"And what are their objectives?"
The question carries weight beyond simple curiosity. She's thinking strategically, planning rather than simply reacting. Good. Survivors think three moves ahead.
"Territory. Resources. The usual prizes war brings." I shift position, testing my strength. Still weak, but functional. "They want to control trade routes through the northern passes before spring."
"Spring's a long way off." Mara's voice carries the weight of someone who understands exactly how brutal winter survival can be.
"Yes." I meet her eyes directly. "Which brings us to more immediate concerns. You need shelter, supplies, somewhere to wait out the cold months. I need time to recover before I can travel safely."
"A few days," she says quickly. "You shouldn't need more than that to get your strength back."
A few days. The timeframe seems optimistic given how thoroughly the poison ravaged my system, but I appreciate her desire to minimize obligations between us. Independence is safer than dependence, especially when trusting the wrong person can prove fatal.
"Agreed." I settle back against the makeshift bedding, already planning despite my body's protests. "I'll be strong enough to move by then. And until I am, I can help defend this position if Redmoon comes closer."
Something eases in her posture at this offer. Fear she's been carrying alone, perhaps—the weight of protecting her daughter without backup or resources. I understand that burden intimately.
"Thank you." The words come soft, genuine. "We... it's been just us for a long time."
Just them. Yet, she came from the Redmoon settlement. I know enough about them to know how they treat their women. The isolation explains much about her careful manner, the way she measures each word before speaking. Trust becomes luxury when survival depends on constant vigilance.
"Not anymore." The promise emerges before I fully consider its implications. "Not while I breathe."
Mara's eyes widen slightly at the intensity behind my words. Perhaps she hears something I didn't intend to reveal—the depth of obligation that drives orc honor codes, the way life-debts forge bonds stronger than blood.
Or perhaps she simply recognizes one survivor acknowledging another, the kind of alliance born from shared understanding of what it costs to keep living when the world conspires against you.
Either way, something shifts between us in that moment. A foundation laid, tentative but real.
"Mama, look!" Eira holds up another completed decoration. "This one's for the nice orc man who had bad dreams."
Nice orc man. The casual phrase makes me smile despite everything. If only my enemies could hear such innocent assessment of my character.
"It's beautiful," Mara tells her daughter, but her eyes remain on my face. "Very thoughtful."
"The berries match his eyes when the firelight hits them," Eira explains with artistic seriousness. "Blue-grey like winter sky."
Perceptive child. I find myself wondering what else she sees, what insights those unusual senses provide about the people around her. The thought should be unsettling—beingread so easily by someone so young—but instead it feels oddly comforting.
When did I last encounter honesty so pure? When did anyone last look at me and see something worth decorating for?
The snow continues falling beyond our shelter walls, muffling the world in pristine silence. First snow, bringing with it possibilities I'm afraid to examine too closely. Change disguised as weather, transformation wrapped in winter's cold embrace.
I close my eyes and listen to Eira's soft humming, to the whisper of flames consuming dry wood, to the steady breathing of the woman who saved my life. For the first time in longer than I care to admit, the sounds around me speak of safety rather than threat.
Tomorrow will bring its own challenges—questions about where we go next, how we survive what's coming, what debts can truly be repaid between people from different worlds. But for now, in this small space carved from winter forest, I'm content to simply breathe and heal and wonder at the strange paths that led us all to this moment.
Perhaps Eira's grandmother was right about winter giving back what it takes. Perhaps some gifts come disguised as accidents, salvation wrapped in near-death experiences.
Perhaps first snow really does bring magic, even to those who stopped believing in such possibilities long ago.
7
MARA
The way Nelrish talks to Eira sets my teeth on edge—not because he's cruel, but because he isn't. I've spent five years learning that orcs take what they want without asking, use humans like tools, discard broken things without thought. Yet here sits one speaking to my daughter like she matters, like her words carry weight worth considering.
It doesn't fit. None of this fits.
