I do not. Not because I do not want to. Because not everything should be taken when want appears.
So instead, I give her the last truth she needs for today.
“You do not have to understand all of this now.”
Her eyes come back to me.
“You only need to listen. Learn. Eat. Rest. Watch. The rest comes.”
Keandra holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she nods slowly. Not submission. Not complete trust. Something better for now. Willingness.
That, in a female brought to me by fear and hunger and stars, may be the first real gift she has chosen to give. It strikes me harder than I let show.
Chapter 16
Keandra
The morning after Kaiven explains the camp to me, I start to understand that knowledge does not make belonging easier.
Knowing that Oshara studies before she accepts does not soften her eyes when I step out of the king’s tent after washing and dressing. Knowing that the women are waiting to see whether I can remain standing does not lighten their attention when they glance at my hands, my posture, my hair, the wrap over my shoulders, or the place I stand in relation to Kaiven. Knowing that I am protected does not make me feel settled. If anything, it makes me more aware of how little of this life is casual.
Nothing in the horde seems casual. Not meals. Not labor. Not the way people speak. Not the way they move around one another. Not the way women keep children close while still working with quick, sure hands. Not the way men carry weapons even when they look relaxed. Not the way everyone seems to know where they belong without needing it spoken aloud.
I do not understand any of it naturally. That is the problem.
Breakfast is not taken in Kaiven’s tent this time. Oshara sends for me and expects me at one of the morning fire circles, where several women are already working. Roots are being cleaned. Meat cut. Grain ground. A younger girl kneels near one side, feeding small sticks into the edge of the fire while a baby tied to her chest sleeps through smoke and heat. Bundles of drying herbs hang from a nearby line, and the whole space smells of wood smoke, fresh-cut roots, rendered fat, and bitter leaves I cannot name.
I stop a few steps away, unsure whether to sit, speak, or wait.
Oshara does not look up right away. When she does, she says only, “Come.”
I obey.
One of the women shifts a basket toward me. Thick roots, dirt still clinging in places, and a short blade for scraping the skins. I sit where there is room and take the knife. No one asks whether I know how to do it. They simply watch long enough to see if I can.
That, at least, I can.
Not perfectly. Not as fast as they do. But well enough that the first woman to glance over at my hands does not click her tongue or take the basket away. The silence around that small success feels heavier than praise would have.
For a while, the work itself steadies me. Scrape. Turn. Cut away the rough parts. Drop the cleaned pieces into the bowl. The morning air is cool, but the fire warms my knees and shins. The smoke is richer than Mars smoke ever was, carrying herbs and meat and real wood. The women speak around me in Tigris, too quickly for me to catch more than a scattered word here and there. Sometimes one of them translates enough for me to understand the task being discussed. Most of the time, they do not.
I am beginning to understand that they are not cruel by default. They simply do not bend every part of life around my understanding. That may be harder in its own way.
After a while, one of the older women across the fire asks Oshara something in Tigris that includes a glance toward me. Oshara answers without looking at me. Another woman says something else. The word for child comes up. That much I catch because I have already heard it twice in Kaiven’s explanations and once from Marat.
Child.
Then again.
And again.
My fingers tighten slightly on the blade.
One of the younger women notices. She switches awkwardly into English.
“We speak of the spring birthing.”
I look up. “For the animals?”
