"I found something else in your pack," she said suddenly. "When I was looking for the needle."
Ralvar's knife paused.
She reached beside her, producing a small object from where she'd placed it on the furs. The firelight caught carved bone, worn smooth from handling. A small figure, barely three inches tall—a mountain cat, mid-leap, every line of its body speaking of power and grace.
"What is it?"
Ralvar set down the knife, wiping his hands on his thighs before reaching out. Delia placed the carving in his palm without hesitation, her fingers brushing his skin.
"A totem." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Every Mountain Clan warrior carries one. It's something to connect us to the clan when we're far from home."
Delia leaned forward slightly, studying the small figure. "It's beautiful. I've never seen carving this fine."
"My mother made it. She was a bone-carver. One of the best in the clan."
"Was?"
He turned the figure in his hand, watching the firelight play across the familiar lines. How many nights had he held this same totem, drawing comfort from the weight of it? How many patrols had it accompanied him on, tucked into his pack alongside needles and thread and all the other small necessities of a life spent on the border?
"She passed. Twelve winters ago. Fever took her, along with half the village."
"I'm sorry."
The words were simple and sincere. Not the empty platitude humans often offered. He could hear the difference.
"She would have approved of you." The observation escaped him before he could think better of it. "Going through a warrior's pack to find useful work. She had no patience for idleness."
Delia's cheeks flushed again, but she didn't look away. "I don't like sitting still. Even when I can't walk." She gestured at his vest, at the half-completed repairs. "And you saved my life. The least I can do is fix a seam."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know." Her chin lifted slightly. "I'm not doing it because I owe you. I'm doing it because I can."
He held her gaze for a long moment. This woman. This impossible, stubborn, brave woman who had somehow stumbled into his territory and refused to behave like the victim she had every right to be.
"Then thank you," he said. "For the stitching."
She nodded, a small, uncertain smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Then she returned her attention to the leather, and the needle began its dance again.
Ralvar watched her for a moment longer before turning back to the rabbits.
They worked in silence after that. Not the heavy silence of strangers, but something easier, more natural. He prepared the meat and set it to cook over the fire. She continued her repairs, the bone needle flashing between her fingers. The watchtower filled with the smell of roasting rabbit and woodsmoke, and the light through the ruined walls slowly brightened toward something almost like warmth.
Chapter 8
The rabbit was the best thing Delia had ever tasted.
She knew that wasn't technically true. She'd had fine meals before. Festival days when her mother splurged on proper cuts of meat, the one time a visiting merchant had given her a honeycake for helping him find directions. But sitting in this ruined watchtower, wrapped in an orc warrior's tunic, tearing into hot meat with her bare hands while fire-warmth seeped into her bones—
Nothing had ever tasted like this.
"You're making sounds," Ralvar observed. He was watching her, head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring in a way she was beginning to recognize.
Delia froze mid-chew. "What?"
"When you eat. Small sounds." He gestured vaguely toward his own throat. "Here."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd been so focused on the food that she hadn't noticed herself making noise. In her mother's house, at the village table, she'd learned to eat silently. Invisibly.To take small bites and chew with her mouth closed and never, ever draw attention to the act of consuming.
