"How'd you get that back anyway?" I gesture toward the blade. "Zurkar keeps his supplies locked up pretty thoroughly."
"I have skills."
"Clearly." I pause, considering. "Good skills to have. Terrible ones to need."
Her hands still briefly before resuming their work. "Yeah."
The single word carries weight I feel through my magic, even without touching her. Pain and exhaustion and bone-deep weariness that has nothing to do with physical injury.
I want to ask. Want to know what put that heaviness in her voice, what experiences taught her to pick locks and steal weapons and expect violence from everyone she meets. But pushing for answers she's not ready to give will undo whatever small progress we've made tonight.
So instead I just sit beside her, watching moonlight play across water while she finishes cleaning the knife. The silence between us feels different now—less fraught, more companionable. Like we're two people sharing space instead of predator and prey circling each other.
Eventually she slides the knife into her boot, securing it against her calf with practiced ease.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better," she confirms quietly. Then, after a pause: "Thank you. For the other day. The training yard."
The gratitude sounds uncomfortable in her mouth, like she's not used to offering it. Like thanking people for basic decency is a foreign concept.
"Don't thank me for that," I tell her. "They were out of line. Shouldn't have been discussing you like livestock."
"Happens a lot," she says. Flat statement of fact, no emotion coloring the words.
My jaw tightens. "Shouldn't happen at all."
She looks at me then, really looks, amber-hazel eyes searching my face for something I can't identify. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her because she nods once, sharp and decisive.
"You're weird," she announces.
I grin despite myself. "Weird how?"
"For an orc." She waves vaguely. "The quiet thing, then the loud thing. The flexing. The actual respect for boundaries."
"Most orcs respect boundaries," I point out.
"Most orcs I've met didn't." Her expression closes off slightly, walls rebuilding. "But maybe I just met the wrong ones."
There's a story there. Probably multiple stories, none of them good. My magic churns restlessly, wanting to understand, wanting to absorb whatever pain she's carrying so she doesn't have to bear it alone.
But that's not my choice to make. Not my burden to claim without permission.
So I just nod. "Yeah. Sounds like you did."
We lapse into silence again. She shifts slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest, gaze fixed on the river's constant motion. I stay where I am, presence steady but not demanding, just existing beside her in this small pocket of peace we've carved from the night.
It's not much. Not compared to the conversations I have with Kaelen or the easy camaraderie I share with other warriors. But it's something. A beginning, maybe, fragile and uncertain but real.
And when she doesn't immediately leave, doesn't retreat back to the women's quarters or demand I go, I count it as a victory.
Small. Quiet. But mine nonetheless.
7
RAKK
Days bleed together after that night by the river.
