Yet small hands find my temples, fingers cool as river stones against the fever burning through my skull. The touch should be nothing—negligible weight, easily ignored. Instead, it draws heat from my skin like water soaking into parched earth. The relief is immediate and startling, enough to drag my consciousness closer to the surface.
The hands belong to a girl, far too young to be out here, with dark curls that catch snowflakes and eyes the color of autumn leaves. She studies my face with the serious attention adults reserve for important decisions, as if cataloguing every detail of my condition. There's something otherworldly about her focus, something that suggests she sees more than simple flesh and fever.
Half-blood. The knowledge surfaces without conscious thought, recognizing the subtle markers that speak of mixed heritage. The faint luminescence beneath pale skin. The way she holds herself, balanced between human fragility and something wilder. Her parentage explains the fearlessness, perhaps—enough orc blood to recognize me as kin rather than monster, enough human wisdom to approach with healing rather than violence.
"Eira." The woman's voice again, gentler now. Maternal. "Step back while I get this into him."
The child—Eira—withdraws her cooling touch with obvious reluctance. I want to protest the loss, to ask for those small hands to return and draw more fire from my burning skull. But my throat feels packed with ash, voice reduced to nothing more than labored breathing.
Something presses against my lips—wooden cup, rough-carved and warm with whatever liquid it contains. The scent hits first: willow bark, bitter and medicinal, mixed with pine needles and the metallic tang of melted snow. Healing tea. Someone has taken the time to brew proper medicine rather than simply leave me to die.
"I need you to drink this." The woman's voice carries quiet authority, the tone of someone accustomed to being obeyed without force. "Small sips. Don't try to talk."
The first taste confirms what my nose already identified—willow bark tea, strong enough to fight fever but carefully balanced to avoid poisoning an already compromised system. Whoever prepared this knows their craft, understands the fine line between medicine and toxin. Each swallow burns going down, but I can feel it working almost immediately, the bitter compounds beginning their war against whatever Sareen fed me.
Between sips, I catch glimpses of my unlikely savior. Human woman, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of practical competence that speaks of hard-won survival skills. Her movements are efficient as she tends the small fire struggling against wet wood and falling snow. No wasted motion, no hesitation. Every action serves a purpose.
She's built a shelter of sorts—pine boughs woven together and anchored against larger trees, creating a windbreak that transforms this small clearing into something approachinghabitable. The fire occupies the center, fed with carefully selected wood that burns hot despite the moisture. Smoke rises in a thin column that disperses quickly among the branches overhead, invisible from any distance greater than a few yards.
Professional work. This woman knows how to survive in hostile territory without advertising her presence to every predator or enemy within miles. The question that haunts my fever-muddled thoughts is how she acquired such skills, and why she's chosen to use them for my benefit.
"More." She presses the cup to my lips again, patient as stone. "You need to flush the poison before it reaches your heart."
I manage another swallow, then another. Each one requires tremendous effort, but I can feel strength returning by degrees. Not much—nowhere near enough to fight or flee—but sufficient to maintain awareness of my surroundings. Sufficient to register the magnitude of what's happening here.
A human woman and her half-blood daughter have chosen to save the life of an orc chieftain they've never met, in a forest where discovery by either side could mean death for all three of us. They've sacrificed concealment, expended precious resources, and taken enormous personal risk for no apparent gain.
In my world, such actions demand explanation. Require purpose beyond simple mercy, because mercy alone doesn't keep you alive when the snow starts falling and enemies prowl the darkness between trees. Yet I can find no ulterior motive in the woman's careful ministrations, no hidden agenda in the child's gentle touch.
They're helping me because I need help. Because leaving me to die violates some internal code that matters more than personal safety.
The concept is so foreign I struggle to process it fully. Even among my own clan, aid comes with expectations—loyalty earned, debts acknowledged, favors to be repaid when circumstances permit. But these strangers offer assistance without negotiation, without guarantee of future reward.
It makes no sense. Makes perfect sense. Creates an obligation I'll carry until the day I can properly discharge it.
The fire pops and hisses as moisture in the wood turns to steam. The woman adds more fuel with practiced motions, building the heat without creating enough light to attract unwanted attention. She's positioned herself between the flames and the forest beyond, using her body to further conceal our presence. Everything about her posture speaks of someone accustomed to remaining invisible.
"Mama?" The child—Eira—settles beside her mother with the easy familiarity of shared hardship. "His fever's going down."
"Good." The woman's response carries relief she doesn't try to hide. "Can you tell if the poison's still spreading?"
A pause while the girl considers, head tilted in concentration. "It's fighting. The good medicine and the bad poison. Like when ice and fire touch."
An apt description. I can feel the battle being waged inside my body—willow bark compounds binding to toxins, pine needle antioxidants supporting organs under assault. The fever remains, but its edge has dulled. My breathing comes easier, no longer the shallow panting of a body struggling to process poison.
I will live. The certainty settles with quiet finality, though recovery will take time I may not have. Time these strangers are giving me at considerable cost to themselves.
"Why?" The word emerges as barely a whisper, throat still raw from fever and poison. But it carries all the weight of my confusion, my gratitude, my growing sense of debt.
The woman looks up from the fire, meeting my gaze with steady green eyes that hold depths I can't begin to fathom. For a long moment, she doesn't answer. Simply studies my face as if weighing what truth she can afford to share.
"Because someone poisoned you and left you to die alone." Her voice carries quiet steel. "Because that's wrong, regardless of who you are or what you've done."
"I could kill you both." The statement emerges without conscious thought, simple acknowledgment of physical reality. Even weakened, even poisoned, I remain dangerous enough to end their lives with minimal effort.
"You could." She returns to feeding the fire, unconcerned. "But you won't."
"How can you be certain?"
