"Sorry," she said automatically. "I didn't mean to—"
A low rumble of displeasure interrupted her. "Why are you apologizing?"
"Because it's—" She stopped. Tried to find the words. "It's not polite. To make noise while eating. It's... crude."
Ralvar's brow furrowed. He looked genuinely confused. It was the same expression he'd worn when she'd tried to explain why she couldn't be carried.
"Among my people," he said slowly, "silence while eating is an insult to the cook. It suggests the food is not worth commenting on."
Delia stared at him. "You're saying orcs... want you to make noise?"
"We want honesty. If food is good, we say so. With words or—" He made a low sound in his throat. "With this."
"That's..."
"Crude?" The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Different." She looked down at the rabbit in her hands. The meat was still steaming slightly, juices glistening in the firelight. Her stomach growled, demanding she continue, and for once she didn't feel embarrassed by it.
"Different is not wrong," Ralvar said. "Just different."
She took another bite. Chewed. Let herself taste it properly this time—the char from the fire, the gamey richness of wildmeat, the salt he'd rubbed into the skin before cooking. It was good. It was really, genuinely good.
A small sound escaped her throat, something between a hum and a sigh.
Ralvar's eyes crinkled slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Better," he said.
They ate in an almost comfortable silence after that. The fire crackled between them. Outside, the daylight had shifted toward afternoon, pale sun breaking through the clouds for the first time since the storm. Delia could see the shafts of weak gold through the gaps in the watchtower walls.
She'd finished her portion and was licking the grease from her fingers when she caught Ralvar watching her.
Not staring. Not leering. Just... watching. The way you might watch a bird at the window, or flames dancing in a hearth.
"What?" She pulled her fingers from her mouth, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the slight tension in his jaw. "Do you want more?"
"There's more?"
He gestured toward the fire, where a second rabbit was spitted over the coals. "I wasn't sure how much you'd need."
"I..." She hesitated. The old training was strong—the voice in her head that said she'd already eaten enough, that wanting more was greedy, that her body didn't deserve to be satisfied. "Maybe a little more."
Ralvar carved off a generous portion and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers in the transfer, and Delia felt a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
"Thank you," she said.
"You keep thanking me."
"You keep giving me things." She bit into the meat and let herself make that small sound again. "Food. Shelter. Dry clothes. Medical care. It's a lot to be grateful for."
"It's basic survival. Anyone would—" He stopped. His jaw tightened again. "Any decent person would."
Delia thought about the guards. About the wagon. About the other workers who'd been too broken to even look at her, too hollowed out to recognize opportunity.
"Not anyone," she said quietly. "Not any human."
