"Days. Perhaps a week if the weather slows travel." I begin shaping the clapper from a smaller piece of wood, working the surface smooth enough to produce a clear tone without excessive volume. "Long enough for decisions about what happens next."
The statement hangs loaded with implication. What does happen next? Do I track down my would-be assassins and reclaim leadership through force? Do I gather loyal warriors and march against Redmoon territories in retribution for their role in this betrayal?
Or do I consider possibilities that would have seemed impossible mere days ago—paths that might lead away from endless cycles of raid and counter-raid toward something approaching peace?
Dangerous thoughts for a chieftain. Practical thoughts for a man who's discovered there are things worth protecting beyond clan honor and territorial disputes.
"Finished!" I announce, holding up the completed bell for Eira's inspection. The wood gleams pale gold in the firelight, surface smooth beneath my fingers, clapper positioned to create gentle music when moved.
She accepts the gift with reverence that humbles me, turning it over in small hands to examine every detail of construction. When she shakes it experimentally, the sound emerges sweet and clear—not loud enough to betray our position but musical enough to delight its intended recipient.
"It's beautiful," she breathes, eyes bright with wonder. "Thank you."
The gratitude strikes me, simple words carrying the weight of genuine appreciation. When did children's happiness becomesomething I craved? When did making gifts feel more satisfying than receiving tribute?
"There's more we should do before night falls," I tell Mara, who's been watching this exchange with an unreadable expression. "Improvements to make this shelter more secure."
She nods slowly, perhaps accepting that my presence here extends beyond simple recovery time. That whatever brought us together has created obligations and opportunities neither of us fully understands yet.
"What kind of improvements?"
I rise and move toward the shelter's eastern wall, where wind cuts through gaps in our hasty construction. "Wind-break first. Then we modify the smoke dispersal to prevent detection from distance."
The work unfolds naturally, my hands remembering skills learned through years of campaign construction and temporary fortification. Mara proves an able assistant, following my instructions with quick comprehension that speaks to practical intelligence honed by necessity.
We weave additional branches through the existing framework, creating barriers that will deflect winter wind without appearing artificial to casual observation. I show her how to angle the roof extensions to split smoke from our fire, dispersing it through multiple exit points rather than allowing a single column that might betray our location to hostile searchers.
"Raiders look for straight lines and right angles," I explain while adjusting branch placement. "Natural irregularity hides human presence better than attempting perfect camouflage."
She absorbs the lesson with focused attention, filing away information that might prove crucial for future survival. The exchange feels strangely intimate—sharing knowledge thatcould keep her daughter alive, teaching skills that acknowledge continued existence rather than temporary shelter.
As though I expect to care about their welfare beyond my immediate recovery. As though their safety has become a concern worth consideration alongside my own survival priorities.
When did that shift happen? When did two strangers become something approaching... what? Allies? Friends?
Something more complicated that I lack adequate words to describe.
The afternoon fades toward early winter darkness while we work, Eira's bell providing a gentle soundtrack to our shared labor. She explores the immediate area under her mother's watchful eye, collecting interesting stones and testing snow consistency for some project known only to her five-year-old imagination.
Perfect domesticity that makes my chest ache with longing I didn't know I possessed. This is what peace feels like—simple cooperation toward mutual benefit, conversation without hidden agenda, child's laughter marking time instead of battle drums or mourning songs.
This is what I've spent eight years of leadership trying to create for my clan. What wars and raids and territorial expansion were supposed to achieve eventually, once threats were neutralized and borders secured and challenges overcome.
But perhaps the path toward peace leads through unexpected places. Perhaps it requires letting go of assumptions about enemies and allies, about what strength looks like and how safety is achieved.
Perhaps it begins with trusting humans who have every reason to distrust me, in shelters built for three where there should be room for only one.
The bell answers softly as Eira shakes it, music that speaks of possibilities I'm only beginning to understand.
9
MARA
The afternoon light filters through our improved shelter, casting dancing shadows that make the space feel less like desperate refuge and more like... home. The thought unsettles me. I've lived in bunkers or half fallen homes my entire life, gray walls and recycled air and the constant hum of failing systems. This ramshackle collection of branches and salvaged materials shouldn't feel like sanctuary, but somehow it does.
Maybe it's the way Nelrish moves through the space now—no longer the dying stranger I stumbled over, but a presence that fills corners with quiet competence. He checks our work with the satisfied attention of someone who builds things to last, adjusting branch angles and testing joint stability with hands that know their business.
Or maybe it's Eira's bell, chiming softly whenever she moves, adding music to moments that have known too little joy.
