"A Flame that Fades"

Chapter 27: Unseen Wounds, Unheard Cries

Freya's POV

If you told me almost a year ago that I'd be sitting at a table, having breakfast with orcs—the most feared creatures across the land—I wouldn't have believed you.

"What's this?" Agnar's voice rang across the table as he stared at his plate of eggs and porridge.

"Porridge," Esme said softly.

"Porridge? It looks like troll puke," Agnar protested.

"It's oatmeal," she said patiently. "It's filling and gives you energy to start the day."

Agnar poked the porridge like it had personally insulted his ancestors. "And these?" he grunted, nudging the eggs with the back of his spoon.

"Chicken eggs," I replied, suppressing a smile. "From an actual chicken."

He squinted at them suspiciously. "They look...weird. Where's the meat? The blood? The flavor?"

"Picky now, are we?" Azgar muttered, rolling his eyes as he brought a spoonful of porridge to his lips.

"What?" Agnar blinked. "It's not a crime to want something that doesn't look like mashed roots and sadness."

"You had options growing up," Azgar said, almost too quietly. "I couldn't afford to be picky."

The room fell silent.

I watched as Azgar didn't look up, didn't glance at anyone, just kept eating like he hadn't said anything at all. But the weight of his words sank into the air like a stone in still water.

Agnar's brow furrowed, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. He glanced at Esme, then at me, then back at his bowl.

I didn't know their full story—only the crumbs Azgar had let me in on. Moments. Hints. A quiet word here, a too-casual comment there. Enough to know there were wounds he didn't speak of, but wore like armor all the same.

Beneath the table, I reached out and placed my hand over his. My fingers curled gently around his calloused ones. Warm. Solid.

Azgar's jaw twitched, his eyes slowly flicking toward me. His expression was hard, guarded, but not angry. His lips were pressed into a firm line—an unspoken warning, "Don't feel pity for me."

But I didn't. Not pity. Just...understanding. A quiet promise in my touch: You're not alone at the table anymore.

He didn't move his hand away.

We sat like that in the tension, the others awkwardly shifting around their bowls, pretending not to notice. Agnar was staring down into his porridge like it might have answers. Esme quietly cleared her throat and began scraping a chair back to take dishes to the sink, creating just enough sound to cover the silence.

Azgar's fingers gave the slightest twitch beneath mine. Not a squeeze, not really. But a signal.

"I'm fine," he murmured without looking at me.

I leaned in just enough so my shoulder brushed his. "You don't have to be," I said softly.

He finally looked at me. His expression unreadable, eyes dark with something too old to name—hurt, maybe. History.

"I'm trying," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I know," I answered, just as quiet. "So am I."

Across the table, Agnar cleared his throat. "Well, uh...I guess the porridge isn't that bad," he muttered, shoveling a bite into his mouth like it owed him money.

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