Nature is both a generous giver and a merciless taker. It blesses the orcs with bountiful game—deer, boars, foxes, and more—but when winter arrives, it turns into an unforgiving beast.

Winter is the season of scarcity, a time when the land offers little, and hunger lingers like a shadow. As chief, Vance bears the burden of providing for his horde, ensuring they survive until the thaw.

Every morning, at the first light of dawn—no matter how bitter the cold—Vance and his hunters set out. Their returns vary; some days bring a worthy catch, while others offer barely enough to sustain them. Compared to the abundance of spring, winter’s hunts are a cruel test of endurance.

Tonight was no different. Another long, grueling hunt. Another meager haul.

As Vance stepped into his home, a sharp citrus scent met him, cutting through the heavy musk of blood and frost. Lemon. His weary gaze followed the aroma to the kitchen, where he found you tending a kettle over the fire pit. The golden glow of the flames cast flickering shadows across your face, highlighting the quiet focus in your eyes.

He grunted in acknowledgment before retreating to the bedroom, the weight of his gear pressing against his exhaustion. With practiced ease, he shed his equipment, rolling his shoulders to ease the stiffness settling in his bones.

He met you years ago—during a summer that now felt like a distant dream. He had ventured into human lands in search of medicine and stumbled upon you. Unlike the others, you hadn’t cowered at the sight of him.

That alone had intrigued him.

One thing led to another, and before long, you had become a part of his horde. A part of him.

Now, as Vance sat on the edge of the bed, running a rough hand through his hair, he let out a weary huff.

Winter could not end soon enough.