Falla seems to expect this. "I'll be back in three days. Unless you need me sooner."
"I won't."
"The offer stands anyway." He steps onto the porch, boots announcing his departure the same way they announced his arrival. Then he stops, turns back. "You're not a burden, if that's what you're thinking. Checking on you isn't a chore I resent. It's my job. And even if it wasn't, I'd still do it."
The words hit harder than they should. I stare at him, at this orc healer who has been nothing but steady and calm since the moment Kai and the others brought me and Saela back. Who set my shoulder while I screamed, who cleaned my wounds without flinching, who keeps showing up even when I make it clear I don't want him to.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His expression doesn't change. "Because someone should."
The door clicks shut behind Falla, and the silence rushes in like water filling a hull. I stand there, jar of salve still in my hand, listening to his footsteps fade across the porch and down the path. Always the same rhythm. Always steady.
I hate how steady he is. How calm. Like the world makes sense to him in a way it hasn't for me in?—
I don't finish the thought.
My fingers tighten around the jar until the glass edges bite into my palm. The pine-earth smell rises up, mixing with the musty scent of the cabin's unused corners. I should put it away. Apply it later like he said. Do the stretches. Be a good patient.
Instead, I set it on the table too hard. The wobble corner protests, and the whole thing rocks before settling.
Because someone should.
The words loop through my head, unwanted. What kind of reason is that? What kind of?—
The memory hits before I can brace for it.
Hands. Too many hands. Green-skinned and rough, grabbing my arms, my hair, dragging me backward through the underbrush. Saela's name tearing from my throat, raw and desperate, not knowing if she'd made it out. Not knowing if she was already dead like Nia.
Nia.
The ground disappearing beneath my feet as they hauled me up, my shoulder screaming as they wrenched me forward. The sound of their laughter—that's what I remember most clearly. The laughter. Like capturing a human was the highlight of their day, better than a successful hunt, more entertaining than whatever passed for Stonevein recreation.
I press my palms flat against the table, feeling the rough wood grain beneath my fingers. Anchor points. Falla taught me that trick during one of his visits when I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. Find something solid. Something real. Focus on texture, temperature, weight.
It doesn't work.
The cell. That's what comes next, flooding in with the clarity of a fresh wound. Damp stone walls that wept moisture, making everything slick and cold. The smell—rot and waste and something metallic that I eventually realized was old blood. Mine. Others'. Didn't matter whose. It all smelled the same after enough time.
How long was I there? Weeks. Had to be weeks, though time stretched and contracted in ways that made counting impossible. Dark, then torchlight, then dark again. Sometimes they brought food—scraps, really, things I wouldn't have fed to a dog back in the settlement. Sometimes they didn't bother.
Sometimes they brought knives.
My stomach lurches.
I make it three steps toward the sink before my legs give out. I catch myself on the edge of the counter, both hands gripping hard enough that my knuckles bleach white. The nausea rolls through me in waves, hot and acidic, crawling up my throat.
Entertainment.That's what it was to them. Not interrogation—they never asked questions. Not punishment for some crime—I hadn't done anything except exist in the wrong place. Just... fun. A way to pass the time between whatever the hell else they did with their days.
I remember the first cut. Shallow, across my upper arm. The Stonevein who did it—I never learned his name, but I remember his tusks, one broken at the tip—he watched my face the whole time. Waiting for the reaction. When I didn't scream, didn't give him what he wanted, he went deeper the next time.
They learned quickly that I'd bite through my own tongue before I'd scream for them.
So they found other ways to make it entertaining.
I heave over the sink, but nothing comes up except bile. My ribs protest the movement, that familiar grinding ache that Falla says is normal for broken bones knitting back together. The pain centers me enough to breathe through my nose, slow and measured.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
