"Are those for me?" she asks, her voice carrying careful hope rather than assumption.
"They are." Nelrish reaches for the carved figures first—small animals rendered in dark wood with careful attention to detail. "These are for learning clan stories. Each animal represents different aspects of our history and beliefs."
He places them in her small hands one by one, naming each creature and beginning to explain their significance within orc lore. The patience in his voice, the careful way he adapts complex concepts to her five-year-old understanding, makes something deep and warm unfurl in my chest.
This isn't duty or obligation driving his attention to my daughter. It's genuine affection, the kind of instinctive care that can't be faked or forced. He wants her to understand her heritage—not just the human side she's inherited from me, but the orc traditions that flow through her magical abilities and physical characteristics.
Eira listens with the intense focus she reserves for subjects that truly capture her interest, asking questions that reveal her quick mind and natural curiosity. When Nelrish presents the gaming pieces—carved stones marked with symbols that represent different clan territories—she immediately begins experimenting with arrangements that might form valid moves.
"And this," he says, lifting the small knife with reverent care, "is for when you're ready to learn proper blade work. Not yet," he adds quickly, catching my expression of alarm. "But every orc child learns to handle weapons safely. It's part of understanding respect for tools that can preserve life or take it."
The explanation makes sense within the context of clan culture, even if my maternal instincts rebel against the idea of my daughter handling bladed weapons. But I force myself to remember that she's growing up in a world where self-defense isn't optional, where understanding danger might mean the difference between safety and catastrophe.
"Thank you," Eira breathes, gathering her new treasures with the kind of careful reverence that speaks to understanding their importance. "Can I put them in my room?"
"Of course. It's your room now."
The simple statement carries implications that make my throat tight with emotion. Not a guest space or temporary accommodation, but hers. Permanent. Home.
She disappears into the alcove with her arms full of carved wood and marked stones, her voice carrying back to us as she arranges everything to her satisfaction. The domestic sounds—small objects being placed just so, pleased murmurs of approval—fill the silence with contentment.
Nelrish turns toward me when her chatter fades to concentration, his expression shifting from paternal indulgence to something more serious. The change in his demeanor sets warning bells chiming in my mind.
"There's something I need to tell you," he says, his voice carrying the careful neutrality that means difficult news. "About what happened to me in the forest. About who was responsible."
I settle more fully onto the bench, giving him my complete attention. The topic of his poisoning has remained largelyunexplored during our journey—too many immediate concerns demanding focus for extended discussion of past events.
"Sareen." The name emerges with the kind of controlled anger that speaks to deep personal betrayal. "She's the one who poisoned my water."
I remember the name from his fever dreams, the way he'd spoken it with confusion and pain during those first delirious hours. But I'd assumed she was simply another casualty of the clan wars, not the architect of his near-death.
"Sareen is—was—someone I've known since childhood," he continues, his hands clasped between his knees as he stares into the fire. "We grew up together, trained together. I thought I could trust her with my life."
The pain in his voice goes beyond simple anger at betrayal. This cuts deeper—the violation of bonds formed in childhood, the destruction of faith that can never be fully repaired.
"She came to me last spring," he says, his tone carefully controlled. "Declared her feelings, wanted me to take her as my mate. When I refused—gently, I thought—she accepted it with grace. Or so I believed."
Understanding begins to crystallize. A woman scorned, jealousy festering into something poisonous, revenge planned with intimate knowledge of his habits and vulnerabilities.
"She allied herself with Redmoon after my rejection, fed them information about our defenses, our patrol routes. The poisoning was meant to remove me as an obstacle to their territorial expansion. If you hadn't found me..." He trails off, but the implication hangs heavy between us.
I reach for his hand, twining our fingers together in a gesture meant to anchor him to the present moment rather than the possibilities that never came to pass. His skin is warm, callused from weapon work, completely alive beneath my touch.
"But I did find you," I tell him, my voice carrying fierce certainty. "You're here. Safe."
His smile carries gratitude that goes beyond simple thanks for medical care. I saved more than his life that night—I preserved his future, our future, everything we're building together.
"Tomorrow there will be a public execution," he says, his tone shifting to something more formal. "Clan law requires it for betrayal of this magnitude. Sareen will answer for her crimes before the entire community."
The words settle into my stomach like stones. I've never witnessed an execution, never seen life deliberately ended as punishment for wrongdoing. The bunkers handled serious crimes through exile—casting offenders out into the wasteland to face whatever fate awaited beyond protective walls.
"I wanted to tell you in case you preferred to keep Eira away," he continues. "It will draw most of the clan. Justice must be public to serve its purpose as deterrent, but I understand if you find it too harsh for a child to witness."
I consider this carefully, weighing my protective instincts against the practical realities of clan life. Eira will grow up surrounded by orc customs and traditions. Shielding her from difficult aspects of that culture serves no useful purpose if this is truly to be our permanent home.
"She needs to understand how justice works here," I tell him finally. "This woman tried to kill you—tried to kill the person who's become her protector and provider. Eira's intelligent enough to understand why that requires punishment."
More than that, I want to support him through what must be a painful duty. Executing someone he's known since childhood, regardless of her crimes, can't be easy. My presence, my acceptance of clan justice, might provide whatever small comfort public solidarity can offer.
