The Orc Who Saved Valentine's Day

Chapter 1

Erynn

The endless snowfall blankets our miserable village in white, making everything look deceptively pure. My hands move mechanically, chopping root vegetables for tonight's stew while my mind drifts to warmer days.

"More salt," Mira whispers beside me, her eyes darting to ensure no overseers are within earshot. "They'll blame us if it's bland again."

I brush the rough scar on my forearm, reaching for the salt cellar. "Like they blamed us for the weather last week?" A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "Remember when Grutknack insisted humans brought the snow with them?"

"Shh!" Mira's elbow connects with my ribs.

The wooden spoon scrapes against the pot's bottom as I stir, steam rising in lazy spirals. Boiling turnips and mystery meat fills the cramped kitchen, but it's nothing like the aromatic stews my mother used to make. Mother. The memory of her face grows dimmer with each passing year.

"Sometimes I forget what real food tastes like," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. "Before they came, before the raid-"

"Don't," Mira hisses. "You know it only makes things worse."

She's right, but the memories flood back anyway. The screams, the smoke, the way the rival Orc clan had stormed through our village like a plague of locusts. I'd been sixteen, barely more than a child, when they dragged me from under my bed. The slave markets followed, then years of scrubbing floors and hauling water, learning to become invisible while staying alert.

"Your hair's coming loose again," Mira says, yanking me back to the present. My auburn waves have indeed escaped their tight binding, a small act of defiance that could earn me a beating if the wrong overseer notices.

The snow continues its relentless descent outside our kitchen window, obscuring the world beyond in a haze of white. Six years. Six years of watching seasons change through barred windows, of learning which overseers can be manipulated and which must be avoided at all costs.

Mira leans against the counter, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Sometimes I dream about opening my own tavern."

"Really?" I arch an eyebrow while continuing to stir. "Not a brothel filled with handsome human men ready to fulfill your every whim?"

Her cheeks flush. "I'm being serious, Erynn."

"So am I. Though I suppose a tavern makes more sense - you'd actually get to keep your clothes on while serving drinks to sweaty orcs." I tap the spoon against the pot's rim. "Just imagine: The Shackled Maiden, where every tenth ale comes with a complimentary beating."

"You're impossible." Mira shakes her head, but I see the hint of a smile. "What about you? What do you dream about?"

"Oh, you know, the usual." I sprinkle another pinch of salt into the stew. "Burning this place to the ground, dancing in the ashes, maybe taking up needlepoint afterward. I hear it's very therapeutic."

"And after that?"

The question catches me off guard. After. Such a dangerous word. "After? I thought I'd try my hand at orc hunting. Make it a sport. Award points based on size and ugliness."

"You can't joke about everything."

"Watch me." I taste the stew, grimacing. "Though right now, I'd settle for ingredients that didn't taste like they were scraped off the bottom of someone's boot."

"At least boots have flavor," Mira mutters.

"True. Maybe we should suggest that to the kitchen master. 'Excuse me, sir, but might we boil your left boot for tonight's special?'"

The sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor silences us both. My fingers tighten around the wooden spoon, knuckles white, but I keep my tone light. "Speaking of our beloved masters..."

The kitchen's relative peace shatters as heavy boots thunder down the corridor. I exchange a quick glance with Mira before returning to stirring the stew, keeping my head down as the door crashes open.

"All slaves, main courtyard! Chief's orders!" The overseer's voice booms through the cramped space. "Now!"

Snow crunches under our feet as we shuffle into formation. My thin clothes offer little protection against the biting cold, but I've learned to keep my shivering subtle. Chief Mazgrak stands on the elevated platform, adorned with pelts and trophies.

"The northern ruins hold treasures," he announces, yellow teeth bared in what passes for an orcish smile. "We march at dawn. Taking ten humans."

My stomach drops as his beady eyes scan the crowd. One by one, he points out his chosen sacrifices. Each name rings like a death knell.

"The skinny redhead," he grunts, finger aimed at me. "You'll do."

Beside me, Mira's breath catches. "No," she whispers. "The last group-"

"Silence!" An overseer's whip cracks the air.

Everyone knows what happened to the last scavenging party's humans. Some were used as trap detectors, others as bargaining chips with rival clans. None returned.

My father was one of those who never returned. I remember the same cruel announcement from Chief Mazgrak, his same pointed finger.

"You'll need someone who knows herbs," father had told Chief Mazgrak that day, stepping forward before they could select me instead. "I was a healer before-"

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out his final words. The way he'd smiled at me, mouthing 'stay safe' before they marched him away. Six years, and the pain still feels fresh as a new burn.

"They're gathering supplies," Mira whispers, her shoulder pressing against mine. "Maybe this time-"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Just... don't."

"But your father might still be-"

"Might still be what?" My laugh sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Living like a king in some ruined castle? Trading healing tips with friendly ghosts?" The bite in my voice makes her flinch, but I can't stop. "Nobody comes back from the ruins, Mira. The lucky ones die quickly."

The snow soaks through my thin shoes as we stand at attention. Chief Mazgrak continues selecting his human sacrifices, each choice punctuated by quiet sobs or desperate pleas.

"He saved you," Mira says softly. "Your father. By volunteering."

"And now I get to follow in his footsteps anyway." I dig my nails into my palms, focusing on the pain rather than the memories. "Funny how things work out, isn't it?"

The wind picks up, carrying snowflakes that sting like tiny needles against my face. Somewhere in those ruins, my father's bones lie unburied. Tomorrow, I'll walk the same path he did, into the same darkness that swallowed him whole.

"At least," I whisper, more to myself than Mira, "he won't have to watch me die too."

"Pack light," Chief Mazgrak continues. "You'll carry our supplies."

The crowd disperses, leaving us chosen ones standing in the thickening snow. An older man - Thomas, I think - slumps to his knees.

"Get up," I hiss, grabbing his arm. "Don't show weakness. Not now."

"We're dead anyway.”