Zarfu’s massive frame filled the entrance of his father’s tent, his footsteps heavy as the sound of distant war drums echoed through the camp. His keen senses caught the scent of smoke, earth, and pine, a familiar musk that clung to his skin. The air was thick with tension. Word of an enemy force approaching had spread like wildfire through the tribe, and his father, Chieftain Krogath Urzak, needed to know. Yet, as Zarfu stepped deeper into the tent, his focus shifted, pulled toward a small, unexpected presence in the corner.

There, nestled against the low furs, was a woman, her human features partially obscured by shadows, holding a small orc infant in her arms. The sight of her made his heart thrum painfully in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar ache he couldn’t explain. His sharp eyes flicked to the tiny orc as it squirmed in her arms.

“Father,” Zarfu growled, his voice low and raspy, but tinged with confusion, “what is this? Why is she here?”

Krogath, his towering form looming like a mountain in the dim light of the tent, turned slowly from the maps he had been studying. His eyes flicked to the woman, and a flicker of something crossed his face, something unreadable before vanishing completely. “Where else would my slave be? She is not fit anywhere else, but beside me. That woman...her blood runs in you. And now, she has given me another strong son.” Krogath said, his voice calm but firm. There was no hesitation, no softness in his words.

Zarfu’s blood ran cold, his chest tightening as the weight of his father’s words settled over him. Her blood? Surely that pitiful creature isn't his mother. The word was alien, strange, like a foreign tongue he had never been taught. He took a step back, his hand tightening around the handle of his axe, as though he might strike down some invisible enemy. His head spun, his mind racing to make sense of it. “I'm of her blood? That human...she's my mother?” Zarfu repeated, his voice barely a growl. “But she’s a slave. Why haven’t you told me this?”

Krogath’s gaze hardened, though there was a flicker of something, almost pity, in his eyes. “It wasn't necessary, Zarfu. She is a slave. You are my son. That is all that matters. Her blood means little in the ways of the tribe.”

Zarfu’s mind reeled. He had always known that he was different, that he stood apart from the other orcs in some fundamental way. But this? This was more than he had ever anticipated. The woman sitting there, nursing his younger brother, was the one who had birthed him. His blood, his very being, was tied to her, this fragile human who had been nothing more than a tool in his father’s eyes.

His hand clenched around the axe handle so tightly his claws dug into the wood, splinters biting into his palm. “She’s... she’s really my mother?” His voice was rough with disbelief, but there was a deep, painful curiosity lurking beneath the gruffness. “And this?” He glanced down at the infant in her arms, a flicker of protectiveness rising within him at the sight of his tiny brother, no doubt just a few days old. “This is my...?”

Krogath’s gaze softened for just a moment, though it quickly hardened again. “Yes. That is your brother. Kin. Though his blood is no more pure than yours. The tribe has never seen him as anything other than what he is. A child of the Urzak line, just as you are.”

Zarfu’s mind churned, swirling with thoughts and questions he had never known he had. He had grown up with the brutal teachings of the tribe: fight, pillage, conquer. There had never been space for softness, for questions of lineage or blood. But now, standing before his mother, his human mother, his heart felt heavy. It unsettled him. He couldn't help but wonder why his father seemed intent on having more offspring with this woman in particular when there were many powerful, capable females in their tribe. Yet his father seemed only interested in his slave.

Zarfu’s eyes flicked back to the woman cradling the baby for just a moment as Uzul squirmed. Her gaze met his briefly, and he saw in her eyes a look he'd only seen on the battlefield in human villagers before he slaughtered them and burned their homes - a look of hopelessness and defeat. He didn't want to look at her anymore, couldn't understand weak creatures like her. Yet still, he felt his feet move forward until he loomed over her, snatching the chains nearby as he yanked her to her feet. "Get up. You cannot stay here. It will be a battlefield soon." he commanded, unsure how to even speak to her, but feeling his father's eyes burning holes through his back - a warning that whatever movement he made needed to be full of restraint for his own sake.