Story
They went ashore together at first light, when the harbor was still waking and the stones held the night’s cool. Ormun stood still for a moment after stepping off the gangplank, boots planted wide, as if checking that the ground would not drift away beneath him. Cassandra noticed and said nothing. She did the same, breathing in the smell of tar, fish and dust, letting the weight of the world settle under her feet.
They walked slowly through the lower streets, buying bread, dried fruit and lamp oil. Ormun carried everything without comment, careful not to bump anyone. People stared. Some looked away. Some did not.
Near a fountain cracked with age, two young men blocked their path. Not guards. Not important. Just bored and loud enough to be cruel.
One of them laughed and said something about Ormun being too big to think properly. The other followed, calling him simple minded, drawing the word out as if tasting it.
For a fraction of a second, something hard moved behind Ormun’s eyes. His shoulders shifted. His hands curled.
That was enough.
The laughter stopped. The young men stepped back, suddenly aware of how small they were. They muttered and moved on, finding somewhere else to be brave.
Ormun did not look at Cassandra. He simply nodded once and kept walking.
They ate later outside a tavern with peeling paint and crooked tables. Ormun sat carefully on an empty barrel, hunched slightly to make himself smaller. He barely touched his food.
Cassandra watched him for a while before speaking.
“That hurt you,” she said gently.
He swallowed, then nodded. “I know they meant it as an insult,” he said. “I just thought I was used to it by now.”
She turned toward him, folding her hands in her lap. “They think simple means empty,” she said. “But it doesn’t.”
He glanced at her, uncertain.
“Complex minds,” she continued, “are very good at explaining why terrible things are necessary. Why cruelty has reasons. Why someone deserves what happens to them.” She paused. “A simple mind knows better. Right feels right. Wrong feels wrong. No arguments needed.”
Ormun frowned, thinking.
“I have never met anyone,” she said, “who knows that difference as clearly as you do.”
His ears reddened. Color crept up his cheeks. He looked away, embarrassed, but the tension in his shoulders eased.
She reached across the table and took his large hand in both of hers. It was warm, rough and steady.
“Your heart,” she said softly, “is worth more than all the clever scholars and learned men in the world.”
His blush deepened until it reached his brow. He looked down at their joined hands, suddenly very interested in the grain of the table.
But Cassandra saw his smile.
It was wide and unguarded, the kind that comes from being seen rather than praised.

Ormun is an ogre born in the Olydrian Isles, raised in the shadow of a society that never expected him to be anything but muscle and obedience. He learned early that his size defined how others saw him. Strength was assumed. Thoughtfulness was ignored. Kindness was treated as weakness or novelty.

He grew up in the household of the Pelagos family, technically a slave, practically something closer to kin. The distinction mattered to the world even when it mattered less inside the walls.

Childhood Bond with Phaedros

Ormun and Phaedros Pelagos grew up together. They trained, explored and got into trouble side by side. Phaedros was sharp and curious, always pushing outward. Ormun was steady, patient and protective, often the one who made sure trouble did not turn fatal.

To Ormun, Phaedros was not a master but a brother. To Phaedros, Ormun was not property but family. The law did not care about either view.

The arrangement persisted because of fear rather than cruelty. In the Isles, a free ogre without papers or patronage is assumed to be dangerous or criminal. Ownership, distasteful as it was, provided a kind of brutal legitimacy. The family saw it as protection. Ormun accepted it because it kept him close to Phaedros and gave him a place in the world.

Freedom Granted

When the Blue Marlin arrived in the Olydrian Isles searching for Phaedros, Ormun learned of it quickly. He wanted to join at once. But he did not run. He asked.

Phaedros’ brother received him, Scarnax and Ayesha and spoke honestly. He said he had always seen Ormun as family. He admitted that fear and convenience had kept the chains intact longer than they should have. He also admitted something else. If anyone could go to the end of the world to find Phaedros, it was Ormun.

That same day, he freed him and sent him with the crew, not as property or guard but as a brother entrusted to another brother. He left with the blessing of the Pelagos family, and the Blue Marlin was similarly blessed.

For Ormun, freedom arrived without ceremony. No speech. No ritual. Just the absence of a claim. It took time for that to feel real.

Life on the Blue Marlin

On the ship, Ormun quickly proved indispensable. His strength made heavy work trivial. Hauling lines, bracing rigging, lifting cargo and holding structures steady in storms all fell naturally to him. He works without complaint and without show, taking pride in being useful rather than impressive.

What surprised the crew was not his strength but his gentleness. Ormun listens more than he speaks. He remembers small details. He checks on people quietly. He apologizes when he bumps into someone even when they were the ones in the way.

More important than his strength was the way people felt around him. Ormun became the one others drifted toward when words ran out or thoughts tangled themselves into knots. He did not offer clever insights or long speeches. He listened, nodded, and said little. When he did speak, it was usually something plain and unadorned, the sort of answer that felt obvious only after hearing it. People often left those conversations surprised by how much lighter they felt, even if nothing had been solved.

The Blue Marlin became the first place where his presence was valued without suspicion.

Bond with Cassandra

Ormun noticed Cassandra long before he dared speak to her. Not her beauty first, though he saw that, but the way her shoulders tensed before commands and how her eyes tracked rooms the way hunted animals do. He recognized pain shaped by obedience. It was familiar in a different way.

At first he blushed constantly around her, unsure how to exist near someone he found beautiful without frightening her. His size made him cautious. He learned to sit, kneel or lean so he did not loom. He softened his voice without thinking.

Their bond grew through conversation rather than drama. They talked during repairs, watches and quiet evenings. Ormun listens. Cassandra speaks. Over time she listens too.

He sees her as fragile, kind and precious, something to be protected gently rather than guarded fiercely. She sees him as trustworthy, reliable and profoundly safe. With him, she does not feel watched or evaluated. He never asks her to perform anything.

Their closeness is quiet and unspoken but obvious to those who pay attention. There are more feelings growing between them.