Relief floods through me at her words. She knows enough to understand what Wintermaw represents, but her knowledge comes from sources that recognize honor rather than simply fearing strength. Whatever stories reached her ears painted us as dangerous but not monstrous.
"All true," I confirm. "Though I suspect the reputation comes with certain... expectations about my behavior toward humans."
"Does it?" The question carries weight I'm only beginning to understand. "What expectations?"
I consider my words carefully, aware that this moment might determine whether the connection building between us survives full disclosure. "That I view humans as resources to be exploited or obstacles to be eliminated. That personal attachments to your kind represent weakness or temporary convenience."
"And do you?"
"No." The word emerges with more force than intended, carrying conviction that surprises us both. "I've never... humans were abstractions before. Political considerations or trading partners or potential threats, but not... people. Not individuals with thoughts and hopes and fears that mirror our own."
Mara's expression softens at my admission, something that might be understanding flickering in her eyes. "What changed?"
The honest answer sits in my throat like swallowed fire. You changed everything. Watching you save my life without hesitation, seeing you with your daughter, hearing you sing songs that carry echoes of magic older than our conflicts—all of it rewrote assumptions I didn't even realize I held.
But such honesty feels premature, too intense for wherever we stand in this careful dance of growing attraction and mutual discovery.
"Perspective," I say instead. "Hard to maintain abstractions when survival depends on cooperation."
She studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees there. The careful control I've maintained since childhood? The hunger I've been fighting to keep hidden? The growing certainty that what started as life-debt has become something infinitely more complicated and precious?
Whatever her conclusions, they seem to satisfy her. The tension in her shoulders eases, and when she resumes walking, her pace carries less wariness than before.
"For what it's worth," she says quietly, "I'm glad it was Wintermaw that found us. If it had to be any clan."
The simple statement unlocks something in my chest that's been wound tight since waking in her care. Acceptance. Not just of my presence, but of my identity, my heritage, the complications that come with both. She knows what I am now, and she's choosing to continue this strange partnership anyway.
Ahead of us, Eira has discovered a grove where morning light filters through branches in patterns that make the air shimmer with possibility. She spins in the dappled sunlight with arms outstretched, laughing at something only she can perceive.
"She feels the ley lines," I realize aloud, watching her movements trace invisible pathways through the grove. "The currents of old magic that run beneath the surface."
"Is that... normal for someone her age?"
"Normal?" I consider the question seriously. "No, not normal. But not unprecedented either. Some children are born with sensitivity that strong, especially those with mixed heritage. The combination of human intuition and orc magical bloodlines can produce remarkable abilities."
"Magical bloodlines?" Mara's voice sharpens with interest rather than alarm. "I thought orc magic had faded."
"Mostly, yes. But the capacity remains, dormant rather than lost. In rare cases, when circumstances align properly..." I gesture toward Eira, still dancing among shafts of golden light. "It awakens."
"What kind of circumstances?"
Another question that brushes against revelations I'm not certain she's ready for. How do I explain that her daughter's presence has begun reactivating dormant wardstones around Wintermaw territory? That the child carries power enough to restore some of what we've lost, if properly guided?
"Stress, sometimes. Strong emotion. Contact with others who carry magical heritage." I meet her gaze steadily. "The right combination of need and ability and opportunity."
Understanding dawns in her expression, followed quickly by concern. "The night she helped you. When she touched you to see the poisoning. Did that...?"
"Awakened something, yes. But gently, naturally. She wasn't forced or damaged by the experience." I pause, wantingto reassure her without minimizing the significance of what occurred. "If anything, using her gifts in service of healing will help her learn control. Magic without purpose becomes dangerous. Magic with compassionate direction becomes strength."
Mara nods slowly, absorbing implications I can see her working through. Her daughter's abilities growing stronger. The attention such power might attract. The choices that will need to be made about training, about safety, about the kind of life Eira might have as her gifts develop.
"Would you..." she begins, then stops, uncertainty flickering across her features.
"Would I what?"
"Help her learn control? If we... if this arrangement continues past your recovery?" The request emerges hesitantly, as though she's not certain she has the right to ask.
My heart performs some complicated maneuver that leaves me momentarily breathless. She wants my continued presence. Not just tolerates it, but actively desires it enough to trust me with her daughter's magical education.
