17
MARA
The war-horn's echo still vibrates through my bones as I scoop Eira into my arms, her small body fitting against mine with the practiced ease of years spent running and hiding together. She doesn't protest, doesn't ask questions—just wraps her arms around my neck and presses her face into my shoulder with the quiet acceptance of a child who's learned that sudden movements mean danger.
"I can carry her," Nelrish offers, already moving toward our scattered belongings with economical efficiency.
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend, protective instinct flaring like a struck match. Eira is mine to carry, mine to shield. I've held her through every crisis we've faced since the moment she drew her first breath in that cramped bunker storage room. I won't hand that responsibility to anyone else, not even him. Not yet.
Something flickers across his expression—understanding, maybe, or respect for the fierce maternal bond he's witnessing. He doesn't argue, just nods and turns his attention to gathering what we can't afford to leave behind. Water skins disappear into his pack with practiced speed, along with our meager rationsand the small collection of tools we've accumulated. But there's something else he reaches for, something I hadn't noticed him working on during our quiet evenings by the fire.
A horn. Carved from what looks like deer antler, the surface smooth and gleaming from hours of careful attention. The sight of it sends ice through my veins because I recognize what it represents—communication, coordination, the kind of tool a leader uses to rally his forces or signal his position to allies.
Chieftain. The word echoes in my memory, something Eira mentioned once in passing, something I filed away without truly processing its implications. But watching him now, seeing the way he moves with sudden authority and purpose, the pieces click into place with terrifying clarity.
This isn't just any orc warrior. This is someone important. Someone with power and responsibility that extends far beyond his own survival.
And I've just agreed to trust him completely.
Nelrish shoulders his pack and gestures for us to follow, leading us away from our makeshift camp with the kind of purposeful navigation that speaks to intimate knowledge of these woods. His steps are silent despite his size, each footfall placed with predatory precision as he guides us through the undergrowth. I struggle to match his pace while carrying Eira, my boots catching on exposed roots and hidden stones that he seems to anticipate and avoid without conscious thought.
The war-horn sounds again, closer now, and I can hear something else beneath its brazen call—shouting voices, the clash of metal on metal, the kind of chaotic noise that speaks to active combat somewhere in the forest around us. My grip on Eira tightens involuntarily, and she responds by pressing closer against me, her breath warm against my neck.
We move through the trees like ghosts, Nelrish setting a pace that pushes the limits of what I can manage while burdenedwith my daughter's weight. My arms burn with the strain, my shoulders aching from the awkward angle, but I refuse to slow us down. Refuse to be the weak link that gets us all captured or killed.
When we've put what feels like adequate distance between ourselves and the sounds of battle, Nelrish stops. He pulls the carved horn from his pack, raising it to his lips with the kind of reverent care usually reserved for sacred objects. The sound that emerges is nothing like the brutal war-cry we heard earlier—this is something deeper, more musical, notes that seem to harmonize with the wind through the pine branches.
A call. A signal to anyone listening that he's here, that he's alive.
We continue moving, Nelrish blowing the horn at regular intervals as we make our way through terrain that grows increasingly familiar to him and increasingly foreign to me. This isn't random flight anymore—this is purposeful travel toward a specific destination, with the horn serving as a beacon to guide potential allies to our position.
The third time he sounds the call, something answers.
"Chieftain!"
The shout comes from somewhere ahead of us, rough with relief and desperate joy. Nelrish goes rigid beside me, his entire posture shifting in ways that transform him from careful guide to something else entirely. His shoulders broaden, his spine straightens, and when he turns his head to pinpoint the source of the voice, I see the profile of someone accustomed to command.
Chieftain. Not just any leader—the leader. The absolute authority within whatever clan structure governs these woods.
The orc who emerges from the treeline ahead of us is massive even by orc standards, a mountain of muscle and scarred flesh that moves with the controlled violence of a career warrior. Half his face is a ruin of old burns, the damaged skin puckered anddiscolored, and his left eye shows the cloudy white of blindness. But his remaining eye blazes with fierce intelligence as it locks onto Nelrish, and the relief that washes over his features is profound enough to be almost painful to witness.
"Korrash." Nelrish's voice carries a weight of authority I've never heard from him before, the tone of someone who expects immediate obedience and has never been disappointed. "Are you ready to fight?"
Three more warriors materialize from the forest behind Korrash, all bearing the kind of battle-worn gear that speaks to active combat experience. They move with the coordinated precision of a unit that's fought together countless times, surrounding us in a protective formation that includes Eira and me within their defensive perimeter without question.
"Chief, it's good to see you," Korrash answers, producing weapons from somewhere on his person and offering them to Nelrish with practiced efficiency. "We thought we had lost you."
Nelrish accepts the weapons—a massive sword that would require both my hands to lift, several throwing axes, a wicked-looking dagger—with the casual familiarity of someone returning to his natural state. The transformation is complete now. Gone is the wounded warrior I nursed back to health, replaced by someone who radiates danger and authority in equal measure. This is what he really is beneath the quiet gratitude and careful gentleness—a predator at the apex of his particular food chain.
"I'm not so easy to get rid of and it is time we end this," Nelrish declares, strapping weapons into place with economical movements. "Now. Today. I want no more of these petty feuds with the Redmoons."
The casual brutality of the statement sends ice through my veins, but none of the warriors show surprise or dismay. This is their world—violence as a problem-solving tool, leadershipmeasured in the ability to destroy threats to the clan. I'm getting my first real glimpse of the culture that shaped the man I've been sharing quiet meals and gentle conversation with, and it's both terrifying and oddly reassuring.
Terrifying because it highlights just how different we really are, how vast the gap between human and orc worldviews truly runs. Reassuring because it explains the absolute confidence with which he's promised to protect us—this isn't empty bravado or romantic gesture. This is what he does. Who he is.
But as he turns to leave, something cold and desperate claws at my chest. Not fear for my own safety—Korrash and his warriors radiate competent protection, and I have no doubt they'll guard us with their lives if necessary. No, this is something else entirely, something that catches me completely off guard with its intensity.
I don't want him to go.
