The first thing I notice when consciousness returns is the absence of Nelrish's warmth beside me. My hand finds only cool furs where his solid presence should be, the indentation in the massive bed the only evidence he was here at all. Pale morning light filters through the small window cut into the timber wall, casting everything in soft gray tones that speak to early hours and quiet beginnings.
I stretch against the luxurious expanse of space, my body sinking into furs that smell like pine smoke and something distinctly him—leather and clean sweat and the indefinable scent that's become synonymous with safety in my mind. The bed could easily accommodate four people my size, its carved frame speaking to craftsmanship that would have been impossible in the bunkers where furniture was assembled from salvaged scraps and held together with makeshift repairs.
For the first time in years, I feel genuinely rested. Not the exhausted collapse that passes for sleep in underground shelters, where every sound might herald danger and every breath carries the metallic taste of recycled air. This is thedeep, healing rest that comes from knowing someone else stands watch, someone capable of protecting what matters most.
The thought of Eira pulls me fully awake. I slip from beneath the heavy covers and pad across the main room on bare feet, my toes finding warmth in the thick furs that carpet the floor. The stone beneath radiates heat from banked coals, a luxury that would have been unimaginable in the bunkers where every bit of fuel was rationed with military precision.
Her small form is curled beneath layers of soft fur in the alcove that's already begun to feel like hers. Dark curls spill across the pillow, and her face holds the perfect peace that belongs only to sleeping children. I watch her for a moment, cataloguing the subtle changes that a few nights of proper rest and adequate food have brought—color in her cheeks, the absence of that hollow look around her eyes that spoke to constant hunger.
"Mama?" Her voice carries the drowsy confusion of someone surfacing from deep dreams.
"Morning, sweetheart." I settle onto the edge of her bed, smoothing the curls back from her forehead. "How did you sleep?"
"Good." She sits up, rubbing her eyes with small fists before taking in the unfamiliar surroundings with typical five-year-old adaptability. "Where's Nelrish?"
"He's already up and about. Chieftain duties, I imagine." The easy way his title falls from my lips surprises me. Three days ago, the concept of orc leadership represented everything threatening about this new world. Now it simply describes the man who's claimed responsibility for our welfare.
Eira's stomach chooses that moment to announce its needs with an audible growl that makes her giggle. The sound fills the space between us with warmth that has nothing to do with the heated stones.
"Let's get you dressed and find some breakfast," I tell her, though the prospect of navigating clan politics and curious stares makes my chest tight with anxiety.
The bathing chamber attached to Nelrish's quarters reveals luxuries that make my throat close with unexpected emotion. Hot water flows from a spigot connected to pipes that snake through the heated stones, filling a basin carved from a single piece of granite. Steam rises from the surface, carrying scents of herbs and minerals that speak to natural hot springs rather than the chemical treatments that made bunker water barely palatable.
I help Eira wash the travel dust from her skin and hair, marveling at the simple pleasure of unlimited clean water. The soap—actual soap, not the harsh blocks of lye and ash we'd made do with underground—creates rich lather that leaves her skin soft and faintly scented with lavender.
"This is so much better than the other place," she says, splashing contentedly in water that would have represented a week's ration in the bunkers.
Her casual dismissal of the Redmoon compound makes me pause. To her, these past months were simply another temporary stop in a life that's known too much upheaval. The resilience of children never fails to astonish me—their ability to adapt, to find joy in simple pleasures, to trust that adults will somehow make everything work out.
We dress in the clothes Nelrish provided yesterday—sturdy woolen undergarments and leather outer layers that smell of careful storage and speak to quality that would have been reserved for clan leaders. The garments hang loose on my smaller frame, but the warmth they provide makes up for any issues with fit.
Eira's outfit mirrors mine in miniature, though her excited twirling suggests she finds the novelty delightful rather thanawkward. The sight of her small hands smoothing down unfamiliar fabric tugs at something deep in my chest. She deserves this—clothes that aren't patched and repatched, food that doesn't come from carefully rationed stores, a life where childhood means something more than preparing for survival.
The cookhouse sits at the settlement's heart, a low building constructed from the same massive timbers that characterize all clan architecture. Smoke rises from multiple chimneys, carrying scents that make my mouth water—roasting meat, baking bread, the complex blend of herbs and spices that speaks to adequate supplies and skilled hands.
I pause at the entrance, Eira's small hand clasped in mine as I gather courage for what amounts to my first real test of acceptance within Nelrish's world. The buzz of conversation filters through wooden walls, punctuated by the sounds of meal preparation and occasional laughter. Normal sounds. The kind of community noise that the bunkers tried to recreate in their cramped common areas but never quite achieved.
"Ready?" I ask Eira, who nods with the fearless enthusiasm that defines her approach to new experiences.
The interior opens into a space dominated by long tables arranged around a central cooking area where massive pots bubble over controlled flames. Women move between workstations with practiced efficiency, their conversations flowing around tasks that speak to years of shared routine. The warm air carries layers of aroma that make my empty stomach clench with anticipation.
Conversation doesn't exactly stop when we enter, but it shifts—becomes more self-conscious, loaded with the weight of curious observation. I feel the attention like physical pressure against my skin, though most glances remain politely indirect. They're taking my measure, these women who've known Nelrish their entire lives, trying to understand what their chieftain seesin a human who's appeared from nowhere to claim space in their carefully ordered world.
"You must be Mara." The voice belongs to a woman whose iron-gray hair is braided with colored threads that mark her as someone of importance within the domestic hierarchy. Her tusks are worn smooth with age, and her eyes hold the kind of sharp intelligence that sees everything without seeming to try. "I'm Vaenna. I manage things here."
"Yes, thank you for—" I begin, but she's already turning toward the cooking area with brisk movements that suggest action over extensive conversation.
"Can you work with bread?" she asks, gesturing toward a table covered in risen dough that awaits shaping. "Or do humans manage food differently?"
The question carries careful neutrality, though I catch undertones that speak to genuine curiosity rather than dismissal. These women have heard stories about human capabilities, but I'm their first opportunity to observe the reality.
"I can work with bread," I tell her, settling Eira at a nearby table with a small bowl of porridge before moving toward the waiting dough. My hands remember the motions from childhood mornings spent helping my grandmother, muscle memory surfacing despite years of eating nothing but pre-rationed bunker meals.
The dough responds to familiar techniques—gentle stretching, careful folding, the precise pressure that develops texture without overworking the gluten. Around me, other women return to their tasks while maintaining the kind of peripheral awareness that lets them observe without seeming to stare.
"Where did you learn that?" The question comes from a younger woman whose belly speaks to advanced pregnancy. Her tone carries genuine interest rather than suspicion.
"My grandmother taught me, before the bunkers." I shape another loaf with movements that feel like meditation. "She used to say that bread was the foundation of civilization."
