I catalog everything before moving. Basic survival. Assess the situation before they realize you're conscious, before they decide what to do with you.
The weight is furs. Thick animal pelts layered over my body, tucked carefully around my shoulders and hips. Beneath them I'm wearing a clean tunic that isn't mine, soft fabric that doesn't scratch against the whip marks on my back. Someone undressed me. Someone saw the scars, the brands, everything I've tried to hide under layers of dirt and rage.
My side throbs with dull, persistent pain—the knife wound that's been trying to kill me for days. But it's cleaner pain now. Less like fire eating through flesh, more like deep bruising. Someone treated it.
That realization sends ice through my veins.
Movement to my left. I don't turn my head, just shift my eyes enough to catch the shape of someone sitting near the sleeping platform. Small frame. Long pale hair catching the light.
Human.
The woman from before. The one who tried to calm me down while I was holding that knife, who spoke with gentleness I haven't heard directed at me in... years? Ever?
She notices I'm awake. Sets down whatever she was working on—bandages, I think—and leans forward slightly. Blue eyes. Worried but not afraid. That's wrong. Humans should be afraid around me by now. I've given them plenty of reasons.
"You're awake." Her voice carries that same soft firmness from my fractured memories. "Try not to move too quickly. Your side needs time to heal properly."
I don't respond. Can't decide if speech is safe yet, if words will be used as weapons against me somehow. Instead I watch her face for signs of deception, for that shift in expression that means the kindness is about to crack and reveal something uglier beneath.
She just looks... concerned.
"I'm Lola," she continues when I don't speak. "I've been helping change your bandages. You've been unconscious for almost a full day." She reaches for something on a low table beside her—a bowl of water and fresh cloth. "I need to check your side again. The infection was severe when they brought you in, but it's responding to treatment."
They. The orcs. The massive green-skinned warriors who should have killed me or dragged me to the nearest slave marketor worse. But apparently they're playing healer instead, which makes no sense at all.
Nothing makes sense.
Lola moves closer, hands visible and empty except for the cloth. "May I?"
Permission. She's asking permission to touch me, like I have any right to refuse. Like my body belongs to me instead of whoever's strong enough to take it.
The novelty of that question almost makes me laugh. Almost.
I nod once, barely more than a twitch of my chin, and force myself to stay still as she peels back the furs. Cool air hits my torso where the tunic's been pulled up to expose the wound. I don't look down. Don't want to see how bad it is, how close I came to dying in that canyon alone.
Her fingers are gentle. Careful. She cleans around the injury with practiced efficiency, movements that speak of training rather than fumbling improvisation. The water stings but not unbearably, just enough to remind me the wound exists.
"It's looking better," she murmurs, more to herself than me. "The red streaks are fading. Zurkar's poultice is working."
Zurkar. The pale one with white hair and violet eyes. The shaman. I remember him speaking, remember that voice cutting through my panic with authority that made me want to listen even when every instinct screamed to run.
Lola applies fresh bandages with the same care she used cleaning, wrapping them snugly but not tight enough to restrict breathing. When she's finished, she pulls the tunic back down and tucks the furs around me again like I'm something fragile instead of broken.
"You should drink something." She reaches for a cup I hadn't noticed before, filled with liquid that smells like herbs and honey. "Water mostly, with a few things added to help with fever and pain. It tastes terrible but it works."
I don't take the cup when she offers it. Can't make myself reach out, can't trust that it's just water and medicine instead of something worse. Sedatives. Poison. Control disguised as care.
Lola's expression shifts into understanding rather than frustration. "I'll leave it here." She sets the cup on the small table beside the sleeping platform where I can reach it if I decide to. "Drink when you're ready. Or don't. But you need fluids."
Then she does something that shocks me more than the gentle bandage changing—she moves away. Gives me space. Returns to her seat near the wall and picks up her work again like I'm not even here.
Like she trusts me not to attack her the moment her back is turned.
The room smells wrong for a place where humans are kept. No blood except what leaked from my own wounds. No filth or fear-sweat or the acrid stench of unwashed bodies packed too close together. Instead there's smoke—clean smoke from herbs burning in a brazier near the corner—and oils I don't recognize, sharp and green like crushed plants. Stone and fur and something almost pleasant underneath it all.
I catalog exits while pretending to rest. One door directly across from the sleeping platform, sturdy wood with iron hinges. No locks I can see from this angle, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. Windows set high in the walls, too narrow for escape but enough to track day versus night. The ceiling's solid rock—no gaps or weaknesses.
Weapons. My eyes track everything within reach. Lola's got a small knife on her belt, utilitarian rather than decorative. The brazier near the corner could be knocked over, used as both weapon and distraction. Pottery containers line shelves against the far wall—some could be thrown, others might contain something useful. Bandages could work as restraints or garrotes if I got desperate enough.
