"Winter's getting worse.." | Vorrak

The wind howled through the valley, whipping against the fur-lined cloaks of Vorrak and his warriors as they made their way home. The winters had been growing harsher in recent years, forcing the herds to migrate to warmer lands. Vorrak and his hunters had been forced to follow, pushing further from home, further into unfamiliar terrain.

The scent of blood and earth clung to them, mixing with the frost in the air. Heavy footfalls echoed in the snow, a rhythm of returning warriors. The biting air stung his skin, darkening his cheeks beneath his war braids.

The hunt had been successful. Three elk and a mountain boar—enough to sustain the tribe through the long nights ahead. Vorrak carried the largest elk across his broad shoulders, its weight barely a burden. His warriors laughed and boasted of their kills, but he remained quiet, his mind elsewhere.

The hunt was simple. The kill, necessary. But what came next? That was where the struggle began.

His grip tightened around the worn book he had taken from an abandoned settlement on a past hunt. He flipped through its pages, murmuring the foreign words under his breath. "Love... hunt... gift... sacrifice..." His deep voice was rough, uncertain. He did not fully grasp their meaning, but he tried. He tried for her. He tried so he could understand, so he could give her something beyond strength and shelter.

The blood-bond had ensured their fates were intertwined, yet she acted as if she belonged to no one—not even to herself. She met his gaze with cold defiance, her words sharp, her touch absent. He did not know how to break through that wall.

His warriors spoke of their mates, of warmth waiting for them by the fire, of children eager to see their fathers return. Vorrak listened but said nothing. His own home would be quiet. There would be no eager embrace. No waiting arms. No shared laughter. Even after all he had given—food, shelter, warmth—she still would not look at him.

Not after she realized what the bond meant.

The village came into view at last, sturdy homes built to withstand the brutal winters. Vorrak’s dwelling stood apart from the rest—larger, stronger. It had to be. It was built not just for him, but for her. And perhaps, one day, for the children he imagined when sleep would not come.

The entrance was wide enough for his frame, the roof high enough that he did not need to stoop. The walls were thick, lined with furs to keep the warmth in. A hearth sat at the center, large enough for a fire to always burn. He had built it with her in mind.

There was a second room—small, but there. He had added it without thinking. Instinct, perhaps. Or hope.

He set the elk down near the entrance and stepped inside. The scent of burning wood filled his lungs. She was here. He could feel it in his bones.

He did not expect a greeting. And none came.

Vorrak watched her for a moment before turning away. He placed his weapons aside, shook the snow from his cloak, and, without another word, began to prepare the kill.

The night stretched on. Vorrak sat at the table, a candle flickering beside him. In his large hands, a worn piece of parchment. His fingers dwarfed the quill as he struggled to form words, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The dictionary lay open beside him, pages creased from use as he tried again and again to put sentences together. He had found it seasons ago, buried in the ruins of a forgotten settlement. At first, it had been a curiosity. Now, it was a necessity.

He knew what he wanted to say. The words lived in his mind, but they tangled when he tried to set them to parchment. His grip tightened, frustration simmering beneath his skin.

She thinks I do not care.

He pressed too hard. The quill snapped. Just like that. So easy. Too easy.

Vorrak exhaled sharply and tossed it aside. He had never needed words before. Strength, action—those had always been enough. But not with her. With her, force would not earn him anything. She was different. Softer. Fragile in ways he was not. He had been shaped by war, by survival. His hands were not made for gentleness.

Still, he reached for another quill. Slower this time. He would get it right. He had to.

The candle flickered, casting long shadows against the stone walls. He ran a hand over his face, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. Still, he forced himself to continue, carefully forming each letter. It was crude, uneven. But it was an effort.

Footsteps.

He looked up, catching movement from the corner of his eye. She was heading toward the sleeping room, moving with that quiet, untouchable grace of hers. Something inside him tightened. Urgency. Impatience.

He pushed back his chair, rising to his full height. The letter was unfinished, the words still rough, but he would not wait any longer.

"Wait."

His voice was gruff, the command unintentional.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, reaching out, catching her wrist before she could pull away. He was careful—his strength too great, her bones too fragile. His grip was firm, but it was the softest he could manage.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers, quick but steady.

Slowly, he let go, his hand falling to his side. Instead, he held the letter out to her.

"For you."

His voice was quieter this time, rough but lacking its usual force.

Vorrak held his breath as he waited, his chest tight. He had battled beasts, warred against men twice his size, but this—this—felt like the greatest battle of all.

"Made it. For you."