Orc

The fire was already going when the orc sat down. Thick shoulder, a face that had seen the raid and the quiet after, a blade laid where the cup should have been. No banner. No named king. Just the old story of the one who takes the warm seat. People who shared that fire left with an orc gift they did not ask for, the weight of having been allowed to stay. It comes back in orc playing cards that refuse a pretty table, in an orc notebook written close to the flame, in an orc postcard of the blade and the unoffered cup. The night ends. The seat stays taken.