"The healer. She wants to see you today." Delia set the boots aside and pulled out something that looked like leather armor. "To make sure you're fit for the journey. And to give you supplies for the trail."
Verity sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to crush anything. The reality of what she had asked for was settling into her bones. Two days' ride into hostile terrain. A pass that held the dead. A journey that required bear-lined cloaks and a healer's assessment.
"Have you been?" she asked. "To the high passes?"
"No." Delia's hand moved to her belly, the gesture automatic.
Verity watched Delia's hand rest against the curve of her stomach. The gesture was unconscious, protective, the kind of touch that spoke of a future already taking shape.
"How far along are you?"
"Five months. Give or take." Delia's mouth curved. "Thessaly says orc babies run on their own schedule. Apparently they're stubborn from conception."
"That tracks."
Delia laughed. "It does, doesn't it?" She picked up a thick wool tunic and held it against Verity's shoulders, measuring. "This will work. You'll want it under the outer layers."
Verity took the tunic, running her fingers over the weave. It was dense and soft, the kind of craftsmanship that came from people who understood what cold could do.
"Thank you," she said. "For all of this."
"Don't thank me. Thank whoever decided Northwatch needed a tannery and a healer and a cook who refuses to let anyone leave underfed." Delia sat down on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. "This place takes care of its own."
"I'm not—" Verity stopped.
"Not what? Not one of us?" Delia's voice was gentle. "You'rekrennato the warchief. You've been eating Kira's food and sleeping in orc beds and asking questions that make warriors twice your size uncomfortable." She nudged Verity's shoulder. "You're more 'one of us' than you think."
Verity's throat tightened. She focused on folding the tunic, precise creases, something to do with her hands.
Delia rose from the bed, brushing off her skirts. "Come on. Thessaly's expecting you."
The healer's quarters were tucked against the northern wall of the outpost, built into a natural alcove in the rock that stayed cool in summer and warm in winter. Verity had seen the building from a distance but never entered it. The door was heavy oak banded with iron, and it opened before Delia could knock.
"I smelled you coming." Thessaly stood in the doorway, amber eyes bright with amusement. "Both of you. Though one of you smells considerably more interesting than the other."
Verity's face heated.
Thessaly stepped back, gesturing them inside. "Come. Sit. I have tea that will not kill you and questions that might."
The interior was small but organized. Bundles of dried herbs hung from ceiling beams. Shelves lined the walls, filled with clay jars marked in Orcish script. A worktable dominated the center of the room, its surface scarred with use and scrubbed clean. Two chairs sat near a small hearth where something fragrant simmered in a copper pot.
Thessaly was leaner than the warriors Verity had grown accustomed to, her frame built for dexterity rather than bruteforce. Her skin was the green of moss in shadow, her tusks smaller and more delicate. Dark hair fell in braids threaded with dried herbs and small bones that clicked softly when she moved.
"Sit," Thessaly repeated, pointing at the chairs. "Delia, you know where the honey is. Make yourself useful."
Delia moved to a cabinet, pulling out a clay pot and three cups. Verity lowered herself into one of the chairs and tried not to feel like a specimen under examination.
Thessaly settled across from her. Delia pressed a cup into Verity's hands and leaned on a low stool near the hearth, her belly resting against her thighs. The three of them formed a loose triangle around the fire.
"The pass will be difficult," Thessaly said. "Not just the terrain. Not just the cold."
Verity's fingers tightened on her cup. The ceramic was warm, almost too warm, but she did not set it down.
"I know."
"Do you?" Thessaly leaned forward. "Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is not a document to be catalogued. You cannot annotate your way through it."
Verity stared into her cup. The liquid was dark, flecked with herbs.
