Saela's eyes narrow fractionally. She knows. Of course she knows. We grew up together, survived together, learned each other's tells so well that lying became pointless years ago. But she won't push. Not here, not in front of Shae.
"Falla says your ribs are coming along well." Shae settles herself on the edge of the table, careful to avoid the wobble corner. She's been here enough times to know its quirks too. "That's good news."
"Great news." I inject false brightness into my tone, aiming for normal and probably landing somewhere near manic. "Two more weeks and I'll barely notice them. Modern miracles."
Saela's jaw tightens, but she doesn't call me on it. Instead, she crosses to the window, giving me space while staying close enough to talk. "We were thinking—if you're up for it—maybe you could join us for dinner tonight. The communal hall. Shae's cooking."
My stomach drops. The communal hall. Full of orcs. Dozens of them. All that noise and movement and?—
"I don't think?—"
"You don't have to," Saela cuts in quickly. Too quickly. "Just... if you wanted to. Thought I'd ask."
She's trying so hard. They both are. Treating me like spun glass, offering invitations they know I'll refuse, checking in with worried eyes and careful words. Everyone in this settlement treats me like I'm fragile, like one wrong move will shatter whatever precarious stability I've managed to scrape together.
They're probably right.
"Maybe another time." I aim for apologetic and land on hollow. "I'm still pretty tired. The healing takes it out of me."
Lies. I'm not tired. I barely sleep anymore—every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that cell. But exhaustion is an excuse they'll accept without argument.
Shae nods, understanding and disappointed in equal measure. "Of course. Whenever you're ready."
IfI'm ever ready, she means. The unspoken qualifier hangs between us.
Saela turns from the window, and for a moment, our eyes meet. Really meet. I see the worry there, the guilt that she couldn't protect me, the desperate hope that I'll somehow snap back to the person I was before. Before the woods, before the Stonevein, before I was stupid enough to get captured and orcs had to save me from other brutal orcs.
The weight of it crushes down on me. They saved me. Kai—an orc Saela loves, who risked himself and his friends to pull me out of that hell. I should be grateful. Should be adjusting, accepting, moving forward.
Instead, I'm here. Hiding in an empty cabin, flinching at shadows, unable to stand in the same room as Shae without my pulse hammering in my ears.
"I'm fine," I say again, and this time even I don't believe it.
2
FALLA
Ishouldn't be thinking about Ressa.
The mortar scrapes against the pestle in my hands, rough stone grinding yarrow leaves into paste. The rhythm's meditative—crush, turn, crush, turn—and normally I'd lose myself in it. Today my mind keeps circling back to that cabin on the settlement's edge. To red hair and brown eyes that look right through me like I'm just another threat she's cataloging.
The yarrow's almost ready. I add dried mint leaves, crushing them until the sharp scent cuts through the earthy smell of the yarrow. Mix them together and the paste eases muscle aches better than anything else I've tried. I'll leave a jar for Ressa when I visit next.
Not that she'll use it.
Strong. That's the word that fits her best. Not physically—though she's tougher than she looks, considering what she survived. But strong in that bone-deep stubborn way that makes people refuse help even when they're drowning. I've treated hundreds of patients over the years. The stubborn ones always heal slower because they won't admit when something hurts.
Ressa admitted her ribs were at a three when they were clearly closer to six.
I pour the paste into a clay jar, scraping the mortar clean with practiced efficiency. The motion keeps my hands busy while my thoughts wander where they shouldn't.
She needs to get out of that cabin. Needs to move, interact, do something besides sit in self-imposed isolation. But I can't force her. Tried suggesting it once—gently, because I'm not an idiot—and the look she gave me could've peeled paint. She's not ready. Maybe she'll never be ready.
Not my problem to solve.
Except it feels like it should be.
"—absolute nonsense, that's what it is."
