"Forla, child," he says gently. "Dark Elf hunting parties are sweeping the region. They're seeking a wounded orc, offering gold for information about his whereabouts."
My blood becomes ice. Thoktar's jaw hardens with grim acceptance, but I see the fear beneath his stoic mask. Not fear of death—fear of bringing danger to those who've helped him.
"How long ago?" I whisper.
"They were in Millhaven yesterday, Graeton this morning. Moving systematically, questioning everyone." Nazim's eyes find Thoktar's. "They know you're wounded, warrior. Know you can't have gotten far. Every hour you remain here increases the danger to this family."
Thoktar nods slowly, understanding passing between predator and predator. "I'll leave tonight."
"You're not strong enough," I protest, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know they won't matter. He'll go anyway, wounded or not, because staying means risking lives he's come to value.
"Strength is a luxury I can't afford," he says grimly. "Not when it costs innocent blood."
Nazim studies us both with ancient eyes that have seen empires rise and fall. "There might be another way. I know smuggler routes, hidden paths the Dark Elves haven't found. But it would mean traveling together, and the dangers..."
"We'll discuss it later," I say quickly, not ready for this conversation to end in goodbyes. "After dark, when we can plan properly."
But I already know how this ends. Thoktar will leave, wounded or not, because that's who he is—a protector who'd rather die than see others suffer for his presence. And I'll be left with empty medicine bottles and the memory of conversations that made me feel alive for the first time in years.
As Nazim settles into the hay to rest until evening, Thoktar catches my hand in his massive one. His touch sends warmth racing up my arm, and I realize with dawning terror that somewhere along the way, I've started to care for this wounded warrior far more than wisdom allows.
"Whatever happens," he says quietly, "these days with you... they've meant everything."
The admission hangs between us like a bridge neither of us is quite ready to cross. But the danger closing in around us makes every moment precious, every touch a potential last chance.
Time is running out, and we both know it.
5
THOKTAR
Forla tends my nearly healed wounds with practiced hands, her touch sending heat through me that has nothing to do with fever. The intimacy of her attention—careful fingers checking bandages, gentle pressure testing the wound's edges—makes my breath catch in ways that have nothing to do with pain.
I'm strong enough to travel now. Strong enough to leave her in safety, to carry my danger away from this peaceful place before the Dark Elves' net closes around us. But the thought of walking away feels like tearing my own heart out with bare hands.
"It's healing well," she murmurs, tracing the scar tissue with a fingertip. "Better than I expected, actually. Your body wants to live."
"Does it?" The question escapes before I can stop it, raw and honest in the quiet barn. "Sometimes I'm not sure."
She looks up at me with those knowing eyes, seeing straight through the warrior's mask I wear for the world. "What do you mean?"
The words spill out before I can stop them, like water through a cracked dam. About my brothers and the oath we swore to find each other no matter the cost. About the crushing weight of being the only survivor who knows they might still be alive, scattered across this hostile continent like seeds on barren ground.
About the guilt that eats at me worse than any poison.
"I was second-in-command," I tell her, voice rough with shame. "When the Dark Elves attacked our ship, it was my job to protect them. To keep the clan together. Instead, I watched them disappear beneath black waves while I clung to driftwood like a coward."
"You survived," she says softly. "That's not cowardice—that's hope."
"Hope?" I laugh bitterly. "I failed them, Forla. Gruk trusted me to help lead our people to safety, and I let them all drown. Seven brothers scattered to the winds or claimed by the sea, and I'm the only one searching. What kind of hope is that?"
She listens without judgment, her eyes bright with understanding tears. When I finish, she's quiet for a long moment, just breathing with me in the hay-scented silence.
"You're not responsible for the storm," she says finally. "Any more than I'm responsible for being born where slavers could find me."
Her wisdom cuts through my guilt like her touch cuts through my defenses. Simple truth spoken without artifice, wisdom earned through her own suffering. She understands survival's cruel mathematics, knows the difference between choice and circumstance.
"The Dark Elves destroyed your ship," she continues. "The sea scattered your clan. You didn't choose any of that—you just chose to keep fighting when it would have been easier to drown."
