"Good habits. But today we greet family, not enemies."
The lodge flap opens, admitting Brakka with his ritual scars gleaming in the firelight. "They've arrived. The humans bear peaceful banners and gifts of fine steel."
My pulse quickens. "How does my father seem?"
"Cautious. But curious. The female with him speaks our tongue better than most traders."
Aunt Ravelle.Of course she would have spent these months learning orcish customs, preparing for this moment with her typical thoroughness.
I stand carefully, cradling Thalric against my chest. He's grown so much already, solid weight and alert awareness replacing the fragile newborn I first held. Vorrak moves to my side, protective presence that's become as natural as breathing.
Together, we step out into the crisp mountain air.
The delegation from House Cyrdan looks starkly foreign against the backdrop of carved bone and mammoth-hide. Father sits straight-backed on his destrier, breath misting in the cold, while Aunt Ravelle guides her mare with obvious expertise. Both wear traveling furs, but beneath I catch glimpses of silk and silver—reminders of the world I left behind.
Father's eyes find mine immediately, then drop to the bundle in my arms. Even from this distance, I can see his expression shift, stern lines softening as understanding dawns.
His first grandchild. The continuation of his bloodline through paths he never imagined.
Vorrak's hand settles at the small of my back, steadying presence as we approach. The formal greetings follow ancient protocol—clan elders offering bread and salt, Father presenting gifts of worked metal and preserved wines. But beneath the ceremony, tension crackles.
Then Thalric decides to make his own introduction.
His cry pierces the morning air, demanding attention with royal imperviousness. Father's mount sidesteps nervously, butFather himself leans forward, studying my son with new intensity.
"May I?" he asks, dismounting with careful dignity.
I glance at Vorrak, who nods almost imperceptibly. Together, we close the distance until we stand arm's length from the man who once terrified me into midnight flight.
Father looks older, I realize. Lines around his eyes speak of worry and sleepless nights. But when he gazes at Thalric, something profound shifts in his expression.
"Thalric Vorraksson," I say formally. "Your grandson."
Father extends one gloved finger, and Thalric immediately grasps it with both tiny hands. The baby's strength surprises a laugh from Father's throat. A sound I haven't heard since childhood.
"He has the Cyrdan grip," Father murmurs. "And his grandmother's eyes."
"The tusks are Vorrak's gift," I add with gentle pride.
Father nods, studying the delicate ivory points with what looks like approval? "Strong teeth for strong food. He'll need them in this climate."
Behind him, Aunt Ravelle practically vibrates with restrained excitement. "Oh, let me see him properly!"
The formal presentations dissolve into something far more precious with a family discovering itself across species lines. Aunt Ravelle coos over Thalric's golden curls while Father discusses hunting techniques with Vorrak, their conversation bridging languages and customs with surprising ease.
This is how peace really begins. Not with signed documents, but with shared wonder at new life.
As afternoon stretches toward evening, we find ourselves climbing the ridge above our camp. Father carries Thalric now, the baby content to observe the world from this new vantagepoint. Aunt Ravelle walks beside Vorrak, peppering him with questions about ice-fishing and mammoth migration patterns.
The view from the summit steals what little breath the climb has left us. Tharador spreads below in all its harsh beauty—endless white broken by dark stone, the shimmer of frozen lakes, the distant smoke of other clan settlements. Beyond the horizon, I know, lie the green valleys of Elaren and the contested Scarlands.
"It's magnificent," Father says quietly. "I understand now why you stayed."
"I stayed for love," I correct gently. "The beauty just made it easier."
Thalric babbles happily, reaching for snowflakes that dance in the air around us. Father adjusts his hold instinctively, natural grandfather instincts overriding years of noble protocol.
"The alliance you've forged here," Father continues, "it's stronger than any marriage contract I could have arranged."
