"We try. Sometimes we're too late. Sometimes politics get in the way. But we've built something—a place where mixed families can exist without shame."
A branch snaps somewhere in the forest, and I watch Vargath's hand drift to his axe before he identifies the source as a deer. His shoulders remain tense even after the animal bounds away.
"What about you?" I ask. "How did you and Drokhar...?"
"That's a story for when you're stronger." Kaela's smile carries shadows I don't understand yet. "Right now, you need to focus on healing. And feeding this little one when he wakes up."
As if summoned by her words, my son begins to fuss, his face scrunching with the promise of a hungry cry. I loosen my shirt, grateful for the wagon's privacy as he latches on with surprising strength.
"Natural," Kaela observes approvingly. "Some babies struggle at first, but he knows exactly what he wants."
"Gets that from his father." The words come out fondly, surprising me with their warmth.
Vargath's voice carries from outside—a low rumble as he speaks with Drokhar about the route ahead. Even exhausted and walking, there's authority in his tone, the bearing of a man accustomed to command.
"He chose you," Kaela says quietly, watching my face as I nurse. "Over everything—tradition, position, safety. That's not nothing."
"He chose us after nearly losing us." I stroke the baby's downy hair. "I'm not sure that's the same thing."
"Isn't it? Sometimes it takes almost losing something to realize what it means."
The wagon hits a rut, jostling us gently. My son doesn't even pause in his feeding, completely content in this small bubble of warmth and safety we've created.
The scentof roasted meat and herbs drifts through the evening air as we settle into camp. My stomach responds with an embarrassing growl that makes Kaela laugh.
"That's the best sound I've heard all day," she says, ladling thick stew into a wooden bowl. "Your body's been through hell. It needs fuel to heal."
I accept the bowl gratefully, surprised by how eagerly I dig in. The meat is tender, seasoned with unfamiliar spices. For weeks,food has been an afterthought—something to choke down for the baby's sake. Now, I actually taste it.
"This is incredible." I glance toward where Drokhar tends the fire, adding more herbs to the pot. "I didn't know orcs could cook like this."
"Most can't," Kaela admits with a grin. "Drokhar's got hidden talents. Drives him mad when I tease him about it."
Across the fire, Vargath catches my eye and nods toward my bowl. "Eat more," he says simply, but there's satisfaction in his expression as he watches me take another spoonful.
It's such a small thing—being encouraged to eat rather than having food thrown at me like scraps. But after months of barely surviving, kindness feels revolutionary.
The other humans in their group—a young couple who introduced themselves as Marcus and Elena—chat quietly as they clean their weapons. No one stares at my mixed-blood son. No one whispers about contamination or shame. They simply exist around us, comfortable and accepting.
"Your son's beautiful," Elena says when she notices me watching. "Look at those strong little hands."
I glance down at my baby, sleeping peacefully in my arms after his feeding. His tiny fingers are indeed perfectly formed, neither fully human nor fully orc, but uniquely his own.
"Thank you." The words come easier than they have in months.
As full darkness settles around our camp, Vargath approaches and extends his hands. "May I?"
I hesitate only briefly before transferring our son to his father's arms. Vargath settles beside the fire, cradling the baby with surprising gentleness for such massive hands. The firelight catches the ritual scars along his arms, painting them in gold and shadow.
"He's so small," Vargath murmurs, voice filled with wonder. "How can something so small be so perfect?"
"Babies have a way of being exactly what they need to be," Kaela observes, settling beside me with her own bowl of stew.
I watch Vargath's face as he studies our son—the fierce warrior completely undone by ten pounds of sleeping infant. There's no shame in his expression now, no conflict about tradition or propriety. Just a father discovering his child.
For the first time, I'm not afraid. Not of tomorrow, not of being alone, not of raising a child caught between worlds. The hardest part—the running, the hiding, the nearly dying—it's behind us now.
I lean back against the fallen log Kaela positioned for my comfort, feeling something I'd forgotten existed: peace.
