He wondered how long that could last.
When the fire dimmed, he lay back, one arm over his eyes to block the last of the light. His other hand rested over the place where her palm had been. The shadows stirred faintly beneath his skin, curious and almost gentle.
He whispered into the dark: "Endure."
Her voice answered immediately, barely audible across the clearing: "I am here."
Their ritual, simple and profound, held his demons at bay, at least for tonight.
Chapter
Fifty-Two
Morning came as a pale wash through the thorns. Mist clung to roots and pooled in hollows. The air smelled of damp bark and last night's smoke. Eliza woke to the almost-silence of an orc encampment: whetstone on steel, wood settled on wood, brief exhales passing for greetings between changing sentries.
Her braid had been re-tied. She touched the end of it, surprised to feel a narrow strip of leather at the bind that she hadn't owned yesterday. She smiled without meaning to, recognizing Rakhal's handiwork—the same pattern he'd taught her, his hands returning in the night, deft enough to work without waking her.
She slid from beneath the pelt and into the morning chill, boots whispering on moss. Her breath came in pale strands. Across the clearing, a cooking tripod stood over a low banked fire, the pot already steaming; a woman—broad-shouldered, hair braided back with ringed bone—stirred with a stick and gave Eliza one measured glance. No hostility. A weighing, perhaps. The orcs' eyes followed Eliza when she moved, curiosity and caution braided together, and under it an evaluation that felt more like tracking a scent than tallying a ledger.
Rakhal was gone. She felt the absence as an untying, a slack in a rope. The shadows did not hum in her bones as loudly without him. She found the ache of it inconvenient and tried not to. Her body still carried the memory of his touch, a phantom heat that lingered beneath her skin like an echo.
Shazi stepped from between two thorn-barked trunks, dropping a small bundle of snares near the fire. Her hair was wet at the ends, her boots mud-slick to the ankle. She tipped her chin at Eliza once, the orc equivalent of good morning.
"Come," Shazi said. "If you're restless, there's work. If you're stiff, there's work. If you're hungry, there's work."
"Luckily," Eliza said, letting the warmth of her voice be wry instead of brittle, "I'm all three."
Shazi's mouth slanted in what passed for a smile. She gestured without looking, and two warriors peeled away from the perimeter to lay out gear: parabola-shaped baskets of woven willow for foraging, lengths of thin cord for snares, a roll of waxed cloth for wrapping meat. None of them asked if Eliza knew what she was doing. None of them offered to show her. This, too, was a courtesy.
She began by watching. The camp moved in its own language. A hand flattened and turned; a warrior shifted to widen a path. A throat-clearing, and a woman adjusted at the fire to redirect smoke. Work moved clockwise around the flame. Eliza learned the pattern and matched it, adding tinder at the right moment, not rushing the flame to a roar that would offend the trees.
A boy—or what passed for youth among them, broad already in the shoulders, tusks small and bright with polish—watched her hands. "The queen's hands are soft," he muttered, glancing sideways to see if anyone would laugh.
No one did. Shazi did not look up. Eliza didn't either.Soft hands,she thought,only by orc measure.They’d held a swordthrough siege smoke, blistered on the reins of long rides, broken skin on stone walls and men’s armor alike. She used those hands now to check the pot's simmer, to turn meat without spitting grease onto the coals, to test the balance of a knife she'd borrowed from a rack and returned to its slot with blade oiled and clean.
When the breakfast circuit finished and the pot was ladled into wooden bowls, Shazi passed Eliza one and a heel of bread. Eliza ate with her cloak thrown over her shoulders, steam ghosting around her face, and—because it seemed the most orc thing to do—she kept her counsel. The broth had an unfamiliar bitter edge, but the heat worked its way into her bones and loosened the stiff night from her neck.
After, when the bowls were stacked and rinsed, the camp shifted its weight. Warriors drifted toward the practice ground—a patch of open earth near the far roots, pocked with footprints and scored with lines from previous bouts. Staves stood in a cluster, leather shields leaned against a stump, and in a shallow trench, a row of practice knives waited, dull-edged but weighted to mimic the real thing. Eliza followed without being asked. The boy who had called her soft hands went with his friends, laughter suppressed in his throat, not cruel but expectant.
Shazi intercepted at the edge of the circle, catching a practice knife by the hilt where it balanced on a shield rim and tossing it to Eliza without warning. Eliza caught it reflexively, palm stinging, the weight familiar and comforting.
"Show him your soft hands," Shazi said, eyes bright with amusement that sharpened to interest as she stepped back.
Vharan rolled his shoulders. He moved with the confidence of someone always bigger than his peers, who never needed to watch the ground closely. He bowed—respectful, shallow—and lifted his blade.
"Non-lethal," Shazi said mildly to no one in particular. "We keep what blood we can inside bodies, for now."
Vharan grinned. "For now."
The circle expanded to give room. Eliza stilled, let the noise of the camp narrow to breath and the small shifts of feet on dirt. She took his measure: center of gravity too high for his height, lead foot eager, left shoulder less disciplined than the right. He was fast and strong, yes. He would expect to overwhelm. She was smaller, quicker, and had learned the worth of patience in places far less forgiving than a practice ring.
They began with a testing pass. Vharan came in blade high, foot angled to drive her back. She gave ground as recalibration, watching his swing and the way his eyes fixed on her shoulder instead of her hips, where the truth lived. She tapped his blade aside and stepped past his line, close enough that the heat of him startled even in morning cool, then sidestepped and reset.
He pressed harder the second time, adding a feint to the left, a half-step to unbalance her, then a high cut intended for the temple. The ghost of a smile touched her mouth. He was good. He believed he was better. She ducked, felt air feather her cheek, and used the duck to slide under his guard, her heel catching his ankle with a soft, neat sweep. He stumbled, chased balance, and found it. The circle of onlookers made a sound that sounded like a throat clearing and felt like approval.
He was careful, now. She was, too. He came in close and she let him, didn't try to meet strength with strength, borrowed his momentum and rang their blades against each other in a rhythm that felt like a conversation—the kind where both parties know exactly what the other will say and say it anyway. On a turn, she flicked her wrist and let the dull edge kiss his ribs, shallow enough to be admonition, real enough to sting.
Vharan hissed through his teeth. His friends' shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Shazi's grin flashed and vanished.
