"Yes," I say simply, not trusting my voice with more elaborate responses. "I would be honored to help guide her development."
Relief floods her expression, followed by something that might be gratitude or affection or some combination of both. The sight makes my chest tight with emotions I don't have names for.
"Mama! Nelrish! Come see!" Eira's voice carries excitement that makes us both smile as we hurry toward the grove where she stands transfixed.
At the center of the clearing, partially hidden by fallen leaves and moss, the remains of an old human structure rise from the forest floor. Stone foundations, mostly intact. The suggestion of walls that once enclosed space now open to sky. Metal fixturesso corroded they're barely recognizable, but positioned with deliberate intent that speaks to former purpose.
"What was this place?" Mara asks, wonder coloring her voice as she surveys the ruins.
I examine the proportions, the careful positioning of doorways and windows, the evidence of craftsmanship that prioritized beauty alongside function. "A home," I conclude. "A large one, built for family rather than defense."
"Before the wars?"
"Long before." I run fingers over stonework that shows skill passed down through generations. "This was built when humans lived above ground as a matter of course, when winters meant celebration rather than survival."
Mara moves through the ruins with reverence that suggests she understands what we're seeing. Evidence of a world her grandmother described but she's never experienced. Proof that stories of houses with gardens and families who gathered for festivals weren't just fantasy born of desperate hope.
"It's beautiful," she whispers, tracing carved details that time hasn't entirely erased.
"Yes," I agree, but I'm not looking at the ruins anymore.
11
MARA
The snow falls thick and silent around us, transforming the forest into something from grandmother's stories. Each flake catches what little light filters through the canopy, creating a world that sparkles like scattered diamonds. I can't remember the last time I've been able to simply appreciate snow for its beauty rather than curse it as another obstacle to survival.
Eira squeals with delight as she catches snowflakes on her outstretched tongue, spinning in circles until she tumbles into a drift that comes up to her waist. The sound of her laughter echoes through the trees, pure joy that makes my chest warm despite the cold air biting at my cheeks.
"Look, Mama! I'm taller than the snow!" she announces, standing on her tiptoes in the drift.
"Barely," I tease, but I'm smiling as I say it. Watching her play without fear, seeing her experience winter as wonder rather than hardship—this is what childhood should look like. This is what I've wanted to give her but never had the resources or safety to provide.
Nelrish emerges from behind a pine tree, a perfectly rounded snowball in his massive hands. The sight of him crouched toEira's level, his expression serious with mock concentration, makes something flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with hunger.
"Eira of the Forest," he says in his gravest voice, "I challenge you to combat."
She gasps with theatrical shock, her gold-tinged eyes going wide. "What kind of combat?"
"The ancient art of snow warfare." He hefts the snowball with exaggerated care. "Do you accept?"
"Yes!" She immediately drops to her knees, scooping up snow with mittened hands that struggle to pack it properly. Her first attempt crumbles apart, but she tries again with determination that reminds me so much of myself at her age it makes my throat tight.
I lean against a tree trunk, content to watch them play while keeping an eye on our surroundings. The decorations we hung yesterday look magical dusted with fresh snow—the pinecones Nelrish helped us gather, the berries we strung on thin vines, the wooden bells he carved that chime softly in the winter breeze. Everything looks like it belongs to the old stories, the celebrations grandmother described with such vivid detail I could almost taste the sweetness she spoke of.
Nelrish launches his snowball with careful aim, lobbing it gently so it splats against Eira's shoulder rather than her face. She shrieks with laughter and retaliates with a handful of loose snow that barely travels three feet before scattering in the wind.
"Your technique needs work," he observes solemnly, moving closer to demonstrate proper packing methods. "Snow warfare requires strategy, precision, and..." He pauses dramatically. "Perfect ammunition."
I watch his large hands guide her small ones, showing her how to compress the snow just enough to hold together without making it too hard. The patience in his movements, theway he speaks to her as though her questions deserve serious consideration—it does something to my heart I'm not prepared for.
When did an orc become safe? When did his presence start feeling like protection rather than threat?
Eira's next snowball flies true, catching Nelrish square in the chest. He staggers backward with exaggerated shock, one hand pressed to his heart.
"A direct hit! I am defeated!" He collapses dramatically into a snowbank, arms flung wide. "The victor claims the field!"
She dances around his prone form, chanting victory songs that consist mostly of "I won, I won, I won!" while he lies still as death. Then she stops, concern creeping into her expression.
