"We should pack the waterskins with fresh snow," Nelrish says when we've finished eating. "It'll melt as we travel, and the streams may be too exposed for safe refilling later."
The casual mention of travel makes my stomach tighten. Later. As if our departure together is a foregone conclusion rather than a decision I'm still wrestling with.
Eira perks up immediately. "Can I help?"
"Of course." Nelrish's smile transforms his austere features, revealing glimpses of the man beneath the chieftain's mask. "Fresh snow works best—the kind that hasn't been on the ground long enough to pick up dirt."
He shows her how to identify the cleanest snow, the patches that fell recently and remain pristine white. Eira throws herself into the task with the enthusiasm she brings to everything, her small hands working carefully to pack the waterskins full. Iwatch them work together, noting the way Nelrish adjusts his instructions to match her understanding, never talking down to her despite her age.
"Like this?" she asks, holding up a waterskin packed with snow.
"Perfect. You're a natural at this."
The pride that lights up her face at his praise makes something shift in my chest. When was the last time someone other than me took interest in teaching her something? When was the last time she had a chance to impress an adult who wasn't exhausted by the simple effort of keeping us both alive?
Nelrish suggests they gather berries and edible roots to supplement our supplies, and Eira volunteers immediately. I follow them through the forest, staying close enough to intervene if necessary but far enough back to observe their interaction without interfering.
He teaches her to identify winterberries still clinging to their branches, explains which roots are safe to dig up and which to avoid. His hands remain gentle when guiding hers, his voice patient when she asks the endless questions that tumble from her curious mind. There's no impatience in his manner, no sign that her chatter annoys him the way it did some of the Broken-Tusk orcs.
"Why do the berries stay red when everything else turns brown?" she asks, holding up a cluster she's carefully picked.
"The cold preserves them," he explains. "They're meant to feed the birds and small animals when other food grows scarce. The plant trades sweet fruit for seeds being carried to new places."
"Everything helps everything else," she says with the matter-of-fact wisdom that sometimes startles me with its depth.
"Exactly."
I watch this exchange from a few paces away, my heart doing complicated things in my chest. Eira is blossoming under his attention, becoming more animated and confident than I've seen her in weeks. The way she looks at him—with trust and growing affection—both warms and terrifies me.
She's been hurt before. We both have. The humans who called her cursed, the orcs who saw her as an oddity at best. I've worked so hard to shield her from rejection, to be enough for her on my own. But seeing her now, seeing how she responds to genuine interest and kindness from someone other than me, I realize how much I've been asking of her. How much I've been asking of myself.
Maybe, for once, I don't have to carry this burden alone.
The thought feels dangerous and seductive in equal measure. I've been responsible for keeping us safe for so long that the idea of sharing that weight seems almost impossible to accept. But as I watch Nelrish show Eira how to test soil with her fingers to find the best roots, I let myself imagine what it might be like to have help. To have someone else invested in her safety and happiness.
It's a terrifying prospect. But maybe, just maybe, it's also exactly what we both need.
16
NELRISH
The sun sits too low in the sky, casting long shadows through the pine branches that tell me afternoon is slipping toward evening. My internal clock, honed by years of leading hunting parties and night raids, warns me that time grows short. Orcs travel best in darkness—our eyes cut through shadow like blades through silk, while human vision stumbles and fails. If we're to reach Wintermaw territory before dawn, we need to move soon.
I glance toward Mara, who sits near the dying fire carefully mending a tear in Eira's coat with thread salvaged from our packs. Her movements are precise and economical, the kind of practiced efficiency that speaks to years of making things last far beyond their intended lifespan. The sight stirs something protective in my chest, watching her perform these small acts of care with such focused determination.
Eira kneels nearby, entirely absorbed in some project of her own making. She's gathered pinecones and winterberries, arranging them in careful patterns around the base of a young evergreen that grows near our shelter. Her small fingers work with surprising dexterity as she threads dried grass through holes in the pinecones, creating what looks like primitivedecorations. The berries she places with mathematical precision, their red color bright against the dark green needles.
"What are you making, little artist?" I ask, genuinely curious about the purpose behind her careful work.
She looks up at me with those remarkable gold-flecked eyes, a smile brightening her face. "More decorations. The more color, the more wishes. The more decorations, the more magic." Her expression grows more serious, the weight of tradition settling on her young shoulders. "Mama says it helps the magic remember where home is. That’s what Grandmother taught her.”
The words hit me with unexpected force. Magic remembering home. If only it were that simple—if only hanging berries and pine needles could call back what we've lost, could bridge the vast distance between this world and Protheka. But watching her work, seeing the careful reverence in her movements, I understand this isn't really about magic at all. It's about hope. About maintaining connection to something larger than immediate survival.
"It's beautiful work," I tell her, and mean it. The simple decorations transform the evergreen into something that speaks of warmth and intention rather than mere wilderness. "Your grandmother sounds like she was very wise."
"She was," Eira says with the matter-of-fact confidence of childhood. "She knew lots of stories about when the world was different."
When the world was different. Before the portals opened. Before my people fled to this dying realm and humans retreated underground like frightened rabbits. Before everything became about territory and survival and the slow grinding war that's consumed both our species.
