It was an ordinary day in Orkpolis. I was rushing like mad, carrying my dear wife, Mayble, to the hospital—she was about to give birth to our little orkling. I’d been waiting for this moment with wild anticipation, ‘cause we’d been trying to have an orkling for a long 4 sunturns, and only after the Wisest Mother did her ritual over Mayble’s belly, she finally managed to get pregnant.

  Now, I say I was carrying her, but really—I was dragging a cart, and on that cart my wife was howling like a banshee, so loud that all the neighbors came out of their caves, puffing on their pipes and muttering, “Oi, shut up already, will ya! Oi, just shut up!” That’s just what folks around here say, wishing a mother a quick and easy birth and the happiness that comes after. See, after giving birth, an ork mother must hold her orkling by the neck for no less than two bells, so it knows it's loved and protected. The mother stays silent during this time, naturally, and the child sleeps, comfy as can be.

  In recent winters, scholars discovered that the longer an ork mother holds her orkling in her maw, the healthier it grows up to be. So now, a lot of mothers are going the extra mile to raise ultra-healthy orklets, holding them not just 2–3 bells, but full-on 12. And some have gone completely wild and do it for 24 bells straight! But the moment the ork mother opens her jaws, the orkling wakes up and starts wailing—so loud, you’d think even the dwarves in the mines could hear it. And that’s when the exhausted ork mom still has to feed the little screecher, while her proud husband celebrates the newborn with his mates in the nearest tavern.

  As I rolled that rickety cart down the roads of Orkpolis, I could already taste the sweet, piney ale that was destined to be mine the moment our orkling saw the light of day. So my wife's howling didn’t bother me—it sounded more like encouragement to hustle faster toward my beloved brew. And, well, our orkling too, of course.

  But when I finally hauled that damn cart to the hospital, things didn’t go quite as I expected. They whisked my wife off to give birth right away. I heard her screams echo through the halls, and I felt proud—let all of Orkpolis hear how loud and strong my wife is! The throat-splitting vocals she let loose could scare off not just a bear, but a whole pack of stone trolls, maybe even the Dark One himself.

  I waited one bell. Then two. Then three. And with each passing moment, I could feel my ale drifting further and further away from me, like a roast stolen by a goblin. But leave without seeing my orkling? I could never. That’s the worst kind of shame among our kind—not greeting your orkling after the ork-mother’s pushed that little devil out of her. If a father does that, the orkling will never call him “dad.” It’ll carry that scar for life.

  See, before the mother takes the newborn orkling into her maw, it screams and looks around. That’s the moment when it’s supposed to see its mom’s and dad’s faces clearly. And right after that—snap!—mom grabs it by the neck and shoves it lovingly into her jaws.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  So there I was, pacing back and forth through the long stone corridor of the hospital, grinning like a fool and bursting with pride for my Mayble.

  Then suddenly—absolute silence.

  I swear you could hear a cobweb rustle in the corner of the cave from the gentle evening draft.

  The doctor walked out of the birthing room in his deep crimson uniform (so the blood wouldn’t show) and approached me.

  “Your Mayble has given birth,” he said. “But I must warn you, the orkling may not look quite the way you expected. If you decide on a killing, it’s your right. However, do remember we have a triple fee policy for murders on our premises.” And with that, he strolled down the stone corridor, casually wiping the blood off his hands with the hem of his robe.

  “Murder? What the hell was he talking about?” I didn’t walk—I flew into that room.

  There she was. Mayble, holding our newborn orkling. The little thing was squirming and wailing in her arms, its eyes already squinting open, searching desperately for the faces it was meant to see. But the moment I crossed the threshold—I knew. I understood why the doctor had talked about murder and tariffs. I was already doing the math in my head, calculating whether I could afford the triple rate. Maybe if I sold the cart… and a few rugs… and some axes... yeah, maybe.

  Because there, on the sides of that earth-green head of our newborn orkling, stuck out two long, white, slightly fuzzy... Elf. Freaking. Ears.

  See that once, and you never unsee it.

  “Mayble, what the fuck!” I roared. “You whore! How could you?! I’ll—I'll rip you to pieces with these very hands! By the Dark One, what a disgrace! What a shame upon my good name, my family, my entire bloodline!” I bellowed like a bear in mating season, flipped a stool, set it upright, and flipped it again. I wiped off the mossy decorations from the walls and tore down the glowing mushrooms meant to make the birthing cave more “cozy” for the new mom.

  And then—Mayble spoke.

  “Fuck, Edd, I can explain! But right now I need to take our orkling into my mouth. Once I’ve held it for at least five bells, I’ll tell you everything! But I’m not some filthy tramp who cheats on her husband, so don’t you dare call me that or scream at me in here!”

  Her words hit me like a club to the forehead. I immediately fell silent, like a schoolboy getting scolded for stepping over the ritual line at morning assembly.

  “I don’t have time to spoon-feed you the whole story right now,” she went on. “Go. Drink your ale. And keep your damn mouth shut. We’ll talk when I start feeding this little demon. I’ll send the spider-messenger, and if you’re not back here ten minutes after he finds you—I’ll bite your head clean off!”

  Then she shot me a look so fierce I swear the walls of the cave trembled.

  “Get outta here! Our orkling’s already seen enough of its idiot father!”

  I backed away. Carefully. Then I heard behind me:

  “Run, you cursed dolt!”

  And with that—I was out the door.

  Not sure if I was supposed to cry or celebrate, I headed for the tavern. As planned.