"Because if you were the kind of person who killed those who helped him, you'd already be dead." She selects another piece of wood, testing its dryness before adding it to the flames. "Poison like that? It requires trust. Someone close enough to hand you water without suspicion."
The accuracy of her assessment sends cold through my chest that has nothing to do with winter weather. She's right, of course. Sareen's betrayal cut deep precisely because I trusted her judgment, valued her counsel. The water skin came from someone I considered an ally, perhaps even a friend.
"Your daughter," I manage, struggling to keep my voice above a whisper. "She saw."
"Eira sees many things. Most of them are true." The woman's tone carries protective warning despite its quietness. "She said someone you trusted smiled when she handed you the water."
Memory surfaces like bile in my throat. Sareen's face as she offered refreshment after the long hunt, the slight curve of her lips that I'd interpreted as shared satisfaction in a successful raid. Now that expression takes on a different meaning—anticipation rather than pleasure. The satisfaction of a plan nearing fruition.
"Why tell me this?" I ask. "Why not let the poison finish its work and leave me? Why stop and help at all?"
The woman's hands still on the wood she's been arranging. When she looks at me again, her eyes hold something I don't immediately recognize. Something fierce and protective and utterly implacable.
"Because I know what it feels like to be betrayed by someone you trusted. Know what it costs to survive it." She resumes her work, movements sharper now. "And because my daughter has nightmares about cruel people who smile while they hurt others. If I can prevent one more child from seeing that particular darkness, I will."
Understanding dawns with painful clarity. This isn't random mercy or simple compassion. This woman has her own history with betrayal, her own reasons for recognizing the wounds that matter most. She saves me not despite who I am, but because she understands what I've endured.
The realization creates a debt beyond simple life-preservation. She's given me not just survival, but recognition. Acknowledgment that my pain matters, that the violation of trust deserves response rather than acceptance.
I close my eyes and let the willow bark work its medicine through my system. Let the warmth of their small fire chase the poison-chill from my bones. Let myself acknowledge the magnitude of what these strangers have offered freely, without negotiation or demand for payment.
When I recover—when I'm strong enough to stand and fight and reclaim what was taken from me—I'll remember this moment. This choice made by a human woman and her half-blood daughter to offer mercy when they could have offered death.
The debt begins here, in this small shelter beneath snow-heavy pines. And I will see it properly repaid, regardless of what such payment might cost.
5
MARA
The morning arrives wrapped in silence, thick and muffled by the snow that's been falling steadily since before dawn. I wake to the soft whisper of flakes against pine boughs and the steady rhythm of breathing from our unexpected companion. The orc—Nelrish, I think Eira called him in her sleep-murmured observations—lies still beneath the makeshift blanket I'd fashioned from my coat and gathered moss.
His fever broke sometime during the night. I know because I checked, fingertips pressed briefly to his forehead while Eira slept curled against my side like a little fox seeking warmth. The skin felt cool, normal temperature beneath the coarse dark hair. Relief had flooded through me then, unexpected in its intensity.
Why should I care if an orc lives or dies? The question haunts me as I carefully extract myself from our nest of pine needles and borrowed body heat. My movements are practiced quiet, learned from years of early morning scavenging runs in the bunkers when competition for resources meant the difference between eating and going hungry.
But I do care, and that realization sits uneasily in my chest as I duck out of our shelter into the pearl-grey morning.
The forest has transformed overnight. What yesterday was brown earth and green pine now lies buried beneath a blanket of white that continues to thicken with each passing moment. Fat flakes drift down through the canopy, each one catching what little light filters through the clouds. It's beautiful in a way that makes my grandmother's stories feel real—winter as something magical rather than simply another survival challenge.
First snow. The phrase rises unbidden from childhood memory, carrying with it the weight of traditions I'd thought lost forever. Grandmother's voice echoes in my mind:When the first snow falls on the longest night, when the world grows quiet and the stars grow bright...
My breath mists in the cold air as I survey our small clearing. The fire has burned down to embers, carefully banked to provide warmth without producing telltale smoke. Our tracks from yesterday are already filling with fresh powder, erasing evidence of our passage. Good. The longer we remain invisible, the better our chances of surviving whatever comes next.
I need to forage while the opportunity exists. Need to find food, medicine, anything useful before the snow gets too deep for safe travel. The few rations I grabbed during our flight won't last more than another day, especially if we're feeding three instead of two.
The wintergreen grows in patches beneath the larger pines, dark leaves almost black against fresh snow. I gather handfuls, stuffing them into the pouches I've fashioned from torn fabric. Wintergreen for pain, for fever that might return. The sharp scent clings to my fingers as I work, minty and clean.
Chaga proves harder to locate, but I find a promising birch tree with the telltale black growths clinging to its trunk like burned fists. I chip away what I can reach with my belt knife, collecting the orange interior that will brew into medicine.Chaga for immune support, for general healing. Something tells me we'll need all the medicinal help we can gather.
Pine needles come easiest of all. I strip young shoots from several trees, selecting the brightest green growth for maximum potency. These will provide vitamin support through the lean winter months ahead—assuming we survive long enough to worry about nutritional deficiencies.
When I return to our shelter, I find Eira awake and busy with some project that involves arranging small objects in careful patterns. She's gathered winter berries—the bright red ones that birds love but humans can't digest—along with seed pods and interesting twigs. Her small fingers work with surprising dexterity despite the cold, weaving and positioning each element with artistic precision.
"What are you making, sweet girl?" I keep my voice low, conscious of our sleeping companion.
"Decorations." She doesn't look up from her work, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "First snow means decorate the trees for good luck. Grandmother's stories said so."
My heart clenches at the casual reference to traditions I've tried so hard to preserve. In the bunkers, such practices were considered wasteful superstition. Resources too precious to spend on anything that didn't directly support survival. But here, watching my daughter create beauty from forest scraps, I remember why these rituals matter.
