Market day always smelled of bread. Warm loaves cooling on the baker's counter filled the air with a sweetness that clung to the square, masking the dust kicked up by boots and cart wheels.
Elira led the way with her basket, Maren at her side, while Shithead trotted between them, carrying a small sack of beans he insisted on bearing himself. He was only six, but already broad in the shoulders, his hands roughened by chores. People's eyes often lingered on him longer than on other children, though he didn't yet know all the reasons why.
The baker gave Elira two loaves, his smile quick but clipped. The butcher did the same with their cut of mutton. Words were polite, but the warmth Shithead had seen them offer other families wasn't there. He caught it this time. He always caught it.
At the well, Old Garrick leaned on his cane, his beard long and his eyes sharp. He watched them approach, his lip curling as Shithead stumbled slightly under the sack's weight.
"Elira," Garrick said with a nod that carried no kindness. Then his eyes dropped to the boy. "That one's got orc blood in him. No good comes of it. Mark me."
The words struck harder than a slap.
Shithead froze, unsure if he should drop the sack or run or shout. He felt the weight of the whole market's ears, though no one spoke.
Elira's chin lifted. Her voice was cold as river stone. "He has my blood in him, Garrick. That's enough."
Maren stepped forward, broad as an oak. "Mind your tongue."
But Garrick only spat into the dust. "Time will tell."
They walked on. Shithead's fingers clenched so tightly on the sack's cloth that his knuckles ached. For the first time, the whispers weren't hidden or hushed. They had been spoken aloud, in the open.
At Widow Tamsin's stall, warmth returned like the sun breaking through clouds. The old woman smiled, her eyes crinkling. "There's my lad. Growing like a weed." She pressed a cone of candied ginger into his palm and winked. "Sweet makes the bitter easier to chew."
Shithead laughed, though it came out shakier than he meant. He clutched the sweet tight as if it were proof.
That night, after supper, he sat by the hearth while Maren sharpened a plough blade and Elira mended a shirt. He stared into the fire until the words tumbled out: "Am I orc blood?"
The silence that followed was heavier than stone.
Then Elira crossed the room, kneeling to cup his face. Her hands were callused from work, but gentle. "You are ours," she said firmly. "That is all that matters."
Maren's whetstone scraped once more across the blade, then stilled. His eyes met Shithead's, steady as earth. "You'll hear words like Garrick's again. Folk fear what they don't understand. But your worth isn't in their mouths, lad. It's in your hands, in the work you do, in the choices you make."
Shithead swallowed hard. He nodded, though the words still burned inside him.
Later, lying awake with the sweet's sharp taste still on his tongue, he thought of Garrick's eyes — hard, unyielding — and of Tamsin's warmth, and of his parents' voices. He didn't know which truth would follow him further.
But for the first time, he understood that some storms didn't come from the sky. They came from people.