Mara finishes her mending and looks up to find me watching her daughter's work. Something passes between us—an understanding, perhaps, of how desperately we both want to preserve whatever innocence Eira can still claim. The child shouldn't know about clan wars and poisoned water and the sound of battle horns echoing through winter forests. She should be decorating trees and hearing grandmother's stories and believing in magic that remembers where home is.
But time doesn't pause for such tender wishes. The light continues to fade, and with each passing moment, our vulnerability increases. I need to ask Mara for her decision. Need to know if she'll trust me enough to come with me to Wintermaw territory, or if I'll be forced to leave them here to face whatever comes alone.
The thought of abandoning them makes my jaw clench involuntarily. Every instinct I possess screams against it—the same protective drive that's kept my clan alive through countless hardships, the bone-deep need to shield what matters from the darkness that threatens to swallow everything. But I can't force her choice. Honor demands I respect whatever decision she makes, even if it tears something vital from my chest.
I push to my feet, brushing snow from my leathers, and catch Mara's attention with a subtle gesture. She follows my gaze toward a cluster of trees a dozen paces from where Eira continues her careful work, understanding immediately that I want to speak privately.
"Keep decorating," Mara tells her daughter softly. "We'll be right over there."
Eira nods absently, already refocused on her task with the single-minded intensity that children bring to projects that matter to them. Mara rises and follows me toward the makeshift privacy of the pine grove, her expression guarded in the way I've learned to recognize. She's preparing herself for difficult conversation, steel settling behind those soft green eyes like armor she's learned to wear.
We stop just far enough away that Eira won't overhear, close enough that I can still keep her in my peripheral vision. The afternoon air carries the clean bite of approaching snow, the kind of weather that will make travel treacherous but provide cover for our movements. Perfect conditions for what needs to be done, if Mara agrees to trust me.
I study her face, noting the tension in her jaw, the way her hands remain carefully still at her sides despite the urge to fidget I can sense beneath her controlled exterior. She knows what I'm going to ask. Has been wrestling with the question since last night, probably longer. The weight of decision shows in the faint lines around her eyes, the careful way she holds herself.
"Mara." Her name feels important on my tongue, loaded with everything I want to say but don't know how to voice. "I need?—"
The war-horn cuts through my words like an axe through bone.
The sound rolls across the forest with brutal clarity—deep, resonant notes that speak of conflict and bloodshed and battles that refuse to end. My blood goes cold as I recognize the particular cadence, the rhythmic pattern that marks Redmoon's call to arms. They're still fighting. Still pressing whatever advantage they gained from the raid that drove Mara and Eira into the wilderness.
Which means Wintermaw is still fighting back.
I have thought over what Sareen has done, what happened to me, what Mara said she ran from, and I’ve known that it must be my clan fighting them. They thought they killed me, came looking for me, and in response, the Wintermaw clan has been fighting them. Must still be fighting.
The implications crash over me like a rockslide. If the battle continues days after it began, if Redmoon feels confident enough to sound war-horns in broad daylight, then my clan is either winning decisively or losing catastrophically. Either scenariodemands my immediate presence—to press our advantage or prevent our destruction.
But more than that, the continued fighting means Sareen and his warriors are still out there, still pursuing whatever goal drove them to poison me in the first place. Still a threat to anyone and anything I might care about.
Mara's face has gone pale, her eyes wide with the kind of fear that comes from intimate knowledge of what those horns herald. She's seen what Redmoon does to prisoners, what they leave behind when their bloodlust is satisfied. The memory of smoke and screaming probably plays behind her eyes like a waking nightmare.
"Eira," she breathes, already turning toward her daughter.
The child appears at my elbow before either of us can move toward her, materializing with the unnatural quiet she's developed over weeks of hiding and running. Her small face is pinched with concentration, nostrils flaring as she tests the air like a hunting hound.
"There are orcs nearby," she says with frightening calm. "I can smell them. Taste them on the wind."
The confirmation has me stiffening. Of course. Her magical sensitivity wouldn't just extend to dreams and emotions—it would encompass the physical world as well, allowing her to detect threats that ordinary senses might miss. If she says Redmoon warriors are close, then we have minutes at most before discovery.
I look at Mara, seeing my own urgency reflected in her expression. This is it—the moment when theory becomes desperate reality, when careful consideration gives way to survival instinct. I can't ask for her trust now. I have to demand it.
"Mara." My voice comes out rougher than intended, edged with the command authority I've learned to wield as chieftain. "Do you trust me?"
She hesitates, and in that pause I see everything—her fear, her uncertainty, the weight of responsibility for Eira's safety that she's carried alone for so long. Trust doesn't come easily to someone who's been betrayed by circumstances beyond her control, who's learned that safety is an illusion and protection comes only through constant vigilance.
But I need her answer. Need it now, before the choice is taken from both of us.
I step closer, close enough that my presence fills her field of vision, and cup her face between my hands. Her skin feels cold beneath my palms, but her eyes search mine with desperate intensity, looking for something to hold onto in the chaos that threatens to engulf us.
"I really, really need you to trust me," I tell her, letting every ounce of sincerity I possess color the words. This isn't manipulation or desperation speaking—it's the simple truth laid bare between us. "Right now. Please."
Her breath catches, a small sound that might be fear or might be something else entirely. For a heartbeat we stand frozen in tableau, her face tilted up toward mine, my hands framing the delicate bones of her cheeks and jaw. The war-horn sounds again in the distance, closer this time, and I watch her make the choice that will determine everything that follows.
She nods.
The movement is small, barely perceptible, but it carries the weight of absolute commitment. Trust given freely, despite every reason she has to withhold it. Despite the logical voice in her head that probably screams warnings about orc deception and false promises.
Relief floods through me so powerfully it leaves me momentarily unsteady. "Then we have to go. Now."
