"Day four worries me," Kai admits, and I tune back into their conversation. "The Brew of Honesty. Ceremonial drinking while elders ask relationship questions."
Ursik laughs. "You and Saela drunk, answering invasive questions? That'll be entertaining."
"For everyone else, maybe." But there's fondness in Kai's voice beneath the exasperation. He loves her. That much is obvious to anyone with working eyes. The Valentine's Rites gave him that, at least. Whatever else Drogath's interpretations accomplished, they brought Kai and Saela together.
Sometimes traditions work despite themselves.
"When does this start?" I ask.
"Four days." Kai blocks, strikes, retreats. "Drogath wants everyone paired and marked by the first evening"
"Sounds dramatic."
"Everything Drogath does is dramatic." Kai lands a solid hit on Ursik's ribs, making the other orc wheeze. "But the clan expects it now. After Valentine's, they're invested in these human traditions. Prosperity festivals, bonding rituals—it gives them something to focus on besides survival."
He's not wrong. The clan's been lighter since the Valentine's Rites ended. More laughter in the communal halls, more energy in training. Hope, maybe. The sense that life can be more than just getting through each day.
Ressa doesn't have that. She's still in survival mode, locked in her head and that empty cabin.
I shake myself mentally. Not my concern. I check her injuries, make sure she's healing physically. The rest is beyond my expertise.
Except it's not, is it? Healing isn't just setting bones and treating infections. It's creating conditions for recovery. And isolation isn't recovery—it's slow deterioration dressed up as safety.
"You're thinking too loud," Ursik says, and I realize I've been standing motionless, staring at my organized jars without seeing them.
"I'm thinking at appropriate volume."
"That's what I said. Too loud." He grins, dodging another strike from Kai. "Something on your mind?"
"Work."
"Always work with you." Ursik shakes his head, but there's no judgment in it. Just acceptance. "You should try relaxing sometime. Participate in a festival. Meet someone. Live a little."
"I'm living fine."
"You're existing." Kai's voice is mild, but the observation lands with weight. "There's a difference."
I don't have a counter for that, so I don't try. Instead, I gather the jars meant for Ressa—the yarrow-mint paste, the shoulder salve, the bitter tea for sleep she probably won't drink—and pack them carefully into my bag.
Four days until St. Padraig's Week begins. Four days of relative peace before Drogath unleashes whatever chaos he's planned. I'll use the time to stockpile supplies, prepare for inevitable festival injuries. Someone will overdo it during reflex training. Someone will drink too much during the Brew of Honesty. Someone will twist an ankle on the Leprechaun Trail.
I'll be ready.
That's what I do. Prepare. Respond. Heal.
Not solve unsolvable problems like how to help someone who doesn't want to be helped.
3
FALLA
Ressa's cabin sits at the edge of the settlement like a thought someone wanted to forget. I approach along the worn path, bag of supplies weighing familiar against my shoulder. The structure's sound enough—Kai made sure of that—but there's something hollow about it. Like the wood knows it's sheltering someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
I knock twice, wait.
Nothing.
"Ressa. It's Falla."
