"What happened to her?" Shae asks one of the warriors as they pass.
"Says she was attacked by her own clan," he replies grimly. "Beaten and left for dead. Claims they thought she was unfaithful to her mate."
The explanation makes my stomach twist with sympathetic horror. Whatever else I might think about orc culture and their approach to relationships, I haven't seen any evidence of the kind of brutal punishment the stranger describes. The Frostfangs take their traditions seriously, but there's a fundamental decency underneath the religious theater that makes such violence feel completely alien.
"Poor thing," Shae murmurs, and there's genuine compassion in her voice. "We'll need to make sure she has proper care and protection while she heals."
I nod agreement, already thinking about what assistance I might be able to offer. Food, clean clothes, someone to talk towho understands what it feels like to be alone and dependent on strangers' charity.
But as we follow the group toward Falla's lodge, that nagging sense of familiarity continues to flutter at the edges of my consciousness. Something about the shape of her face or the way she moved, even injured and exhausted.
I push the feeling away again. Whatever half-memory is trying to surface, it's less important than making sure she gets the help she needs.
After all, what are the odds that a random orc woman stumbling out of the wilderness would have any connection to my past?
8
KAI
The scouts return with dirt under their nails and frustration etched into their faces. I read their report standing beside the central fire pit while Bronn watches with the calculating expression he wears when planning defensive strategies.
"Stonevein patrols push deeper," Captain Morruk confirms, his weathered hands sketching rough territory maps in the ash beside the flames. "Three separate groups, moving in coordinated sweeps. They're not just hunting—they're mapping our outer boundaries."
My jaw tightens. Stonevein has always been aggressive, but this level of organized reconnaissance suggests something beyond their usual territorial posturing. "Any sign of what they're tracking?"
"Could be the human." He glances toward Bronn before continuing. "Could be testing our responses. Hard to say without direct contact."
Which we won't risk. Not with clan families scattered across the valley in temporary festival lodges, not with celebration making everyone less vigilant than usual.
"Double the perimeter watches," I order, knowing Bronn will back me up. "Rotating shifts, no predictable patterns. And I want runners positioned between each checkpoint—if something moves out there, I know about it immediately."
Morruk nods and heads toward the warriors' quarters to implement new patrol schedules. Bronn waits until we're alone before moving closer, his steel-gray eyes carrying the weight of decisions that extend beyond immediate security concerns.
"Walk with me."
It's not a request, despite the casual phrasing. I follow him away from the central area toward the stone monuments our ancestors carved when they first established this valley as Frostfang territory. The ancient faces watch us pass with expressions weathered into eternal vigilance, reminders of what we're meant to protect.
"The patrols haven't found her friend," Bronn says once we're out of earshot from the rest of the clan. "Week of searching, covering ground we'd normally avoid during festival season. No trace."
The words hit heavier than they should. I've been hoping—irrationally, perhaps—that finding Ressa would provide some resolution to the impossible situation Saela and I face. If her friend were safe, maybe she'd feel less trapped, less desperate to escape circumstances neither of us chose.
"Maybe she got farther than we estimated," I suggest, though even I don't believe it. A human fleeing through winter territory, pursued by Stonevein trackers? The odds aren't encouraging.
"Maybe." Bronn stops beside the largest monument, running one thick finger along carvings that tell stories of battles fought and victories earned. "Or maybe that's not what matters anymore."
I turn to face him fully, reading the subtle tension in his shoulders that suggests this conversation carries more weight than casual status updates. "Meaning?"
"Meaning the clan needs to see this festival work. They need to believe Cupid's blessing means something real, that following tradition brings prosperity and protection." His voice carries the grinding certainty of someone who's made difficult decisions for collective survival. "They need to see you and the human bonding."
The suggestion hits like cold water. "We're not ready for that."
"Then get ready."
"Bronn—"
"No." He faces me with the full force of leadership authority, the expression that silenced arguments when I was young and still thought resistance might change his mind. "This isn't about personal comfort or private preferences. The clan has invested belief in this ritual, committed resources to celebration instead of pure survival. They need to see results."
Heat builds in my chest—frustration and protective instinct mixing into something that threatens my carefully maintained control. "She's not a political tool."
