"I'm sorry." The words come quiet, heavy with what sounds like genuine regret. "For what my people's presence has cost yours."
An apology. From an orc. For conquest and displacement and the systematic destruction of human civilization. I stare at him over my steaming cup, searching for signs of mockery or manipulation, finding only tired sincerity that I don't know how to process.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why are you sorry? Your people won. This is your world now."
"Winning and being right aren't the same thing." He meets my scrutiny without flinching. "And victory tastes bitter when built on others' suffering."
The philosophy unsettles me more than threats would. I understand orcs who take what they want through force—their motivations are clear, their actions predictable. But one who questions conquest while benefiting from it? Who apologizes for choices he presumably supports?
Either he's the most skilled liar I've ever encountered, or everything I thought I knew about his people is dangerously incomplete.
"Mama, look what I made!" Eira bursts back into the shelter trailing snow and excitement, clutching something in her mittened hands. "A tree for the rites!"
She's drawn a crooked evergreen in the snow outside our doorway, complete with carefully hung pinecones that dance inthe falling flakes. The sight tugs at memories of grandmother's stories—decorated trees bringing luck and hope through winter's darkest months.
"It's beautiful, sweetheart." I force my attention away from Nelrish's thoughtful expression, focusing on safer ground. "Very artistic."
"The pinecones are like ornaments," Eira explains to our guest, apparently assuming he needs education in proper decorating techniques. "They'll catch the snow and hold winter magic until spring comes back."
"I've never appreciated winter as much as you do." His observation carries wistful undertones that surprise me. "Your grandmother taught you to find beauty in harsh seasons."
"She said winter was just sleeping time for the world," I find myself elaborating, drawn into sharing despite my better judgment. "Everything rests and gathers strength for what comes next. The cold isn't punishment—it's preparation."
"Preparation." He repeats the word like it contains particular significance. "Yes, I can see the wisdom in that perspective."
Something in his tone makes me study his profile as he watches Eira adjust her snow-tree decorations. There's longing there, carefully controlled but present nonetheless. Longing for what? The simple joy my daughter radiates? The certainty of traditions that promise better times ahead?
Or perhaps longing for belonging somewhere—the kind of deep roots grandmother's stories always emphasized, connections to places and people that survive temporary hardships.
"Where will you go?" he asks suddenly, attention shifting back to me with uncomfortable directness. "When I'm well enough to travel. Back to the bunkers?"
The question highlights exactly how precarious our situation has become. Where do we go? The settlement that sheltered uslies in Redmoon hands now, assuming anything remains beyond ash and broken stone. The bunkers represent safety of a sort, but also the slow death of lives lived entirely underground.
"I was headed back," I admit before catching myself. Too much honesty, especially with someone whose loyalties remain unclear. "Now... I'm not sure."
The admission reveals more vulnerability than wise. I shouldn't be telling an orc—even one who seems different—that we have nowhere to go, no clan or community to protect us. That we're exactly as alone and defenseless as we appear.
But something about the way he asked, the careful concern in his voice, made truth easier than lies. Another warning sign I should probably heed.
"The bunkers are safe," he observes, tone neutral enough to avoid seeming like advice. "But safety isn't the same as living."
"No." I sip my cooling broth, using the pause to study his expression. "It isn't."
The snow continues falling beyond our small shelter, muffling the world in pristine silence broken only by Eira's humming as she tends her makeshift decorations. First snow, carrying with it all the promises grandmother's poems described—clean slates and new beginnings and winter magic that gives back what it takes.
But promises require faith I'm not sure I possess anymore. And magic seems like luxury when survival demands such constant vigilance.
Still, watching Nelrish watch my daughter with something approaching wonder makes me think perhaps some gifts come disguised as complications. Perhaps some strangers carry more hope than threat, even when logic insists otherwise.
Perhaps I'm finally losing my mind from too many years spent balancing trust against suspicion, kindness against caution.
The broth warms my hands if not my doubts. Outside, winter deepens around us, beautiful and merciless in equal measure.
8
NELRISH
Strength seeps back into my bones like spring melt filling winter streams—gradual but undeniable. By the next afternoon, I can stand without the world tilting sideways, though Mara watches each movement with the sharp attention of someone calculating whether her patient might suddenly become her problem again.
