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I sat in the chair after he left. My chair, that stubborn part of me supplied.

By dusk, I discovered what Maardok and Ewan had been building. A new bed for my—for our son.

‘Twas simple, made from fresh-cut wood with a rope base and a small mattress Jean claimed had been sitting unused in her home for years. Maardok positioned it against the chimney so the stones would hold warmth through the night, and Ewan was so delighted by the entire thing that I managed not to cry until everyone was looking elsewhere.

Mostly.

By the time darkness fell, I was back in bed with Edan because apparently sitting upright for half an afternoon now qualified as strenuous labor. Ewan, meanwhile, seemed to possess enough energy for the entire household. He’d spent part of the afternoon outside with two kitlings under Maardok’s supervision—or so Maardok assured me repeatedly—and had returned covered in mud, ravenously hungry, and apparently in possession of two new friends.

I was about to question him when there was a knock at the door and an orc female I hadn’t met appeared carrying a covered pot and a loaf of bread.

She introduced herself as Ammal, set both on the table and turned toward the door.

“Wait,” I called, and when she looked back, I took a breath, clutching my babe to my breast. “At least let me pay you for the food.”

As if I had coin for such a payment.

Her brow wrinkled at my words, then she shook her head with a soft smile, flicked her fingers as if wiping away the offer, and she slipped out the door.

I frowned after her and behind me Maardok chuckled.

“Ye look confused.”

“I cannot have strangers feeding us every day.”

He moved across the cottage to bend close enough to brush his lips over my crown.

“Why no’?”

“Because I cannot repay them!”

I felt him sigh, but before he could tell me I was being foolish, Ewan piped up.

“You can make them food later, Mama.”

I turned toward him. He was already spooning stew into his mouth as though he’d just solved a problem no sensible adult should have struggled with.

Maardok kissed me again. “That’s how things work here, dkaar. When someone needs help, ye help them. When ye dinnae need it anymore, ye help the next one.”

“But I do not even know that woman.”

Ammal; I vowed to remember her name.

“Ye will.”

I stared at him, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but apparently there wasn’t one.

A gift had never felt like a gift to me. ‘Twas…’twas like a mark in a ledger, even if the person keeping it never admitted the ledger existed.

John had built an entire future for me around that understanding, certain that eventually I would become desperate enough to accept what he offered and therefore owe him what he wanted.

But were things different in Battleborn Village? Not a ledger, but…a wheel, mayhap?

Mayhap once, someone had helped Ammal and now she was helping me. Someday another woman might arrive cold or frightened or simply exhausted, and I could be the person who brought her dinner.

Above me, Maardok blew out a breath, and when I glanced up at him, his lips twitched. I realized I never saw his scars anymore, not when he looked so proudly at me like that.

“Our clan is always growing, Cataline,” he murmured. “And we care for each new member.”