I hand it over without hesitation, watching his massive hands trace the smooth grain of the wood with unexpected gentleness.

“There’s a willow tree where I grew up,” I murmur. “I used to practice beneath her branches after…” My voice falters. “The staff was her gift to me.”

A faint smile curves Thrall’s lips. "A wise old willow, letting a curious young girl practice under her branches." He nods. “Sounds like a storybook.”

"Are you going back to the tavern?" I ask, not wanting to linger on memories.

"Uh, no," he says, shaking his head slowly. “Why do you ask?”

I adjust the bedroll and settle more comfortably. "You’re welcome to stay here, if you like."

Thrall freezes for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “You’re offering for me—a random stranger—to spend the night in your little shelter? An orc, no less?”

I shrug. "You're not that much of a stranger by now. You’re welcome." I gesture toward another section of woven roots, shaped into a second bed.

His eyes shift from the makeshift cot to my face, gauging the sincerity there. “You sure you’re comfortable with that? A big, scary orc asleep next to you?” he teases, crossing his arms.

My nose scrunches in amusement. "Big, yes. Scary, no."

"Oh? You don’t find me scary?” He leans against the oak, playful now. “I’m seven and a half feet tall, covered in scars, and carrying enough knives to arm a small militia.”

"Are you going to be offended if I say no?"

Thrall chuckles, deep and warm. “No, I won’t be offended. But why don’t I intimidate you?”

I tilt my head, mirroring his earlier motion. "I find judging someone by their appearance to be a very silly way to determine their worth."

His expression softens, arms uncrossing as something quiet shifts behind his eyes. “You’re right. There’s much more to a person than just how they look. So… what do you do look for?”

I turn the question over in my head, fingers unconsciously finding the end of my braid. "Kindness. Emotional maturity."

“Kindness and maturity,” he echoes thoughtfully, watching the way I fiddle with my hair. “Two admirable qualities.” He pauses. “You say I’m not scary, but the things I’ve done in battle would absolutely scare you.”

I wave a hand dismissively. "Your past is your problem. I'm looking at the now."

Thrall raises a brow, intrigued. “And what do you see now?”

I hum, considering him with a sideways glance. "You tried to protect me despite knowing me for less than a day, didn’t let that oaf goad you into a fight, and… you’re quite handsome."

"You think I’m handsome, huh?" He grins, smug and shameless, crossing his arms again.

I give him a once-over. "I'm short, not blind."

His laugh is loud and unrestrained, echoing off the wooden walls. "Ah, I see. So now that we’ve established I’m not so scary, and apparently a little handsome—"

"A little?"

He snorts. "Alright, very handsome. Then maybe I can ask a question?"

"By all means. I’m an open book."

He gives me a sideways smile, clearly enjoying this. “An open book, huh? Then tell me—why invite me in here? You’re out here alone, and you let a tall, muscular, supposedly handsome orc share your shelter. Are you not worried I might take advantage of you?”

My laughter bounces between the roots. "You’ve already let that compliment go to your head, huh? I could have you flat on your ass in a second."

“Confident, aren’t we?” He raises a skeptical brow. “You seriously think you could take me down that easily?”

Before he finishes speaking, roots slither from the ground, wrapping around his ankles like living chains. They climb up his calves in a blink, anchoring him in place. He yelps and tugs, startled.

“What the hell?!” He glances down, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"Easy peasy," I say, spinning the staff once and flashing a smug smile.

His expression shifts—from surprised to impressed—before settling into a faint frown as he glances down at the roots still loosening their grip. He tests his legs, rubbing at his ankles. “You could have warned me before you did that,” he mutters, voice a blend of annoyance and reluctant admiration.

"Ah, but it’s more fun this way." I laugh, twirling my fingers to guide the roots back into the earth. The soil shivers slightly before settling.

“You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” he says, shaking his head as he kneads his ankles, the smirk curling back onto his face. “So, you’ve got me at your mercy now, huh? You could just keep me restrained all night if you felt like it.”

"Only if you asked nicely," I tease, digging around in my pack once more.

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” he presses, still massaging the skin where the roots had coiled around him.

"Then don’t give me a reason," I reply, pulling an apple free from my bag and a knife from the sheath tucked into my boot.

"I’ll keep that in mind, little one." His tone drips with sarcasm, but there’s warmth beneath it. He leans back against the tree again, arms folding across his chest as his eyes linger on me, watching. His mind clearly hasn't quieted—still chewing on the way I move, speak, cast spells without fear. His gaze keeps catching, sticking.

I offer him a slice of the apple without really thinking, my own thoughts drifting.

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing against mine. The contact is brief but charged—an unexpected jolt that seems to travel up both our arms.

“Do you make a habit of inviting strange orcs into your tree?” he asks, trying for casual as he chews.

"No. You’re the first stranger to share my tree with me."

“The first?” He arches a brow, chewing thoughtfully. “No one else has ever shared your little shelter?”

"Well, nobody’s ever followed me into the woods before."

His brows furrow, the look on his face bordering on incredulous. “You mean to tell me you wander around out in the forest all alone? No one to keep you company?”

I scoff, the sound sharp. "You sound surprised for someone who travels alone!"

"I’m not surprised, little one. Just... find it a bit unusual for a tiny thing like you to ramble around the woods without anyone watching your back. You’re not exactly an intimidating presence.”

"Well, what do you suggest, oh wise traveler?" I drawl, slicing another piece from the apple with exaggerated precision.

“A small, defenseless girl like you needs a companion. Preferably a large, intimidating one.” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are serious.

"Why Thrall,” I clutch a hand to my chest, mockingly scandalized, “are you suggesting you wish to be my travel companion?"

“And what if I was?” he returns, clearly amused by my antics.

I shake my head with a soft smile, setting the knife and remaining apple aside before yawning into the back of my hand. "Then I’d probably say yes."

"You’re a bold little thing, aren’t you?"

I yawn again, voice drowsy. "Would you rather I say no?"

Thrall exhales, the teasing slipping from his features, replaced with something gentler. “No. I’d rather you be honest with me.” His gaze catches mine, steady and warm.

That shift in tone straightens my spine a little. I meet his eyes. "Well, if I’m being honest… I would enjoy some company. The days can be exceedingly long.”

Surprise flickers across his face, melting into something softer, more uncertain. “You would? Really?”

"You sound surprised."

He chuckles quietly, his features relaxing. “I am. You’re just so…” His eyes search mine, struggling to find the right word. “…different from the people I’m used to.”

My head tilts, confusion clear. “Different how?”

“You’re not afraid of me. Most people—no, all people—are. But you? You’ve offered me shelter. You’ve laughed with me. You’ve let me in.” His gaze holds mine like a tether. “And I still can’t figure out why. What kind of person lets their guard down around a stranger? Let alone an orc?”

I shrug, puzzled by his disbelief. “…Because you haven’t given me a reason to be afraid?”

Thrall raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “No reason, huh? I’m an orc, little one. An orc you’ve just met. I’ve got more than a foot on you, I’m twice your size, and I have tusks. Any of this ringing any bells?”

"That ass at the tavern gave me cause for mistrust in one sentence. You have been nothing but kind. You even stood up for me." I glance at him meaningfully. “And I think the tusks are interesting.” I shrug. “Sue me.”

“Interesting, huh? Tusks are interesting?” He shakes his head, a laugh curling low in his throat.

"Are they sharp?"

“My tusks?”

"No, your toes." I roll my eyes. "Of course your tusks."

He grins wide. “Yes, they’re sharp. Want to see for yourself?”

I blink, considering that. "That’s not like... wildly inappropriate or something?"

His smirk deepens, clearly enjoying my hesitation. “It’s not. Go on. Have a feel.”

He settles down cross-legged beside me, and suddenly he’s very close—his presence almost overwhelming. I hadn’t realized before how dark his eyes were, how much blue swam beneath the surface like deep water under moonlight.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he murmurs, tilting his head and gesturing to one curved tusk.

I reach out slowly, hesitation tugging at my fingers. He watches me, all stillness and anticipation, until my fingertips finally graze the smooth ivory.

My touch is light, exploratory. I trail along the curve, surprised by the texture—more like polished stone than bone.

“What do they feel like?” he asks, voice quieter now, thick with something heavier.

"Well… like teeth, I suppose," I murmur, eyes narrowing as I trace the edge. “But not as sharp as I thought.” My gaze lifts, and I find his eyes already locked on me.

Thrall doesn’t look away. His expression is unreadable, struck somewhere between awe and vulnerability. “How sharp did you think they’d be?”

"I—I’m not sure." My voice falters slightly as I feel the warmth rise in my cheeks. "Can you feel it when they’re touched?"

“Yes,” he answers, and the word comes out lower than before, huskier. “They’re… sensitive.”

"Can I ask something?"

He swallows, nodding once. “Ask away.”

My voice has softened, almost a whisper. “What are they for? Are they just for show?”

He lets out a slow breath, trying to steady himself. “They serve a few purposes,” he says, shifting just slightly under the weight of my attention. “Protection. Intimidation. Showing dominance. Self-defense.”

I nod slowly, finally pulling my hand back. My fingers return to their familiar place, toying with the end of my braid. "That makes sense."

Thrall doesn’t move. He just watches me, eyes still dark, still fixed. There’s something delicate in the air between us now, something unspoken and breakable.

“Anything else you’re curious about?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can catch them.

My eyes dart away, bashful for the first time all evening. "Um… I’ve seen others with… adornments? On them? Like metal bands and the like?"

"Yes," Thrall says, his voice low and thoughtful. "They’re used for a variety of different reasons. To show status, achievements, loyalty..." He pauses, his expression shifting as something more private flickers across his features. "And for... other purposes," he adds, quieter now, like he’s unsure if he should continue.

I glance up at him, brow raised. "Other purposes?"

His eyes catch mine, almost sheepish now. “Yes. You see, an orc’s tusks… they’re, uh…” He fidgets, his normally sharp tongue thick and sluggish.

"An orc's tusks are, um… sensitive," he finally blurts, the words falling out in a single breath. His cheeks are noticeably red.

"Sensitive…?" I echo, curiosity sparking fully. "How so?"

He takes in another shallow breath, steadying himself. "Well… they’re erogenous zones. Let’s put it that way." The words come out stiff, as if they physically pained him to say. His blush now reaches the tips of his ears.

My eyes go wide. "And you just let me touch them?!"

"Yes, I did." He winces slightly, as if bracing for backlash. "And you’re not repulsed or... freaking out." His voice is cautious, his face flushed with embarrassment.

"I am freaking out a little!" I squeak, face warm, hands fluttering like they could fan the heat in my cheeks away.

"Why?" he asks, head tilting in gentle confusion. "Aren’t you… disgusted?"

"No! I’m not disgusted!" I huff, flapping my hands harder. "Just… flustered!"

Thrall’s grin returns in full force, devilish and unrelenting. "Flustered?" He leans in slightly. "You're flustered? Because of me?"

"You put that shit-eating grin away!"

The bastard only grins wider. “Or what? You gonna hit me with your little stick?”

"Don’t tempt me," I mutter, snatching up my knife and apple again. I take a vicious bite.

“You’re quite violent for such a tiny little thing, you know that?”

"Perhaps it’s because I am a ‘tiny little thing.’"

Thrall lets out a low snort, amused beyond measure. “You’re cute, you know that?”

My eyes narrow. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Thrall.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin still lazily in place. “Wasn’t trying to flatter you. Just stating a fact. I do think you’re cute.”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my cheeks heat. “Sure. Sure. I’m sure you find all small things ‘cute.’”

“Small things in general, sure,” he says with a shrug. “But you—specifically?” His smile turns sly. “You’re more than just cute.”

"You… You stop that!"

"Why should I?" he teases. “You going to throw that knife? Or knock me out again with that little stick?”

I don’t say a word—just ask the nearest branch to flick him on the back of the head.

Thrall’s smirk vanishes with a sharp yelp. “Hey!” He spins, rubbing the back of his head. “Did you do that?”

“Oh no, definitely wasn’t me,” I say sweetly, stuffing the last bite of apple into my mouth, eyes wide and tone soaked in sarcasm.

“You know, you can be quite bratty, you little thing.” He grumbles, still rubbing the spot.

I sniff, dramatically affronted as I wipe off the knife and slide it back into my pack. “I think I might take offense to that.”

“You may take offense,” he says smugly, poking me gently with a thick finger, “but it’s true. You are quite bratty. And small.”

I gasp, feigning scandal. “Maybe I’m bratty because you keep calling me little. That’s rude, you know.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he drawls. “Didn’t realize ‘little’ was off the table. What should I call you instead? Tiny? Small? Cute?”

I glare. “You could use my name. Or shall I start calling you ‘obnoxiously tall one’?”

Thrall places a hand dramatically over his chest. “I am wounded. And I’m not obnoxiously tall. You’re just obnoxiously small.”

I laugh through another yawn. “I am not that short where I come from.”

“Maybe. But to me, you’re a tiny thing. A tiny, bratty, and apparently sleepy thing.”

“Maybe I’m just tired from a long day. Being little means a lot of work,” I mutter, arms crossing as I sink into my cloak with exaggerated defiance.

“You do look tired,” he says, this time his tone is gentler. “Maybe you should rest.”

I nestle deeper into the warmth of my cloak. “You should as well.”

He nods slowly, glancing around the tree shelter, eyes scanning the root-woven space. “Uhm… where do I sleep?”

My hand slips from beneath the cloak to pat the shelf of roots I’ve been curled on. “I made it long enough for both of us, I think.”

“You’re… sure this will work?”

I pat the tree trunk with affection. “She’s a sturdy old gal. She can handle it.”

He looks from me to the tree with skepticism. “You keep saying she. You’re sure it’s a she?”

I stifle a yawn, tucking myself into the curve of the roots. “Well, some plants are only male or only female—male plants make pollen, female plants make seeds.” Another yawn creeps out. “But most plants are monoecious… meaning they’ve got both parts. Some have separate flowers, others just combine them.”

“And you can tell just by looking that it’s female?” he asks, glancing back at the towering oak.

“No,” I mumble, eyes fluttering. “I asked. Oaks are monoecious. She’s just partial to female pronouns.”

Thrall blinks. “You… asked? You asked the tree which pronouns it prefers?”

“It’s the polite thing to do if you’re unsure,” I say with a shrug.

He stares for a moment, then lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You are the most unique person I’ve ever met. Asking a tree its pronouns… and getting an answer.”

Thrall steps closer, peering into the branches. “Hello, tree,” he says, voice uncertain.

I giggle. “She likes you.”

“She… likes me?” He turns, startled, looking down at me like I’ve sprouted moss.

I reach for my staff, shifting closer. “Here. Let me try something.” I hold it out. “Hand.”

He hesitates, then offers his large hand. “Okay…”

I guide his fingers around the staff, resting my own over his. The moment I reach out, the magic surges—the tree’s energy racing up through the staff and into our hands in a warm, pulsing current. I can’t help but laugh as it flows, vibrant and alive.

His eyes widen, muscles going tense. “What the hell—” he begins, jaw slack with shock.

“Do you feel it?” I ask, barely containing my grin.

Thrall’s expression transforms into wonder. “Y–yes. I feel it. It’s… it’s incredible.”

“Oh!” I blush, laughter bubbling out again, giddy from the shared magic.

His gaze lingers on my face, eyes softer than before. “What… what was that feeling?”

I gently pull my hands from his, the flow ceasing. “That was a tree being cheeky.”

His hand drops to his lap, his expression stunned. “Cheeky? The tree was being cheeky? That… that doesn’t make any sense.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Wait. You’re saying the tree did that? I thought you were controlling it.”

I’m still flushed as I tuck the staff aside and curl back into my cloak. “That was all her. And… she liked what she saw.”

Thrall’s jaw drops. “She… liked what she saw?”

My face burns. “She… admired your assets.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “My… assets?”

“You know what? We should just go to sleep,” I rush out, voice jumping an octave.

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, easing down onto the bed of roots. The creak of the makeshift shelf beneath his weight echoes softly in the silence.

He lies back, staring up at the stars winking through the branches. The night has settled. Only the sound of wind and the two of us breathing.

“I uh… I’ve never shared a bed before,” he admits suddenly, the words low and unguarded.

“I find that hard to believe,” I murmur, turning toward him.

Thrall chuckles, shaking his head slowly. “Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”

A pause stretches out between us, filled only by the rhythm of crickets.

“Have you ever shared a bed with someone?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more careful.

“Being in an arranged marriage since you’re a child doesn’t leave a lot of room for cuddling up in bed with someone.”

He hums softly. “You said that was part of why you left. Because… you wanted freedom?”

I’m quiet. My eyes slip closed. “Just… freedom.”

The ache in your voice makes his chest tighten.

“And… have you found it? Freedom?”

“I—”

Have I? Or am I just… running?

“I don’t know, yet,” I whisper.

He hears it in your tone—something raw, uncertain. Without a word, Thrall reaches over and takes your hand in his. His thumb traces slow, aimless shapes along my knuckles. The touch is warm. Steady. Gentle in a way I didn’t expect.

Silence hangs between us. Comfortable. Fragile.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.

My eyes drift open, finding his in the shadows.

“Of course.”

“Do you…” Thrall pauses, the words catching in his throat. “…Do you think about going back?” he finally asks, his voice barely above a murmur.

“No.” My answer is immediate. Certain.

“Why?”

My eyes drift shut again, the weight of the past settling like a stone in my chest. “There’s nothing there for me anymore. Only others’ expectations. A future with someone I never loved—and never could. A family that doesn’t understand me. And… there’s no joy there. Not for me.”

Thrall watches you in silence, your words wrapping around him like a thread pulled tight. The ache in your voice claws at something tender in him, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. But he wants to comfort you, to do something. So he shifts, his fingers giving a gentle tug to the hand still curled in his.

“Can I hold you?” His voice is soft, a question meant only for the darkness between you.

You pause for just a moment before nodding, the smallest movement. That’s all he needs. He guides you into his arms, the weight of you settling easily against him, tucked beneath his chin. His body seems to exhale, a quiet sigh spilling from his chest as one large hand finds its way to your head, stroking gently over your hair.

I’m tense at first, unsure, the unfamiliar contact crackling with uncertainty. But his warmth… it seeps into me, loosening something coiled tight beneath my ribs. The tension in my shoulders slips away, replaced by a deep, sleepy yawn I can’t quite hold back.

His other hand moves carefully, the one not already wrapped around my waist, fingertips brushing along my jaw as he tilts my face toward him. His thumb hovers, then gently strokes my cheek. “Can I… tell you something?” he asks, his voice little more than breath.

I hum in response, too drowsy to form words, blinking slowly as I look up at him.

His gaze softens. There's something awed in it, something quiet and reverent. He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers lingering a moment longer than they need to.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words slip from his mouth before he can stop them.

My eyes widen briefly before I duck my head, cheeks blazing, burying my face against his chest to hide the heat crawling up my skin.

Thrall exhales through his nose, still caught in the scent of your hair, in the weight of you curled against him like you belonged there. There’s something primal rising in him now—a fierce, bone-deep need to protect. To keep you safe. Warm. Close.

He’s wrapped in that thought, spiraling deeper into it, when your sleepy voice brushes up against his thoughts.

“Thrall?”

“Yeah?” he answers, the rumble of his voice vibrating through his chest where your ear rests.

“Promise me something?”

Your words are soft. Fragile. Nearly swallowed by sleep.

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll stay with me tomorrow.”

The silence that follows is full. The kind that stretches between two people holding their breath.

“Promise me you won’t leave me.”

Alone.

He inhales slowly, his nose brushing the crown of your head. When he speaks, it’s barely audible—just a rasp scraped from the depth of his chest.

“I promise.”

Your breathing evens, slow and steady against him, but Thrall remains wide awake. His eyes stare into the canopy above, though he doesn’t really see it. Not when your warmth is pressed so trustingly into his side.

His arm tightens instinctively around you, drawing you even closer. His chin dips, resting against the top of your head like a vow.