Better to maintain distance. Better to keep feelings carefully controlled, managed like any other tactical consideration.
Even if every instinct I possess argues otherwise, even if watching her smile at my friends makes me want to earn one of those expressions for myself, even if the thought of genuine partnership with someone as remarkable as Saela feels like the first real hope I've experienced since Lyanna died.
Distance. Control. Protection for both of us against disappointment that seems increasingly inevitable.
No matter how much my friends think I'm being an idiot about it.
9
SAELA
The healing lodge sits tucked between the main gathering area and the women's quarters, its thick timber walls designed to muffle sound and keep patients comfortable during recovery. I approach the entrance with the careful steps I've learned to use around injured people—quiet enough not to startle, but audible enough not to surprise.
Voices drift through the partially opened door. Shae's warm tones mixing with another woman's softer responses. I pause at the threshold, uncertain whether my presence would be welcome or intrusive.
"Come in, Saela." Shae's invitation carries the gentle authority of someone who notices everything happening around her. "Sera was just asking about you."
I step inside, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. The space smells of healing herbs and woodsmoke, with underlying notes of the salves Shae uses to treat injuries. Sera sits propped against thick furs on a low platform bed, her light green skin showing healthy color despite the exhaustion still visible around her beautiful green eyes.
She looks better than when we found her. Clean, warm, properly fed. The desperate edge of near-death has softened into simple fatigue, though I notice she still tracks movement with the hyperaware attention of someone who's learned to expect trouble.
"Thank you," Sera says, her voice carrying genuine gratitude. "Both of you. I wouldn't have survived another night in those woods."
"Anyone would have done the same," I reply, though even as I speak the words I know they're not entirely true. Kindness isn't universal, especially when resources are scarce and trust is dangerous.
"Not everyone." Her green eyes focus on me with intensity that makes something uncomfortable flutter in my chest. "You didn't know me, had no reason to help, but you convinced your friend here to bring me inside despite the risk."
Friend. The word settles warm and strange. When did Shae become my friend instead of just someone showing clan hospitality to a political obligation? The shift happened gradually, built through shared conversations and small kindnesses that accumulated into something resembling genuine care.
"Shae convinced me," I correct. "I just agreed with her reasoning."
"Still." Sera's smile carries charm that feels practiced, polished. "Gratitude stands."
There's something about her expression that tugs at memory—not recognition exactly, but familiarity that refuses to crystallize into specific recollection. Maybe it's just the shared experience of being an outsider, the recognition that comes from seeing someone else navigate spaces where they don't quite belong.
Being the only humans in Frostfang territory creates its own form of kinship, regardless of how we arrived here.
"How are you feeling?" I ask, settling cross-legged beside Shae with movements that have become natural after days of adapting to orcish furniture and social customs.
"Better every hour." Sera shifts position carefully, testing the limits of her recovery. "Your healers are skilled. I should be able to travel soon."
The mention of leaving makes something tighten in my chest. Sera represents possibility—proof that humans can survive outside clan protection, that the world beyond Frostfang boundaries isn't automatically fatal. Her presence reminds me that I have choices, even if exercising them carries enormous risks.
But it also represents loss. Another connection severed, another person disappearing into uncertainty while I remain trapped by circumstances beyond my control.
"Where will you go?" The question emerges before I can stop it.
"South, maybe. Or west toward the coastal settlements." Her tone carries careful neutrality, as if discussing weather rather than life-altering decisions. "Somewhere without painful memories."
I understand that impulse. The desire to run from places that carry the weight of trauma, to start fresh where no one knows your history or expects specific behaviors. Running has been my primary survival strategy for years.
"Be careful," I say quietly. "Territory disputes are getting more complex. Some areas that used to be safe for travelers aren't anymore."
She nods with the solemn attention of someone who knows survival depends on heeding good advice. "I'll remember that."
We talk for a few more minutes—casual conversation about recovery and weather and the festival activities she can hear from the healing lodge. Nothing significant, but the kind of comfortable interaction that makes isolation feel less absolute.
When I finally leave, that nagging sense of familiarity still hovers at the edges of my thoughts like smoke that dissipates when examined directly. Maybe I'm just seeing patterns where none exist, desperate for connections that make this strange new life feel less foreign.
