I set the hay down carefully, every sense suddenly alert. The morning sounds seem too loud now—crows cawing, wind rustling leaves, my own pulse thundering in my ears. Three years of safety haven't erased the instincts slavery burned into my bones. Danger wears many faces, and I've learned to recognize them all.
I peer through the gap, blinking as my eyes adjust to the barn's shadowy interior. Dust motes dance in shafts of sunlight, and for a moment everything appears normal. Hay bales stacked against the far wall, tools hanging from wooden pegs, the familiar scent of animals and old wood.
Then I see him, and every thought in my head scatters like startled birds.
A massive orc lies motionless in the hay, green skin pale with blood loss and fever-sweat. He's enormous—easily twice my height and four times my weight, built like a siege engine made of muscle and bone. Dark leather vest torn and stained, revealing glimpses of ritual scars across his chest. Long black hair matted with dirt and worse things.
Every instinct screams run, hide, get Brom. Get the knife from the kitchen. Get help. Get away. Orcs are raiders, killers, monsters from children's nightmares. They steal women and burn villages and laugh while they do it. Everyone knows this. Everyone except the foolish girl standing frozen in a barn doorway.
But he's not moving like a threat. He's barely moving at all.
His massive chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths. One arm lies stretched toward a wicked-looking axe just beyond his reach—even unconscious, he tried to keep his weapon close. Blood pools beneath his side where something sharp found its mark, and his skin bears the gray pallor I've seen before in dying men.
Against all logic, all sense, all self-preservation, I step closer.
My healer's training—such as it is—kicks in stronger than fear. Talia taught me to tend wounds, to recognize the signs of poison and infection, to ease suffering wherever I find it. She never specified that compassion should have boundaries based on species.
Dark stains spread across his leather vest like spilled wine. Fevered sweat beads his forehead despite the morning chill, and his breathing sounds wet and labored. The wound in his side pulses with each heartbeat, fresh blood welling despite whatever rough binding he attempted.
This isn't an orc raider fresh from burning villages. This is a dying creature who needs help, and something in his stillness speaks to the broken places in my own soul. I've been where he is now—bleeding, abandoned, certain death was coming. The only difference is species, and pain recognizes no such boundaries.
My hands shake as I kneel beside him, close enough to see the individual scars mapping his green skin. Some are ritual markings, precise and intentional. Others speak of violence—sword cuts, arrow wounds, the random violence that followswarriors everywhere they go. But beneath all that, I see something unexpected: vulnerability.
He's unconscious, defenseless, probably dying. For all his size and obvious strength, right now he's as helpless as I was three years ago in those slave pens. Someone's hunting him—the nature of his wounds suggests pursuit, desperation, a running battle finally lost. Just like I was hunted once.
I check his pulse with trembling fingers, pressing against the thick column of his neck. His skin burns with fever, but his heartbeat drums steady if weak beneath my touch. Strong. Determined. Fighting even in unconsciousness.
He could live, if someone tends him. If someone chooses to help rather than flee.
I should tell Brom. Should let the proper authorities handle this. Should remember that orcs are dangerous, that helping him might bring death to everyone I love. Should be smart, careful, safe.
But memories of my own desperate hours flash through me—chained, bleeding, abandoned by everyone who might have helped. The taste of despair, the weight of hopelessness, the terrible certainty that I would die alone and forgotten. No one chose to help me until Talia and Brom did. No one showed mercy until they offered it freely.
I stand on shaking legs and run toward the house, but not for help. Not for weapons or warnings or authorities. I run for water and clean cloth, for the healing supplies Talia keeps in the kitchen cupboard. For the chance to pay forward the mercy I was shown.
Whatever he is, whatever he's done, he deserves the chance I was given. Even if it kills me.
Even if it kills us all.
3
THOKTAR
Iwake to cool water on my lips and gentle hands cleaning my wounds. For a moment I think I'm dead—surely only the afterlife could be this peaceful. No pain screaming through my side, no poison burning my veins, just blessed coolness and the whisper of careful fingers against my skin.
Then consciousness crashes back like a cold wave, and I see her.
A small human female kneels beside me, wise eyes focused on the gash in my side. Her movements are practiced, efficient, like someone who's tended wounds before. Dark hair falls in waves around a face that's seen too much for her apparent years, and when she notices I'm awake, those eyes meet mine without flinching.
She should be screaming. Should be running for help, calling for guards, reaching for weapons. Instead she's saving my life with hands that smell of herbs and kindness.
"Easy," she murmurs, voice soft as morning rain. "You're safe."
Safe. The word sounds foreign in my ears. I haven't been safe since our ship went down, haven't trusted in anything beyondmy own strength and the weight of my axe. But something in her tone makes the promise feel real, even though my warrior's mind knows better.
I try to speak and manage only a croak. My throat feels like I've been swallowing sand and broken glass. She lifts a wooden cup to my lips without being asked, supporting my head with surprising strength for someone so small. The water tastes like mercy.
"Who—" I manage between careful sips. "Who are you?"
