"Can I add something?" Eira asks, reaching for the stick with eager hands.
Nelrish passes it to her without hesitation, watching as she considers the circle with serious concentration. After a long moment, she begins drawing her own symbol beside his—a simple but recognizable representation of a tree with spreading branches.
"What does that mean, little artist?" I ask, using the pet name that always makes her glow with pleasure.
"Family," she announces with satisfaction. "Not just blood family, but chosen family. People who take care of each other because they want to, not because they have to."
The words strike me, cutting straight through every defensive wall I've built around my heart. She sees what I've been afraid to acknowledge—that this strange collection of people huddled in improvised shelter has become something precious, something worth protecting beyond immediate survival needs.
I glance toward Nelrish and find him watching Eira with an expression of such gentle warmth that my chest tightens painfully. No calculation in his regard, no assessment of her potential usefulness to larger plans. Just... fondness. Genuineaffection for a child who isn't his responsibility but has somehow become important anyway.
When did I stop believing anyone could care about us without ulterior motive? When did kindness become suspicious rather than welcome?
But watching him with her... the careful way he answers her questions, the patience he shows when she interrupts his work with observations only five-year-olds find fascinating, the pride that crosses his features when she demonstrates her growing magical abilities... None of it feels calculated. None of it serves an obvious strategic purpose.
It just is. Natural as breathing, warm as hearthfire.
"Your turn," Eira announces, offering me the drawing stick with ceremonial gravity.
I accept it with hands that tremble slightly, considering the circle and its growing collection of hopes. What would I mark for winter survival? What desires dare I admit, even in symbolic form?
The stick moves almost without conscious direction, drawing flowing lines that resolve into representation of the rising sun. New beginnings. The possibility that spring might bring more than simple survival—that it might offer transformation, growth, chances to become something other than what survival has demanded.
"Hope," I say quietly, completing the mark with the final curved ray. "That winter teaches us things worth learning instead of just testing our endurance."
Nelrish's eyes find mine across the fire, and something passes between us that makes the air feel charged with possibility. His gaze holds steady, storm-gray depths reflecting flames that seem to burn in more than wood and kindling.
For a long moment, the world narrows to just this—his attention focused entirely on me, my heart beating loud enoughthat I wonder if he can hear it, space between us humming with awareness I haven't felt in years.
Want. Pure and simple and terrifying in its intensity.
I should look away. Should break whatever spell is weaving itself around us before it becomes too strong to escape. Should remember that attraction and trust are different things, that desire can lead to poor decisions when survival hangs in balance.
But his expression holds no demand, no pressure for response I'm not ready to give. Just acknowledgment of connection that grows stronger with each shared moment, each small revelation that proves we're more alike than different.
The recognition should frighten me more than it does.
10
NELRISH
The morning air carries the bite of approaching winter, sharp enough to remind me that my body still harbors traces of poison's weakness. I grip the sturdy branch Mara found for me—oak, stripped of bark and worn smooth by her careful hands—and test my weight against it. My legs hold steady, though I can feel the slight tremor that speaks to depleted strength.
"Don't push too hard," Mara says from beside me, her voice carrying that particular blend of concern and practicality I've come to recognize. She stays close enough to catch me if I stumble, but far enough away to preserve my dignity. The consideration in her positioning doesn't go unnoticed.
"I'm steady enough," I assure her, taking a careful step forward. The branch takes more weight than I'd prefer, but my balance holds true. "Another day, perhaps two, and I'll be back to full strength."
Truth, mostly. The poison worked its way through my system with vicious efficiency, leaving behind weakness that feels foreign in bones accustomed to reliable power. But recoveryprogresses steadily—each hour brings clearer thought, each meal restores vitality I'd feared permanently lost.
Ahead of us, Eira dances through the forest with energy that makes my chest warm. She moves like wind through trees, following paths only she can see, pausing to touch bark or examine stones with fascination that speaks to magical sensitivity beyond her years.
"Look, Mama!" she calls, crouching beside a fallen log covered in moss bright as emeralds. "The earth spirits are sleeping here. I can feel them dreaming about spring."
Mara's expression softens with maternal pride that transforms her features completely. Gone is the careful wariness, replaced by open affection that makes her beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with physical attraction. Though that component certainly exists—the graceful way she moves through undergrowth, the competent sweep of her gaze as she catalogues potential dangers, the few escaped strands of dark-blonde hair that catch morning light like spun gold.
But it's watching her with Eira that truly undoes me. The infinite patience she shows when her daughter stops to investigate every interesting discovery. The way she explains things without talking down, respecting the child's intelligence while providing guidance that keeps them both safe. The fierce protectiveness that never dims, even as she begins to trust my presence among them.
This is what family looks like. Not the clan bonds I've known—built on honor and duty and shared survival—but something softer and more precious. Choice rather than obligation. Love that exists simply because it exists, requiring no justification beyond its own worth.
