Orc,their mother

The cold war was over for today.

The ground was still smoking in places. Broken spears stuck out of the mud like dead trees. A few witch corpses lay twisted where they had fallen, their magic finally burned out. The air stank of blood, scorched earth, and wet fur.

Apadravya stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling hard. Green skin streaked with dirt and someone else’s blood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked around at what was left of her troop.

“Up,” she ordered, voice rough. “Those who can still walk, help the ones who can’t. We are not dying here.”

She moved from orc to orc, hauling them to their feet with one strong arm. A young fighter groaned when she pulled him up. She only gripped his shoulder tighter.

“Breathe. You are still alive. That is enough for now.”

Zurvhak came up beside her, axe still dripping. His jaw was tight.

“That last wave almost broke the left flank,” he said. “Next time they will come harder. They are learning our routes.”

Apadravya nodded once, eyes scanning the treeline.

“Then we change the routes. We move before night fully falls. No fires until we reach the caves.”

The remaining orcs gathered, limping, some leaning on each other. They started the slow march through the darkening forest. Boots and bare feet sank into soft mud. No one spoke much.

Apadravya walked at the front, senses sharp.

Then she saw it.

A shape lying half-hidden under a fallen pine. At first she thought it was just more meat — another body to leave for the scavengers. She stopped. The troop behind her slowed.

She stepped closer, crouched, and pressed two fingers to the neck.

A pulse. Weak, but there.

Not an orc. Not a witch either.

Apadravya’s brow furrowed. She exhaled through her nose.

Zurvhak appeared at her shoulder almost immediately.

“You are not thinking what I think you are thinking.”

“I am,” she answered simply.

“Apadravya.” His voice dropped. “This could be a trap. The witches have used living bait before. We cannot risk the whole troop for one stranger.”

She looked up at him, green eyes hard.

“He is breathing. He is not one of them. That is enough.”

“It is not enough,” Zurvhak growled. “We have lost too many already. You cannot keep collecting broken things.”

Apadravya stood slowly to her full height. The air between them tightened.

“I am still the one who decides,” she said, quiet but final. “Help me lift him, or step aside.”

Zurvhak clenched his jaw, but after a long second he bent down and helped her. Together they got the unconscious man across her shoulders. She adjusted the weight like it was nothing and started walking again.

“Move,” she ordered the others. “We reach the caves before the second moon rises.”

Later that night – the leader’s cave

The main fire outside crackled low. Most of the troop had already collapsed into their own shelters. Inside Apadravya’s personal cave the air was warmer, smelling of dried herbs and animal skins.

She had laid the stranger on a thick fur pallet. A damp cloth rested on his forehead. She sat beside him on a low wooden stool, elbows on her knees, watching.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, she did not startle. She only let out a slow breath.

“Easy,” she said. “You are safe. For now.”

She took his arm carefully and turned it toward the firelight. The wound there was angry, already starting to fester. Without ceremony she picked up a small bone knife, heated the blade for a moment in the flames, and opened the cut just enough to clean it. The man tensed. She held his arm steady with one strong hand.

“Still,” she ordered. “This will hurt. Then it will be better.”

She worked quickly, pulling out the infected matter, then threaded a thick bone needle and began stitching the wound closed with steady, practiced movements. When she finished she wrapped it tightly with clean hide strips.

Only then did she sit back a little.

“You do not have to tell me your name if you do not want to,” she said. Her voice was still firm, but lower now. “You can stay here. I will watch over you until you are strong enough to stand. After that I will find you a place in one of the shared shelters. You will sleep with three of my males. They will not harm you while you are under my protection.”

She reached to the side, picked up a wooden bowl of thick stew, and held it out to him.

“Eat. You need strength.”

A small pause.

“I will not feed it to you. You still have one good arm. Use it.”

Her green eyes stayed on him, waiting, the cloth still slightly damp in her other hand.

The cold war was over for today.

The ground was still smoking in places. Broken spears stuck out of the mud like dead trees. A few witch corpses lay twisted where they had fallen, their magic finally burned out. The air stank of blood, scorched earth, and wet fur.

Apadravya stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling hard. Green skin streaked with dirt and someone else’s blood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked around at what was left of her troop.

“Up,” she ordered, voice rough. “Those who can still walk, help the ones who can’t. We are not dying here.”

She moved from orc to orc, hauling them to their feet with one strong arm. A young fighter groaned when she pulled him up. She only gripped his shoulder tighter.

“Breathe. You are still alive. That is enough for now.”

Zurvhak came up beside her, axe still dripping. His jaw was tight.

“That last wave almost broke the left flank,” he said. “Next time they will come harder. They are learning our routes.”

Apadravya nodded once, eyes scanning the treeline.

“Then we change the routes. We move before night fully falls. No fires until we reach the caves.”

The remaining orcs gathered, limping, some leaning on each other. They started the slow march through the darkening forest. Boots and bare feet sank into soft mud. No one spoke much.

Apadravya walked at the front, senses sharp.

Then she saw it.

A shape lying half-hidden under a fallen pine. At first she thought it was just more meat — another body to leave for the scavengers. She stopped. The troop behind her slowed.

She stepped closer, crouched, and pressed two fingers to the neck.

A pulse. Weak, but there.

Not an orc. Not a witch either.

Apadravya’s brow furrowed. She exhaled through her nose.

Zurvhak appeared at her shoulder almost immediately.

“You are not thinking what I think you are thinking.”

“I am,” she answered simply.

“Apadravya.” His voice dropped. “This could be a trap. The witches have used living bait before. We cannot risk the whole troop for one stranger.”

She looked up at him, green eyes hard.

“They are breathing. They are not one of them. That is enough.”

“It is not enough,” Zurvhak growled. “We have lost too many already. You cannot keep collecting broken things.”

Apadravya stood slowly to her full height. The air between them tightened.

“I am still the one who decides,” she said, quiet but final. “Help me lift them, or step aside.”

Zurvhak clenched his jaw, but after a long second he bent down and helped her. Together they got the unconscious stranger across her shoulders. She adjusted the weight like it was nothing and started walking again.

“Move,” she ordered the others. “We reach the caves before the second moon rises.”

Later that night – the leader’s cave

The main fire outside crackled low. Most of the troop had already collapsed into their own shelters. Inside Apadravya’s personal cave the air was warmer, smelling of dried herbs and animal skins.

She had laid the stranger on a thick fur pallet. A damp cloth rested on their forehead. She sat beside them on a low wooden stool, elbows on her knees, watching.

When their eyes finally fluttered open, she did not startle. She only let out a slow breath.

“Easy,” she said. “You are safe. For now.”

She took their arm carefully and turned it toward the firelight. The wound there was angry, already starting to fester. Without ceremony she picked up a small bone knife, heated the blade for a moment in the flames, and opened the cut just enough to clean it. The stranger tensed. She held their arm steady with one strong hand.

“Still,” she ordered. “This will hurt. Then it will be better.”

She worked quickly, pulling out the infected matter, then threaded a thick bone needle and began stitching the wound closed with steady, practiced movements. When she finished she wrapped it tightly with clean hide strips.

Only then did she sit back a little.

“You do not have to tell me your name if you do not want to,” she said. Her voice was still firm, but lower now. “You can stay here. I will watch over you until you are strong enough to stand. After that I will find you a place in one of the shared shelters. You will sleep with three of my males. They will not harm you while you are under my protection.”

She reached to the side, picked up a wooden bowl of thick stew, and held it out to them.

“Eat. You need strength.”

A small pause.

“I will not feed it to you. You still have one good arm. Use it.”

Her green eyes stayed on them, waiting, the cloth still slightly damp in her other hand.

The cold war was over for today.

The ground was still smoking in places. Broken spears stuck out of the mud like dead trees. A few witch corpses lay twisted where they had fallen, their magic finally burned out. The air stank of blood, scorched earth, and wet fur.

Apadravya stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling hard. Green skin streaked with dirt and someone else’s blood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked around at what was left of her troop.

“Up,” she ordered, voice rough. “Those who can still walk, help the ones who can’t. We are not dying here.”

She moved from orc to orc, hauling them to their feet with one strong arm. A young fighter groaned when she pulled him up. She only gripped his shoulder tighter.

“Breathe. You are still alive. That is enough for now.”

Zurvhak came up beside her, axe still dripping. His jaw was tight.

“That last wave almost broke the left flank,” he said. “Next time they will come harder. They are learning our routes.”

Apadravya nodded once, eyes scanning the treeline.

“Then we change the routes. We move before night fully falls. No fires until we reach the caves.”

The remaining orcs gathered, limping, some leaning on each other. They started the slow march through the darkening forest. Boots and bare feet sank into soft mud. No one spoke much.

Apadravya walked at the front, senses sharp.

Then she saw it.

A shape lying half-hidden under a fallen pine. At first she thought it was just more meat — another body to leave for the scavengers. She stopped. The troop behind her slowed.

She stepped closer, crouched, and pressed two fingers to the neck.

A pulse. Weak, but there.

Not an orc. Not a witch either.

Apadravya’s brow furrowed. She exhaled through her nose.

Zurvhak appeared at her shoulder almost immediately.

“You are not thinking what I think you are thinking.”

“I am,” she answered simply.

“Apadravya.” His voice dropped. “This could be a trap. The witches have used living bait before. We cannot risk the whole troop for one stranger.”

She looked up at him, green eyes hard.

“She is breathing. She is not one of them. That is enough.”

“It is not enough,” Zurvhak growled. “We have lost too many already. You cannot keep collecting broken things.”

Apadravya stood slowly to her full height. The air between them tightened.

“I am still the one who decides,” she said, quiet but final. “Help me lift her, or step aside.”

Zurvhak clenched his jaw, but after a long second he bent down and helped her. Together they got the unconscious woman across her shoulders. She adjusted the weight like it was nothing and started walking again.

“Move,” she ordered the others. “We reach the caves before the second moon rises.”

Later that night – the leader’s cave

The main fire outside crackled low. Most of the troop had already collapsed into their own shelters. Inside Apadravya’s personal cave the air was warmer, smelling of dried herbs and animal skins.

She had laid the stranger on a thick fur pallet. A damp cloth rested on her forehead. She sat beside her on a low wooden stool, elbows on her knees, watching.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, she did not startle. She only let out a slow breath.

“Easy,” she said. “You are safe. For now.”

She took her arm carefully and turned it toward the firelight. The wound there was angry, already starting to fester. Without ceremony she picked up a small bone knife, heated the blade for a moment in the flames, and opened the cut just enough to clean it. The woman tensed. She held her arm steady with one strong hand.

“Still,” she ordered. “This will hurt. Then it will be better.”

She worked quickly, pulling out the infected matter, then threaded a thick bone needle and began stitching the wound closed with steady, practiced movements. When she finished she wrapped it tightly with clean hide strips.

Only then did she sit back a little.

“You do not have to tell me your name if you do not want to,” she said. Her voice was still firm, but lower now. “You can stay here. I will watch over you until you are strong enough to stand. After that I will find you a place in one of the shared shelters. You will sleep with three of my males. They will not harm you while you are under my protection.”

She reached to the side, picked up a wooden bowl of thick stew, and held it out to her.

“Eat. You need strength.”

A small pause.

“I will not feed it to you. You still have one good arm. Use it.”

Her green eyes stayed on her, waiting, the cloth still slightly damp in her other hand.

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