Chapter 1

Ressa

I hear his boots on the porch before his knock. Two raps, deliberate but not demanding. I know who it is before I open the door—Falla makes the same sounds every time he visits. Same rhythm, same weight distribution across the creaking boards outside the small cabin they tucked me away in after I was brought to this place. 

An orc clan. 

I still can't believe it. 

"Don't you have actual patients?" I ask instead of greeting him.

He stands there with a worn leather bag slung over one shoulder, green skin catching the pale morning light. His expression doesn't change. "I do. You're one of them."

"I'm fine."

"Then this will be quick." He waits, not pushing past me but clearly not leaving either.

I step aside because I've learned that Falla operates on orc time—patient as erosion, twice as stubborn. He's been coming three times a week for what feels like forever now. Checking my ribs, prodding at my shoulder, asking questions I don't want to answer.

The cabin's interior is sparse. Saela worries that I need more things, coming by frequently to see me. I don't tell her I prefer the solitude. She has enough to manage without my baggage weighing her down.

Falla sets his bag on the table that wobbles unless you know which corner to avoid. He knows. I watch him extract clean bandages, a jar of something that smells like pine and earth, and a small flask I recognize as the bitter tea he makes me drink.

"The cuts on your arms?" He glances up, blue-green eyes clinical.

I push up my sleeves without being asked. The movements pull at my left shoulder—a dull ache that lives there now, constant as breathing. The cuts have scabbed over, rough lines that itch more than they hurt. Some are fading to pink. Others are still dark red, raised against my pale skin.

He examines them with careful fingers, never pressing harder than necessary. "Healing well."

"That's what you said last time."

"Still true." He releases my arm and gestures to the chair. "Sit."

"I can stand."

"You can also make this difficult." His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. "But your legs still ache when you're on them too long, so sitting makes more sense."

I hate that he's right. I hate that he knows. I lower myself into the chair, feeling the protest in my thighs and calves—that deep, grinding stiffness that appears whenever I've been upright for more than an hour. The swelling has gone down significantly over the past few weeks, and Falla determined early on that nothing was broken in them. Just badly dislocated, bruised to hell, damaged but functional.

"Your ribs." He moves to stand beside me, waiting for permission.

I lift my shirt just enough to expose the left side of my torso. The bruising there has shifted through a grotesque rainbow—purple to green to yellow. Two broken ribs, both healing. They hurt when I breathe too deep, when I laugh—not that I do much of that—when I move wrong in my sleep.

Falla's hands are warm despite the early spring chill still clinging to everything. He presses along the curve of my ribcage, pausing at the break points. I flinch once, can't help it, and his hands immediately still.

"Pain level?"

"Manageable."

"That's not a number."

"Three." A lie. Closer to five, maybe six when I first wake up. But I'm not about to give him ammunition to keep hovering.

I'm still barely tolerating an orc near me. It makes me uneasy to have him here, alone with me, his hands on me. 

He doesn't call me on it. Instead, he finishes his examination and steps back, pulling my shirt down with an efficiency that somehow doesn't feel invasive. "They're knitting properly. Another two weeks and you'll barely notice them."

"Great. So we're done here?"

"Your shoulder."

I close my eyes briefly. The left shoulder—dislocated twice in the Stonevein camp, wrenched hard enough that Falla said I was lucky I didn't tear anything beyond repair. It's the worst of my injuries now, the one that wakes me at night when I roll onto it wrong. The one that makes simple tasks like lifting water buckets an exercise in gritted teeth.

"It's fine."

"Show me your range of motion."

I raise my left arm, feel the immediate pull and ache that starts deep in the socket. I get it about shoulder-height before the pain sharpens. Falla watches without comment as I lower it slowly.

"Better than last week," he says. Not a question.

"Maybe." I rotate my shoulder gingerly, testing. The joint clicks softly, a sound that used to terrify me but now is just... familiar. "It still hurts."

"It will for a while." He pulls out the jar of salve, unscrews the lid. The pine-earth smell grows stronger. "But the damage was extensive. You're lucky it's functional at all."

Lucky. The word sits wrong in my mouth. I don't feel lucky. I feel broken down and pieced back together, a patchwork person who used to be whole.

Falla doesn't wait for me to argue. He scoops salve onto his fingers and approaches. "This will help with the deep ache. May I?"

I nod because refusing seems pointless. His hands work the salve into my shoulder with practiced pressure, finding the knots and tight spots without me having to direct him. The warmth of the salve sinks in, and despite myself, I feel some of the tension release.

"You don't need to keep doing this," I say after a long silence. "Coming here, I mean. I can walk to the healing house if you actually need to check on me."

"I'm aware you can walk."

"Then why—"

"Because you won't." He doesn't look up from his work, fingers still kneading the muscle around my shoulder joint. "You'll decide you're fine enough and stop showing up. Then in a month, that shoulder will seize completely because you didn't do the stretches or apply the salve."

Heat crawls up my neck. "You don't know that."

"I know patients." He finishes with the salve, wipes his hands on a cloth, and caps the jar. "Particularly stubborn ones who think suffering in silence makes them stronger."

"I'm not—" I stop. Arguing feels like proving his point.

He hands me the jar. "Twice daily. Morning and night. The stretches I showed you—do them even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."

I take the jar because it's easier than fighting. The weight of it is solid in my palm, grounding.

Falla begins packing his bag with the same methodical care he applies to everything. "Your legs. Any numbness? Shooting pain?"

"Just the aching. Stiffness in the mornings."

"Expected. Keep moving, but don't push it. The walking you're doing is good." He pauses, glances at me. "Though I notice you avoid the main paths."

Of course he notices. Everyone probably notices. I take the routes that skirt the edges of the settlement, paths that don't cross the training grounds or the communal areas where orcs gather. Where Shae might see me and try to have another conversation about trust and safety. Where I might have to pretend I'm adjusting.

"I like the quiet."

"Mm." A noncommittal sound that could mean anything.

He closes his bag, shoulders it. The visit has taken maybe fifteen minutes, efficient as always. He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame.

"You're healing well, Ressa. Physically, at least."

The qualifier hangs in the air between us. I know what he's implying—that bruises and bones are the easy part. That the other damage, the kind that doesn't show up in examinations, takes longer to mend. Maybe doesn't mend at all.

I don't have a response that isn't defensive or dismissive, so I say nothing.

Falla seems to expect this. "I'll be back in three days. Unless you need me sooner."

"I won't."

"The offer stands anyway." He steps onto the porch, boots announcing his departure the same way they announced his arrival. Then he stops, turns back. "You're not a burden, if that's what you're thinking. Checking on you isn't a chore I resent. It's my job. And even if it wasn't, I'd still do it."

The words hit harder than they should. I stare at him, at this orc healer who has been nothing but steady and calm since the moment Kai and the others brought me and Saela back. Who set my shoulder while I screamed, who cleaned my wounds without flinching, who keeps showing up even when I make it clear I don't want him to.

"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it.

His expression doesn't change. "Because someone should."

The door clicks shut behind Falla, and the silence rushes in like water filling a hull. I stand there, jar of salve still in my hand, listening to his footsteps fade across the porch and down the path. Always the same rhythm. Always steady.

I hate how steady he is. How calm. Like the world makes sense to him in a way it hasn't for me in—

I don't finish the thought.

My fingers tighten around the jar until the glass edges bite into my palm. The pine-earth smell rises up, mixing with the musty scent of the cabin's unused corners. I should put it away. Apply it later like he said. Do the stretches. Be a good patient.

Instead, I set it on the table too hard. The wobble corner protests, and the whole thing rocks before settling.

Because someone should.

The words loop through my head, unwanted. What kind of reason is that? What kind of—

The memory hits before I can brace for it.

Hands. Too many hands. Green-skinned and rough, grabbing my arms, my hair, dragging me backward through the underbrush. Saela's name tearing from my throat, raw and desperate, not knowing if she'd made it out. Not knowing if she was already dead like Nia.

Nia.

The ground disappearing beneath my feet as they hauled me up, my shoulder screaming as they wrenched me forward. The sound of their laughter—that's what I remember most clearly. The laughter. Like capturing a human was the highlight of their day, better than a successful hunt, more entertaining than whatever passed for Stonevein recreation.

I press my palms flat against the table, feeling the rough wood grain beneath my fingers. Anchor points. Falla taught me that trick during one of his visits when I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. Find something solid. Something real. Focus on texture, temperature, weight.

It doesn't work.

The cell. That's what comes next, flooding in with the clarity of a fresh wound. Damp stone walls that wept moisture, making everything slick and cold. The smell—rot and waste and something metallic that I eventually realized was old blood. Mine. Others'. Didn't matter whose. It all smelled the same after enough time.

How long was I there? Weeks. Had to be weeks, though time stretched and contracted in ways that made counting impossible. Dark, then torchlight, then dark again. Sometimes they brought food—scraps, really, things I wouldn't have fed to a dog back in the settlement. Sometimes they didn't bother.

Sometimes they brought knives.

My stomach lurches.

I make it three steps toward the sink before my legs give out. I catch myself on the edge of the counter, both hands gripping hard enough that my knuckles bleach white. The nausea rolls through me in waves, hot and acidic, crawling up my throat.

Entertainment. That's what it was to them. Not interrogation—they never asked questions. Not punishment for some crime—I hadn't done anything except exist in the wrong place. Just... fun. A way to pass the time between whatever the hell else they did with their days.

I remember the first cut. Shallow, across my upper arm. The Stonevein who did it—I never learned his name, but I remember his tusks, one broken at the tip—he watched my face the whole time. Waiting for the reaction. When I didn't scream, didn't give him what he wanted, he went deeper the next time.

They learned quickly that I'd bite through my own tongue before I'd scream for them.

So they found other ways to make it entertaining.

I heave over the sink, but nothing comes up except bile. My ribs protest the movement, that familiar grinding ache that Falla says is normal for broken bones knitting back together. The pain centers me enough to breathe through my nose, slow and measured.

In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

Another trick from Falla. This one works better.

The shaking in my hands subsides to a fine tremor. I straighten slowly, testing my weight on legs that still feel unreliable despite weeks of healing. The stiffness is there, that deep ache in my thighs and calves where they kicked me down, dragged me across stone floors, left me crumpled in corners when they got bored.

Nothing broken, Falla had said when he first examined me. Just badly dislocated. Swollen. Damaged but functional.

Lucky, he'd called it.

I turn on the water pump—blessedly simple technology that the Frostfang were able to piece together from our old ruined lives—and splash cold water on my face. It shocks my system, drives back the nausea another few inches. I cup more water in my palms and drink, rinsing the taste of bile from my mouth.

The reflection in the polished metal backing of the sink shows a stranger. Too thin, all sharp angles and shadows. My red hair hangs limp around a face that's lost the softness it had before. Before the woods. Before Nia. Before everything went to hell and dragged me down with it.

I look away.

The cabin feels smaller suddenly, walls pressing in with their sparse furnishings and careful emptiness. Saela worries I need more things. Shae keeps offering blankets, cushions, little comforts that would make this place feel less like a cell.

They don't understand that the emptiness is the point. That too many objects mean too many places for memories to hide. Better to keep it simple. Clean. Controllable.

I sink back into the chair—the one Falla made me sit in earlier—and press my hands against my thighs. But the memories keep coming, relentless as a tide I can't outrun.

The worst part wasn't the cutting. Wasn't even the pain, though that was considerable. It was the anticipation. Hearing their boots in the corridor outside the cell, not knowing if this time they'd just bring food or if they'd drag me out for another session. The waiting. The not knowing.

And under all of it, the constant, gnawing fear that Saela was in another cell somewhere, going through the same thing. Or worse—that she was already dead, and I was suffering alone for nothing.

When Kai burst through that cell door, when I saw Saela alive behind him with Falla and another orc I later learned was called Ursik, I didn't feel relief. I felt—

Nothing. Numbness. Like my brain couldn't process that the nightmare might actually be ending.

It still feels that way sometimes.

I hear them before the knock. Two voices, one low and warm, one higher and familiar. Shae and Saela. Of course. They coordinate these visits now, tag-teaming their concern like I'm a problem that needs solving from multiple angles.

The knock is gentler than Falla's. More tentative.

"Ressa?" Saela's voice. "It's us. Can we come in?"

I could pretend I'm not here. They might believe it—the cabin's small enough that I could claim I was out walking. But Saela knows my patterns as well as I know hers. She'd know I'm avoiding them.

"It's open."

The door swings inward, and there they are. Saela in her practical layers, patched trousers and worn boots that match my own. Her gray-green eyes find mine immediately, sharp and assessing in that way that used to comfort me and now makes me feel exposed. Shae stands beside her, deep green skin and long black hair, warm eyes that radiate the kind of maternal concern that sets my teeth on edge.

An orc. Right there. Tall and strong and capable of—

I force the thought down, bury it before it can take root.

"Falla just left?" Saela asks, stepping inside. She moves carefully, like approaching a spooked animal. Maybe that's what I am now.

"Yeah. Same checkup as always."

Shae follows her in, and I have to actively stop myself from leaning away. She doesn't come too close—she's learned that boundary—but her presence fills the space in a way that makes my chest tight. Green skin. Strong hands. Orc.

Not Stonevein, some rational part of my brain insists. Frostfang. Different clan. Different people. Shae has been nothing but kind. She checks on me even when Saela doesn't come. Brings food. Offers help without pushing.

My body doesn't care about the distinction.

"How are you feeling?" Shae's voice is gentle, that particular tone people use when they're afraid you might shatter.

"Fine." The word comes out too quickly, too sharp. I soften it with a shrug that pulls at my shoulder. "Healing. You know. The usual."

Saela's eyes narrow fractionally. She knows. Of course she knows. We grew up together, survived together, learned each other's tells so well that lying became pointless years ago. But she won't push. Not here, not in front of Shae.

"Falla says your ribs are coming along well." Shae settles herself on the edge of the table, careful to avoid the wobble corner. She's been here enough times to know its quirks too. "That's good news."

"Great news." I inject false brightness into my tone, aiming for normal and probably landing somewhere near manic. "Two more weeks and I'll barely notice them. Modern miracles."

Saela's jaw tightens, but she doesn't call me on it. Instead, she crosses to the window, giving me space while staying close enough to talk. "We were thinking—if you're up for it—maybe you could join us for dinner tonight. The communal hall. Shae's cooking."

My stomach drops. The communal hall. Full of orcs. Dozens of them. All that noise and movement and—

"I don't think—"

"You don't have to," Saela cuts in quickly. Too quickly. "Just... if you wanted to. Thought I'd ask."

She's trying so hard. They both are. Treating me like spun glass, offering invitations they know I'll refuse, checking in with worried eyes and careful words. Everyone in this settlement treats me like I'm fragile, like one wrong move will shatter whatever precarious stability I've managed to scrape together.

They're probably right.

"Maybe another time." I aim for apologetic and land on hollow. "I'm still pretty tired. The healing takes it out of me."

Lies. I'm not tired. I barely sleep anymore—every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that cell. But exhaustion is an excuse they'll accept without argument.

Shae nods, understanding and disappointed in equal measure. "Of course. Whenever you're ready."

If I'm ever ready, she means. The unspoken qualifier hangs between us.

Saela turns from the window, and for a moment, our eyes meet. Really meet. I see the worry there, the guilt that she couldn't protect me, the desperate hope that I'll somehow snap back to the person I was before. Before the woods, before the Stonevein, before I was stupid enough to get captured and orcs had to save me from other brutal orcs. 

The weight of it crushes down on me. They saved me. Kai—an orc Saela loves, who risked himself and his friends to pull me out of that hell. I should be grateful. Should be adjusting, accepting, moving forward.

Instead, I'm here. Hiding in an empty cabin, flinching at shadows, unable to stand in the same room as Shae without my pulse hammering in my ears.

"I'm fine," I say again, and this time even I don't believe it.