"Zurkar." His voice carries the weight of someone used to being obeyed. "I need to speak with you. Regarding the winter preparations."
The shaman doesn't even look up from his work. "Then speak. I'm listening."
"Privately."
"The girl is unconscious." Zurkar lies smoothly, not even a pause in his grinding. "And even if she weren't, she poses no threat to clan security. Speak freely, Thorne."
Thorne. I've heard his name. He's the Chieftain. The one who rules this place, who could order my death or enslavement with a word. My muscles tense beneath the furs, preparing for violence even though I'm in no condition to fight.
But Thorne doesn't look at me like I'm a threat or an opportunity. His gaze sweeps over the sleeping platform withclinical disinterest, confirming I'm contained and alive, then dismisses me entirely. I might as well be furniture for all the attention he pays me.
That should be relief. Instead it's disorienting.
They discuss logistics—supply caches, hunting parties, preparations for something called the Harvest Goddess festival. Boring, practical details that paint a picture of organized clan life rather than the chaotic brutality I've come to expect from orcs. Thorne speaks with the measured authority of someone who's been leading for decades, and Zurkar responds with the blunt honesty of an advisor who doesn't fear punishment for disagreement.
It's... normal. Disturbingly normal. Like watching people plan for survival rather than conquest.
Eventually Thorne leaves, ducking through the doorway with practiced ease. The tension in the room dissipates with his absence, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
Zurkar glances at me. "You can stop pretending now. I know you're awake."
Fuck.
"Your breathing pattern changed when Thorne entered," he continues calmly, returning to his work. "And your heart rate increased. Both natural responses to perceived danger, but quite obvious to anyone trained in reading bodies." He pours the ground herbs into a small container, seals it with a cork. "You're safe here. Truly. But I understand that words mean little compared to experience. Time will prove what I cannot convince you of now."
He moves toward the door but pauses at the threshold, violet eyes finding mine across the room. "Drink the water, child. Dehydration serves no one, least of all you."
Then he's gone too, leaving me alone in the amber-lit silence.
I stare at the cup on the table beside me. Steam rises from the liquid in lazy spirals, carrying that herbal-honey smell. My throat burns with thirst that's been building for days, maybe longer. The rational part of my brain knows I need fluids, knows that refusing water out of paranoia is just another way of dying slowly.
But rationality's never kept me alive before. Suspicion has. Distrust. The constant awareness that kindness is just a prettier word for manipulation.
Still. My hand reaches for the cup almost without conscious decision, fingers wrapping around warm pottery. I bring it to my lips and sniff carefully, trying to detect anything beyond herbs and honey. Nothing obvious. Nothing that screams poison or sedative.
I take the smallest sip possible, barely wetting my lips. The taste is exactly what Lola promised—terrible. Bitter herbs overwhelmed by too much honey, like someone tried to make medicine palatable and failed. But it's liquid, and my body craves it with desperate intensity.
I drink half the cup before forcing myself to stop, to wait and see if unconsciousness or sickness follows. Neither does. Just the slow easing of throat-burning thirst and a warmth in my stomach that might be the herbs or might be the first real food-adjacent thing I've consumed in days.
The door opens yet again, and this time I don't bother hiding my consciousness. No point when Zurkar already called me out.
But it's not Zurkar returning. It's him. The one from before, the one who held my wrist when I had the knife. The massive orc with olive-green skin and dark eyes that watch everything.
Rakk. Son of the Chieftain. I piece that together from what I overheard, from the way Thorne spoke about winter preparations like this orc would be involved in leadership decisions.
He carries a bucket of water in one hand like it weighs nothing, moving into the room with that predatory grace large men sometimes have when they're trained warriors. He doesn't speak. Doesn't acknowledge my awakeness. Just sets the bucket near Zurkar's work area and turns to leave.
But he pauses. Just for a heartbeat. His gaze finds mine across the room, and something in his expression makes my breath catch.
Not hunger. Not the evaluating assessment of someone pricing merchandise. Not even curiosity, really.
Just... awareness. Like he sees me as a person rather than a problem or an opportunity, and that recognition somehow feels more dangerous than any leer or threat.
Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him.
I lie there beneath the furs, heart pounding for reasons I don't want to examine, and wonder what the fuck I've stumbled into.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in twenty-four years of surviving, it's that nothing this gentle lasts. Kindness always has a price. Safety always comes with conditions.
