1
RESSA
Ihear his boots on the porch before his knock. Two raps, deliberate but not demanding. I know who it is before I open the door—Falla makes the same sounds every time he visits. Same rhythm, same weight distribution across the creaking boards outside the small cabin they tucked me away in after I was brought to this place.
An orc clan.
I still can't believe it.
"Don't you have actual patients?" I ask instead of greeting him.
He stands there with a worn leather bag slung over one shoulder, green skin catching the pale morning light. His expression doesn't change. "I do. You're one of them."
"I'm fine."
"Then this will be quick." He waits, not pushing past me but clearly not leaving either.
I step aside because I've learned that Falla operates on orc time—patient as erosion, twice as stubborn. He's been coming three times a week for what feels like forever now. Checking myribs, prodding at my shoulder, asking questions I don't want to answer.
The cabin's interior is sparse. Saela worries that I need more things, coming by frequently to see me. I don't tell her I prefer the solitude. She has enough to manage without my baggage weighing her down.
Falla sets his bag on the table that wobbles unless you know which corner to avoid. He knows. I watch him extract clean bandages, a jar of something that smells like pine and earth, and a small flask I recognize as the bitter tea he makes me drink.
"The cuts on your arms?" He glances up, blue-green eyes clinical.
I push up my sleeves without being asked. The movements pull at my left shoulder—a dull ache that lives there now, constant as breathing. The cuts have scabbed over, rough lines that itch more than they hurt. Some are fading to pink. Others are still dark red, raised against my pale skin.
He examines them with careful fingers, never pressing harder than necessary. "Healing well."
"That's what you said last time."
"Still true." He releases my arm and gestures to the chair. "Sit."
"I can stand."
"You can also make this difficult." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. "But your legs still ache when you're on them too long, so sitting makes more sense."
I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows. I lower myself into the chair, feeling the protest in my thighs and calves—that deep, grinding stiffness that appears whenever I've been upright for more than an hour. The swelling has gone down significantly over the past few weeks, and Falla determined early on that nothing was broken in them. Just badly dislocated, bruised to hell, damaged but functional.
"Your ribs." He moves to stand beside me, waiting for permission.
I lift my shirt just enough to expose the left side of my torso. The bruising there has shifted through a grotesque rainbow—purple to green to yellow. Two broken ribs, both healing. They hurt when I breathe too deep, when I laugh—not that I do much of that—when I move wrong in my sleep.
Falla's hands are warm despite the early spring chill still clinging to everything. He presses along the curve of my ribcage, pausing at the break points. I flinch once, can't help it, and his hands immediately still.
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
"That's not a number."
"Three." A lie. Closer to five, maybe six when I first wake up. But I'm not about to give him ammunition to keep hovering.
I'm still barely tolerating an orc near me. It makes me uneasy to have him here, alone with me, his hands on me.
He doesn't call me on it. Instead, he finishes his examination and steps back, pulling my shirt down with an efficiency that somehow doesn't feel invasive. "They're knitting properly. Another two weeks and you'll barely notice them."
"Great. So we're done here?"
