The moment his eyes found mine, they sparked with unmistakable delight.
"Hi, Ardin," I said softly, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress beside him. The cushions gave beneath my weight, and I had to adjust to keep from sliding. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," he announced, his voice surprisingly strong for someone who'd been at death's door just yesterday ago. "Mama made me eatso muchsoup."
The slight whine in his tone made me smile. Complaining about being force-fed was a good sign—it meant he had the energy to be annoyed. "Good. That's exactly what you need."
I reached for his wrist, my fingers finding the pulse point with practiced ease. Strong and steady, no irregularities. My other hand pressed gently against his forehead—cool to the touch, no fever. Carefully, I peeled back the bandaging, half-afraid of what I might find beneath.
But the wound was beautiful. Well, as beautiful as a healing injury could be. The edges were knitting together with remarkable speed, the tissue bright green and healthy, no signs of infection or inflammation. The resilience of Orc physiology continued to astound me. A human child with similar injuries would still be bedridden for weeks. The medical journals seemed to be mistaken about pre-pubescent Orcs.
"You're healing wonderfully," I told him, tucking the blanket more snugly around his shoulders. "Keep resting, keep eating your mama's soup, and you'll be running circles around everyone before you know it."
His small tusks peeked out as his face split into a delighted grin. "Promise?"
The hope in his voice squeezed something in my chest. I held up my pinky finger, the gesture automatic. "Promise."
He stared at my extended finger for a moment, confused, before understanding dawned. His own tiny finger hooked around mine, and he squeezed with all the solemnity of someone sealing a sacred oath.
"What does this mean?" he whispered, as if afraid speaking too loudly might break the spell.
"It means I can't break my promise," I whispered back. "It's magic."
His eyes went wide, and I heard Ryhain's soft laugh from somewhere behind us.
She walked us to the door when we finally took our leave, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. "Thank you. Both of you. I don't know what we would have done without—"
"He's going to be just fine," I assured her, catching her hand and squeezing. Her fingers were rough with work, warm with gratitude. "He's strong. Stronger than he knows."
"Rest well," Ruka added, his deep voice gentling in a way that seemed reserved for moments like this, and we stepped back out into the night.
The path to Ruka's house wound through the settlement like a silver thread, moonlight pooling in the hollows between houses. Above us, the sky had opened into something magnificent—stars scattered like diamond dust across black velvet, the moon so full and bright it cast actual shadows at our feet.
The silence had a pulse to it. It breathed with us, expanded and contracted like something alive. Comfortable. Easy. Like we'd been walking together for years instead of days.
I was acutely aware of him beside me—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his presence seemed to create its own gravity. When I snuck a glance at his profile, moonlightcaught the strong planes of his face, softening the warrior into something almost tender.
He looked at peace. And somehow, impossibly, I felt it too.
At his door, Ruka paused, one massive hand resting against the frame. "Would you like a fire? The mountains hold onto winter. Even now, the night has teeth."
A shiver I hadn't acknowledged until that moment rippled through me. "Yes. Please."
Inside, I claimed the corner of his sofa, tucking my legs beneath me while Ruka knelt at the hearth. Watching him work was hypnotic—those enormous hands that could probably snap bone like kindling instead arranged wood with the delicate precision of an artist. Each piece placed with intention, like he was building something that mattered.
The first spark caught. Then another. Flame bloomed, and the room transformed into a play of light and shadow, everything suddenly warm and alive.
"Comfortable?" he asked, still coaxing the fire higher.
"Very." I pulled one of the hand-knitted throws across my lap, the wool soft and smelling faintly of pine. My gaze drifted around the room, catching on new details—a book left open on the side table, its pages worn soft with reading. The careful order of everything. "Your home is beautiful, you know. It feels... solid. Real."
He added another log, adjusting it with an iron poker until satisfied. "It serves its purpose."
"But those books." I nodded toward the shelves lining the walls, packed tight with volumes of every size and color. "That's not just practical. You love reading."
Ruka straightened, brushing ash from his palms. The firelight carved him into something between man and myth—all sharp edges and hidden softness. "A chieftain who leads only with strength will watch his people fall."
"That's... actually profound."