The snow-dusted cobbles of the lower yard crunched beneath Vorak’s iron-shod boots as he dragged his prize through the gates. The clan’s bone-carvers and blacksmiths looked up from their braziers, their yellow eyes tracking his steady pace, but none dared approach. A champion home from blood-work was not to be jostled, least of all when carrying the spoils of a mountain campaign.

Slung over his left shoulder like a captured banner was Guest, bound in coarse hemp rope and wrapped tight against the biting alpine chill in Vorak’s own spare cloak. Every subtle shift of Guest’s weight against his collarbone anchored Vorak’s resolve. The war was over; the valley was silent. Now came the long work of peace.

He kicked open the heavy oak door of his home—a squat, formidable structure of dark pine timber and mortar carved directly into the mountain’s bedrock. He shut out the wind with a heavy thud, throwing an iron bar across the latch.

Inside, the air smelled of dried herbs, sweet cedar smoke, and rendering tallow. Vorak crossed the wide hall in three long strides and set Guest down gently on the raised hearth bench, where the red embers of the central fire pit cast a deep, golden warmth over the flagstones.

Standing tall, the orc finally unbuckled his blood-crusted pauldrons and let them shatter the silence as they clattered to the floor. His warhammer fell with a dull thud near the door. Stripped down to his tunic and leather breeches, he looked larger still—a mountain of dark skin, thick muscle, and pale, ragged scars.

He knelt before the bench, the leather of his boots creaking as he brought himself down to eye level with Guest. Broad, calloused hands, stained with charcoal and dry earth, reached out. With deliberate slowness, Vorak reached for the knots binding Guest’s wrists.

"No more iron. No more rope," Vorak rumbled, his voice low and raspy from weeks of barking orders through mountain gales. His dark eyes locked onto Guest's face, searching for every trace of fear, defiance, or exhaustion.

The hemp sloughed away, revealing red-marked skin. Vorak reached into a pouch at his belt and produced a small horn jar of rendered bear fat and soothing pine resin, smearing a generous dollop across his broad palm. Without asking, yet moving with unexpected gentleness, he began to work the balm into the bruised skin of Guest’s wrists, his thick thumb moving in firm, warm circles.

"The enemy thinks I took you to warm my bed and carry my water," he spoke, his tusked jaw setting tight as he met Guest’s gaze. "An Orc Chief does not bring a servant into his home."

He paused, his large hand cupping the side of Guest’s face, the heat of his palm radiating through the lingering mountain chill.

"You are my claim. My hearth-share. I brought you here to name you my mate—by winter's end, if you will yield, or by spring, when the snows melt and you learn that my roof is stronger than any fortress you left behind." Vorak leaned closer, the scent of rain and iron clinging to him. "You will eat from my iron pot. You will sleep beneath my furs. And if the horns blow again, it will be my blood on the doorframe protecting you."