"She's still learning our ways," Thessaly said, appearing at her elbow with a knowing smile. The healer had changed into a deep green tunic embroidered with silver thread, and her braids were adorned with tiny carved beads. "Humans have strange beliefs about food. They think eating less makes them more valuable."
The warrior looked so horrified that this time Delia did laugh.
"That'smadness," he said.
"Yes," Thessaly agreed serenely. "It is. Which is why our new sister is going to eat everything on that plate, and then have seconds, and no one is going to comment except to tell her how pleased we are that she's eating well." She shot the warrior a pointed look. "Yes?"
He nodded rapidly and moved away, plate of honeycakes in hand.
"Thank you," Delia managed. "I'm still—it's hard to—"
"I know." Thessaly's hand settled on her arm, warm and firm. "The wounds people carry aren't all visible. But you'll heal. Just as your ankle is healing. You have time here. And you havepeople who will remind you, as many times as needed, that your hunger is not shameful."
Delia blinked rapidly. "Thessaly—"
"Now eat." The healer pushed a honeycake into her hand. "And then come find me. There's someone I want you to meet."
The someone was an orc named Brenneth who ran the outpost's leather and tannery works.
He was shorter than the warriors, stocky where they were lean, with thick forearms and hands permanently stained dark from the tanning process. His workshop sat at the outpost's eastern edge, a long low building that smelled of leather and oil and smoke.
"Thessaly says you have skill with needle and leather," Brenneth said, looking at her with the same assessing gaze she'd seen healers use on injuries.
"I learned from my uncle," Delia said. "He was a cobbler in Valdara."
Brenneth grunted. "Show me."
He led her to a worktable where a damaged vambrace lay, its stitching split along one seam. He set out tools: needles of various sizes, a curved awl, a spool of heavy waxed thread. Then he stepped backand waited.
Delia picked up the vambrace. The leather was heavier than anything her uncle had worked with. Thicker, tougher, designed for war rather than fashion. But the principles were the same. She examined the torn seam, identified where the original stitching had failed, and reached for the awl.
Her hands remembered.
Piercing the leather, threading the needle, drawing the wax-smoothed cord through in even pulls. The familiar rhythm settled over her, and she forgot to be nervous, forgot that she was being tested, forgot everything except the work in front of her.
When she finished, the seam was tighter than the original had been.
Brenneth examined her work, turning the vambrace over, testing the stitches. His expression gave nothing away.
Then he set it down and said, "I could use help. Between the patrols and the skirmishes, I've more repairs than I can handle alone. You'd be paid in trade goods or coin, your choice. Fair work for fair compensation." He fixed her with a look. "You interested?"
Delia blinked at him.
In Valdara, a woman's work was worth less than a man's. In Valdara, she would have been expected to be grateful for whatever scraps were offered.
But this wasn't Valdara.
"Yes," she said. "I'm interested."
"Good. Start tomorrow, if that ankle of yours can take it." Brenneth handed her the repaired vambrace. "Keep this. Payment for the test. And—" He hesitated, watching her with sudden unexpected gentleness. "Welcome to the mountain, Delia Harrowmere."
By late afternoon, the celebration had quieted.
Warriors still drifted through the hall, cups in hand, but the drums had faded and the noise had gentled. Delia sat on a bench near one of the great hearth fires, a fresh cup of watered mead in her hands, watching the life of Northwatch flow around her.
Thessaly dropped onto the bench beside her.
"You look overwhelmed."
