Garrok slowly regained consciousness, his head pounding from exhaustion and the dull ache of his wounds. His eyes fluttered open to find the familiar low ceiling of the fort's hospital tent. The smell of herbs and smoke mingled faintly in the air. As the haze cleared, he became aware of a small figure seated beside his bed.

  Tink sat there, bruised and battered, one eye still swollen, but a soft smile touched her lips as she noticed him stir. Despite her injuries, there was relief and warmth in her gaze.

  "You're awake," she said, leaning forward and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder when he tried to sit up. "Easy now, big guy. You're safe."

  Garrok exhaled a slow, steady breath, sagging back into the bed as the dizziness swam over him. "How long was I out?" he asked, voice hoarse.

  "Day and a half," Tink replied softly. "The captain ordered the healers to tend to us the moment we came through the gates. He said you showed exceptional bravery and resourcefulness."

  Garrok gave a slight nod, pride swelling in his chest—but that pride was quickly replaced by concern. His eyes traveled over Tink, noticing the bandages on her wrists, the bruising along her cheek, the way she held her side when she shifted.

  "What about you?" he asked, frowning. "How bad is it?"

  Tink gave a tired grin, waving him off. "Not as bad as it looks. Mostly bruises and rope burns. The worst is my pride. I lost my crossbow… and I got caught."

  Her words wavered as the memory surfaced. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, her body tensing.

  "Gar… that goblin…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He said he’d sell me. Said I’d make them more sons to replace the ones we killed. That he’d gift me to the Pasha himself for refusing to talk."

  Her voice cracked. She wiped at the tears brimming in her eyes, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her face.

  "But you came for me," she continued, squeezing his hand tightly. "You came and saved me."

  She leaned in closer, eyes fierce with conviction.

  "From this day on, I will follow you. I’ll have your back. I’m your girl, Gar. You won’t get rid of me that easily."

  Garrok stared at her, momentarily speechless. Declarations of loyalty like that weren’t made lightly, and in the raw honesty of her words, he heard something deeper—an unbreakable bond forged in fire.

  "Tink… are you sure?" he asked quietly. "This isn’t something to say on impulse. You can’t take it back."

  Tink’s eyes held steady. "I’ve never been surer of anything in my life," she said firmly. "You big lug, you won’t get rid of me that easily."

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  For a moment, neither spoke. Their hands remained clasped, their eyes locked—until the soft clearing of a throat broke the silence.

  Both turned, startled, to find Captain Firebeard standing nearby, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on his face. Beside him stood Sgt. Stoneheart, struggling to hide his grin, and a well-dressed human officer observing the scene with amused detachment.

  "Charming as this scene is," the human said, his voice rich with dry humor. "I believe a hospital filled with injured patients is not the most appropriate place for such declarations, yes?" The human deadpanned, a slight grin on his face.

  The captain watched on with amusement while the sergeant struggled to contain his laughter. Garrok and Tink realized that they had drawn the attention of everyone in the room, their conversation halting the bustling activity of the hospital.

  Tink’s face turned crimson. With a squeal of embarrassment, she shot up from her chair, hands flailing. "Nooo!" she cried, bolting from the tent, covering her face.

  The captain chuckled, shaking his head. "Spirited one, that girl. You’ve found yourself good company, Garrok. How are you feeling?"

  "Urgh!" Garrok grunted. "Groggy but hale. What about the orcs and goblins? Have we dealt with them?" he inquired, concern etched on his face.

  "Ha! We killed most of the filthy Cyka! Though a few managed to retreat back to their camp."

  Turning back to the bed, he nodded toward the human officer. "Allow me to introduce Hetman Yaroslav Petrovich, commander of the human cavalry detachment that came to our aid."

  The Hetman, clad in a dark green braided jacket with a wolf-fur pelisse draped over one shoulder, offered Garrok a respectful salute. His fox-fur cap bore a plume of feathers, and his white trousers tucked neatly into polished black boots. The red sash across his chest matched the gleam of the pistol and saber at his side. His brown beard was neatly trimmed, and his waxed mustache curled sharply upward.

  The Hetman raised his right hand, palm facing down, and touched the brim of his hat, giving Garrok a salute of respect.

  "Thank you for saving us, Hetman. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, we would have been overtaken," Garrok said gratefully.

  "None of that now, друг!” the Hetman replied with respect. "You may be Orc-blooded, but any уважаемый who accomplishes such an impossible task is a real man, and my men will know it."

  He smiled warmly.

  "If you were one of my men, you’d already have a medal pinned to your chest. What you did… sneaking into the enemy camp, cutting down their guards, freeing your товарищ—it was the work of a hero. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone."

  Garrok gave a humble nod, the words settling into his heart like warm iron.

  The captain clapped a hand on Garrok’s shoulder. "You should also know—I’ll be putting your name forward for an award in my report to the king."

  Garrok’s eyes widened. "I… I don’t know what to say."

  "Say you’ll get back on your feet soon, grey bastard," Firebeard said with a grin. "We’ve work to do."

  The Hetman leaned down slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "If you were one of my men, you’d already have a medal pinned to your chest. What you did was the work of a hero."

  "Oh, and one more thing," the captain added, his tone sly. "Don’t be surprised if the Gunsmith’s Guild comes knocking. Word of your designs has gotten around. They may invite you to demonstrate your work."

  Garrok’s jaw fell open. Membership in the Dwarven Gunsmith’s Guild was one of the highest honors a smith could hope for—normally reserved only for dwarves. That they might offer even an honorary invitation to a half-orc like him was unheard of.

  "Wow," was all he could manage.

  The captain’s smile softened. "Rest up, Garrok. You’ve earned it."

  Outside, the clatter of hammers and the bark of orders signaled that the fort, like its defenders, was already beginning to heal.

  But even as Garrok drifted back into healing sleep, his mind was already at work, thinking ahead.

  "Tink’s going to need a new gun," he murmured to himself.

  Cyka- pronounced as "suka". An insult usually hurled at a "contemptible person". It translates as "Bitch".

  друг- pronounced as "droog". Means "friend." It is a commonly used term to refer to a person with whom one has a close and trusted bond. The word "друг" carries a sense of camaraderie, loyalty, and mutual support. It is often used to describe a genuine and deep friendship.

  товарищ- pronounced as "tovarishch". Used as a general term to refer to a companion, colleague, or partner.  During the Soviet era, this word became "tovarich" (товарищ) that translates to "comrade". Historically, it was commonly used in the Soviet Union and other socialist countries to address or refer to a person in a comradely and egalitarian manner. It was particularly associated with the ideology of communism and the collective spirit of working together for a common goal. While its usage has diminished since the fall of the Soviet Union, "tovarich" can still be used today as a respectful and friendly term among comrades or colleagues in a more informal context.

  уважаемый- pronounced as "uvazhaemyy". This term is used to address or refer to someone in a respectful and honorable manner. It signifies that the person has gained respect through their actions, achievements, or qualities. It is a term of acknowledgment and admiration for their character, accomplishments, or position in society.