"Slower," he says. "Patience, not speed."
The second attempt is better. The third actually succeeds, a clean slice exposing the healing gel without contaminating it with outer skin residue.
"Good," Zurkar acknowledges. Not effusive praise, just simple recognition of competence achieved. Somehow that matters more than elaborate compliments would.
I find myself returning to the healing chambers regularly. Not because Lola requests it or because I have nowhere else to go, but because the work is... grounding. Gives me purpose beyond just surviving another day. Beyond planning escape routes and cataloging threats and waiting for everything to fall apart.
Zurkar occasionally assigns me menial tasks—grinding herbs, cleaning equipment, organizing supplies—but he also teaches. Shows me which plants counteract poison, which ones reduce fever, which ones should never be mixed because the combination turns toxic.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask one day, suspicious of the knowledge being offered so freely.
His violet eyes study me with that uncomfortable perception shamans seem to cultivate. "Because you're intelligent enough to learn it. Because the clan benefits from having more people who understand healing. Because..." He pauses. "Because you deserve to know you're more than what others made you."
The statement hits somewhere vulnerable, burrowing past defenses I thought were impenetrable. I don't know how to respond, don't know what to do with kindness that expects nothing in return.
So I just nod and go back to grinding the herbs he assigned, blinking against the unexpected burn in my eyes.
The river becomes habit.
I don't plan it consciously. Don't wake up thinkingtonight I'll go sit by the water and wait for an orc to show up. But my feet carry me there anyway, drawn by something I refuse to examine too closely.
Rakk always comes.
Not immediately. Sometimes I wait twenty minutes, sometimes longer. But he always appears eventually, that massive frame materializing from the darkness like he can sense when I'm there.
Maybe he can. Maybe orcs have some kind of tracking ability I don't know about. Or maybe he's just taken to patrolling this area specifically because he knows I'll be here.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
"You're late," I comment one evening when he arrives after a particularly long wait.
"Training ran long." He settles beside me on the boulder we've claimed as our unofficial meeting spot, leaving that careful space between us he always maintains. "Dad was in a mood."
"Chieftain moods sound dangerous."
"They're exhausting," he corrects. "Lots of lectures about responsibility and clan leadership and why I should be more serious about my future."
I glance at him, studying the way moonlight catches on his tusks. "Are you not serious about your future?"
"Oh, I'm plenty serious. Just not about the specific future he wants for me." Something shifts in his expression—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "But enough about Dad's expectations. How was your day?"
The question shouldn't feel significant. It's basic courtesy, the kind of small talk people make everywhere. But from Rakk, directed at me, it feels like more. Feels like genuine interest instead of obligation.
"Learned how to harvest zabilla gel without getting a rash," I offer.
His eyes light up with that enthusiasm I've come to recognize. "Oh, that's useful. Zurkar's teaching you the good stuff then."
"The menial stuff," I correct. "Grunt work that keeps me busy."
"Grunt work that keeps you learning," he counters. "That's not nothing, Serah. That's investment. Zurkar doesn't waste time teaching people he doesn't think are worth teaching."
The casual validation does something strange to my chest. I look away, focusing on the water instead of the way his words make me feel seen in ways I'm not prepared for.
"Tell me something," I say, changing the subject before this gets too heavy. "Why do you come here every night?"
"Why do you?"
"I asked first."
