But she speaks as though kindness needs no justification beyond moral imperative. As though helping poisoned strangers ranks among basic responsibilities rather than calculated risks.
Either she's extraordinarily naive or operating from principles that shame my more cynical assumptions. Given everything she's survived, naivety seems unlikely.
"Nevertheless," I continue, "skilled hands shouldn't remain idle when there's work to be done."
I lever myself upright and move toward the pile of deadfall wood she's gathered for fuel, selecting a thick branch with good grain and minimal knots. My belt knife slides free with familiar weight, balance precise enough for detail work despite its primary purpose as a weapon.
"What are you making?" Eira abandons her bark-braiding project in favor of watching me work, curiosity bright as winter starlight.
"Something for you." The admission escapes before I consider whether gift-giving might complicate relationships I don't fully understand yet. "A bell, if the wood cooperates."
Her entire face transforms with delight, joy so pure it makes my chest tighten with unexpected emotion. When did a child's happiness begin affecting me like physical force? When did her pleasure become something I actively wanted to create?
"A real bell? That makes music?"
"Real music," I confirm, beginning the careful process of hollowing out the branch's interior. "Though not very loud. More like whispers than shouts."
The work demands concentration that provides welcome distraction from more complicated thoughts. Wood shavings curl away from the blade in precise spirals, revealing the bell's emerging shape through controlled removal of everything unnecessary. Ancient meditation disguised as practical craft,muscle memory inherited from childhood lessons in patience and precision.
Mara continues her own tasks but I catch her watching my progress with what might be grudging approval. My knife technique probably reveals more about my background than she expected—nobility tends toward ceremonial weapons rather than tools maintained for daily use.
"Where did you learn woodworking?" she asks, apparently deciding direct questions pose less risk than continued speculation.
"My father." The answer comes easier than anticipated, carrying none of the usual weight that thoughts of him tend to bear. "He believed leaders should understand every skill they might ask of their people."
"Leaders?" Her tone sharpens with new wariness. "You're not just a scout."
The observation hangs between us like a blade suspended over thread—one wrong word and whatever fragile trust we've built dissolves into suspicion and fear. I could lie, maintain the fiction of being a simple warrior displaced by clan conflicts. Safer for everyone involved if she continues thinking of me as an expendable soldier rather than a strategic target.
But lies feel wrong here, in this small space where honesty has already saved my life and created something approaching companionship. She deserves truth, even if it complicates everything.
"No," I admit, not looking up from my carving. "I'm not."
The silence stretches long enough for me to question the wisdom of confession. When I finally risk glancing toward her, Mara's expression has shifted into something unreadable—calculation mixed with what might be resignation.
"What are you then?"
"Right now..." I'm not ready to tell her the truth. "I'm not sure anymore."
She eyes me, clearly putting enough together. "The poison wasn't random then."
"No." I return focus to the bell's emerging form, using steady knife-work to avoid meeting her increasingly sharp gaze. "Someone wanted me dead badly enough to risk direct confrontation with my clan. Poisoning seemed cleaner than open warfare."
"Someone you trusted."
The guess hits the target with uncomfortable accuracy. Sareen's betrayal cuts deeper than a simple assassination attempt—she had access, opportunity, and intimate knowledge of my habits that turned trusted water into a delivery system for slow death.
"Someone I should have trusted less," I correct, hollowing out another careful layer of wood. "Trust becomes liability when power shifts and old alliances no longer serve current ambitions."
Mara absorbs this with the grim recognition of someone familiar with betrayal's many forms. Perhaps human settlements operate on similar principles—cooperation until resources grow scarce, loyalty until survival demands different choices.
"Will they come looking for you?"
The question carries practical urgency that makes me appreciate her quick grasp of relevant concerns. If Wintermaw search parties track my trail to this location, her daughter becomes exposed to clan politics and territorial disputes that could prove deadly for non-combatants.
"Eventually." I test the bell's weight, pleased with its developing resonance. It’s a soft sound but perfect for our situation. "But not immediately. The hunting party thatpoisoned me will report my death first, buying time before anyone thinks to verify their claims."
"How much time?"
