He could have left days ago. Should have left, if logic governed his choices. Instead, he carved wooden bells for my daughter and taught me to read weather patterns in cloud formations. Instead, he positioned himself between us and danger without being asked, his body a shield against threats I hadn't even recognized.
But he's an orc. And orcs take what they want, when they want it. I've seen the evidence carved into too many human settlements, heard too many stories whispered in bunker corridors during the dark hours when fear grows teeth. How do I reconcile the gentleness in his storm-gray eyes with the brutal reputation of his kind?
"Mara."
His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, low and careful. When I look up, he's studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken despite every rational instinct screaming warnings.
"We should talk," he continues, sliding his knife back into its sheath with practiced efficiency. "Away from Eira. There are things we need to discuss."
My stomach clenches. This is it—the conversation I've been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. The moment when our temporary arrangement dissolves into hard decisions and impossible choices.
I ease myself away from Eira's sleeping form, tucking the blankets more securely around her small body. She stirs but doesn't wake, lost in whatever dreams occupy a five-year-old mind gifted with magic too complex for her years to fully understand.
Nelrish leads me perhaps twenty feet from our lean-to, far enough that our voices won't disturb Eira but close enough that I can still see her sleeping silhouette by the fire's glow. Pine trees create a natural screen around us, their snow-laden branches forming walls that offer the illusion of privacy.
The cold hits immediately without the fire's direct warmth, seeping through my coat and settling into my bones. But when Nelrish turns to face me, the chill becomes secondary to the weight of his attention, the way his eyes search my face as though memorizing every detail.
"You know we can't stay here," he says without preamble. "Those scouts will return with reinforcements. This location is compromised."
"I know." The words emerge steady despite the chaos in my chest. "We'll leave in the morning. Head south toward?—"
"No." The interruption carries absolute conviction. "South leads deeper into orc territory. They'll find you within days."
"Then west. Or north. It doesn't matter." I wrap my arms around myself, less for warmth than for the comfort of holding something together when everything else feels like it's falling apart. "We've survived this long without protection. We'll manage."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the gray-green skin. "With a five-year-old child? In winter? Being hunted by scouts who know these forests better than you do?"
The brutal honesty of his assessment strips me down. I want to argue, to insist that maternal love and stubborn determination can overcome impossible odds, but the words stick in my throat. Because he's right. Because Eira's safety matters more than my pride.
"What are you suggesting?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Have known it since the moment those Redmoon whistles echoed across the water.
"Come with me." His voice gentles, carrying a warmth that contrasts sharply with the winter air around us. "To Wintermaw lands. Under my protection."
The offer hangs between us like a bridge I'm terrified to cross. Everything I was raised to believe about orcs wars with everything I've observed about this particular orc, creating a battlefield in my mind where logic and instinct clash without resolution.
"I can't." The words tear from my throat, raw with emotions I don't know how to name. "You don't understand what you're asking. What it would mean."
"Then explain it to me."
He steps closer, close enough that I can see the silver threads in his black hair, catch the scent of pine and woodsmoke that clings to his clothes. Close enough that his presence becomes a physical thing, solid and reassuring in ways that terrify me more than any external threat.
"She's my daughter," I whisper, the words barely audible above the wind through the trees. "My responsibility. I can't... I won't hand her over to be some orc's curiosity or plaything or?—"
"Stop." The command cuts through my rising panic, firm but not harsh. "Look at me, Mara. Really look."
I force myself to meet his eyes, expecting to find the calculating coldness I've learned to associate with those who see Eira as something to be used. Instead, I see pain—deep and genuine, as though my words have wounded him in ways I never intended.
"Do you truly believe I would harm her?" he asks quietly. "After these days we've shared? After watching me with her?"
The question strips away every careful defense I've constructed, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with the winter cold. Because the truth is more complicated than fear, more dangerous than simple distrust.
The truth is that I've watched him teach Eira to identify animal tracks with the patience of a natural teacher. I've seen him carve toys with hands capable of violence but gentle enough to braid a child's hair. I've felt his presence beside our fire as protection rather than threat, his quiet strength as shelter rather than intimidation.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," I admit, the confession scraping my throat raw. "Everything I was taught about orcs, about safety, about trust—none of it applies to you. And that terrifies me more than anything else could."
Understanding flickers across his expression, followed by something softer that makes my chest tighten with emotions I have no business feeling.
"I understand your fear," he says, his voice carrying the weight of absolute sincerity. "I understand protecting what matters most to you. But Mara—" He reaches toward me, thenstops, his hand hovering in the space between us as though asking permission. "Let me protect you both. Let me keep you safe."
