I pour the clear liquid over the wound, and his jaw tightens, muscles corded beneath scarred skin. But he doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a sound. Just watches me with those intelligent eyes that seem to catalog every detail of my face.
My needle slides through flesh with practiced efficiency, each stitch precise despite the tremor in my hands. Up close, I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the silver threading through his dark braids. This isn't some young warrior drunk on battle-lust. This orc has seen enough fights to know when to be still, when to trust.
Something shifts in his breathing pattern when my fingers brush the unmarked skin beside the wound. The steady rhythm falters, deepens, as if my touch carries more weight than simple medical necessity.
His head tilts, and I feel heat creep up my neck under his scrutiny. I've spoken too freely, revealed too much curiosity about a stranger who could snap my spine without effort.
My thread runs out halfway through the final stitch. I reach for more, and when I turn back, his eyes have closed, chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of unconsciousness. Blood loss and exhaustion have finally claimed him.
I finish the last stitch in silence, my hands steadier now that those penetrating eyes no longer watch my every movement.
The final knot pulls tight beneath my fingers, and I sit back on my heels, studying the stranger who's commandeered my bedroll. His breathing remains deep and even, but something about the stillness feels too perfect. Too controlled.
Orcs are warriors first, and warriors don't survive by trusting strangers with herb pouches and trembling hands. My pulse quickens as I watch for the telltale signs—a flutter of eyelashes, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin that betrays consciousness.
"I know you're awake." I keep my voice low, testing.
Nothing. Not even a change in his breathing pattern.
I lean closer, close enough to catch the heat radiating from his skin. This near, I can see the fine scars that crosshatch his knuckles, the way his tusks have been filed to sharp points. A warrior's modifications. The bone beads in his braids catch the lamplight, and I notice symbols carved into each one—markings I don't recognize.
Still nothing.
Either he's genuinely unconscious, or he possesses the kind of discipline that comes from years of survival in hostile territory. Both possibilities unnerve me, though for different reasons.
I reach for his wrist, fingers hovering just above his pulse point. If he's faking, this will?—
His hand doesn't move. Doesn't so much as twitch when I press two fingers to the steady throb beneath his skin. Therhythm feels strong but sluggish, exactly what I'd expect from blood loss and exhaustion.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a different kind of anxiety. He's truly vulnerable, unconscious in my tent, and I have no idea who he is or why he was bleeding in the first place. The smart thing would be to alert the guards, let them deal with whatever trouble he represents.
Instead, I find myself reaching for my spare blanket.
The wool feels rough beneath my palms as I shake it out, the fabric worn thin from years of use but still warm. I drape it carefully over his massive frame, tucking the edges around his shoulders without touching the fresh stitches. He dwarfs my bedroll completely—his feet hang off the end, and his broad shoulders strain the seams.
He looks younger somehow, with his eyes closed and the harsh lines of wariness smoothed from his features. Still dangerous, still capable of snapping my neck without breaking stride, but... peaceful. When was the last time I saw an orc at peace?
Never. The answer comes swift and certain. In Vaskyr, even sleep carries the tension of readiness, the constant preparation for the next order, the next punishment, the next reminder of place and purpose.
I retreat to the far corner of the tent, as far from him as the cramped space allows, and settle onto the bare ground with my traveling cloak pulled tight around my shoulders. The earth beneath me feels hard and unforgiving, but I've slept on worse.
His breathing continues its steady rhythm, occasionally hitching when he shifts in his sleep. Each small sound makes my heart skip, but he remains unconscious, lost to whatever dreams visit wounded warriors in strange tents.
4
GALTHAN
Pain greets me before consciousness fully returns—a sharp, clean ache along my ribs that speaks of proper stitching rather than battlefield butchery. I crack one eye open, expecting the familiar canvas of my patrol tent, and instead find myself staring at threadbare fabric that smells of herbs and something softer. Human.
The memory crashes back like cold water. The ambush. Stumbling through tent flaps. A small figure with steady hands and eyes that held no malice, only wariness.
I push myself upright, muscles protesting the movement. My armor sits folded beside the bedroll—someone removed it while I was unconscious. The thought should alarm me. Instead, I find myself studying the careful way each piece has been arranged, straps laid flat, buckles unfastened with deliberate precision.
She didn't scream. Didn't run to fetch guards or masters or whatever authority rules her small world. She stitched me up and let me sleep off the blood loss like I was worth saving.
The tent stands empty now, no sign of its owner except the lingering scent of dried lavender and the indent in the groundwhere she must have spent the night. On hard earth, while I claimed her bedroll.
I ease out of the tent, each step a reminder of last night's ambush. The stitches pull tight across my ribs, but they hold. Professional work—better than anything our field medics could manage.
