The next few days passed in a rhythm that felt… new.
Not quite the lonely silence I'd first hoped for when I fled the war. Not quite the chaos of the battlefield either. Something in between. Something almost… peaceful.
Almost.
"Wood crooked," Borgu announced as I split another log.
I wiped sweat from my brow and glared at him. "It's wood. It's supposed to be crooked."
He shook his head solemnly, arms crossed. "Crooked wood make crooked fire. Crooked fire make crooked stew."
"…That doesn't even make sense."
"Orc sense better than human sense."
I groaned. "Why do I even argue with you anymore?"
"Because you always lose," Borgu said smugly.
Sylvara, sitting nearby with a bundle of herbs in her lap, covered her mouth. Her shoulders trembled.
"…She's laughing at me again, isn't she?" I muttered.
"Elf laugh mean progress," Borgu declared.
"Progress in what, exactly?"
"Progress in making Kael look stupid."
"…I walked into that one."
Language lessons became part of our routine, though half the time it felt less like lessons and more like me being bullied.
I pointed at myself. "Kael."
Sylvara repeated softly. "…Kael."
"Good." I smiled. Then I pointed at Borgu. "Borgu."
She tilted her head. "…Pig."
I choked. Borgu roared in outrage.
"WHAT?!"
Sylvara's lips twitched. I swear I saw the faintest hint of a smile.
"…She did that on purpose," I said, trying not to laugh.
Borgu stomped around the clearing. "Orc not pig! Orc mighty warrior! Meatfist clan strong! Pig weak!"
"Borgu," I said, failing to hide my grin, "I think you just lost an argument to someone who only knows ten words of my language."
He glared at me. "…Elf evil."
Sylvara said something melodic in Elvish, her tone dripping with smugness.
"…Yeah," I muttered. "She definitely just agreed with you being a pig."
Borgu sulked for the rest of the morning.
Cooking became another battlefield.
Borgu's philosophy: throw meat in fire until it stops squealing.
My philosophy: boil everything into a tasteless soldier's stew, because at least it's edible.
Sylvara's philosophy: actual cooking.
The first time she tried to take over the fire, Borgu nearly had a heart attack. "No! Orc fire sacred! Elf ruin fire!"
But Sylvara ignored him, tossing herbs into the pot with practiced hands. The smell that drifted out made my mouth water instantly.
"…Wait," I said slowly. "Food can… smell good?"
Borgu sniffed suspiciously. "Smell trick. Food still pig slop."
Ten minutes later, both of us were shoveling down the stew like starving wolves.
Borgu slammed his bowl down. "…Fine. Elf cook not worst."
Sylvara arched an eyebrow, clearly insulted.
"What he means," I translated quickly, "is that you're a good cook."
Borgu grunted. "…Orc words better."
"Your words nearly got you killed."
Afternoons were quieter. Borgu usually went hunting, stomping off with a crude spear he'd fashioned. I split wood or checked the huts for leaks.
Sylvara… surprised me.
She started helping. At first it was little things—gathering kindling, weaving branches. But then she began mending clothes with fine stitches, humming softly as she worked.
One evening, I found her repairing my torn sleeve with needle and thread.
"…You don't have to do that," I said.
She looked up, tilting her head. "Help."
The word was halting, but clear.
I smiled faintly. "…Thanks."
Her cheeks colored just a little. She bent back over the cloth, avoiding my gaze.
From across the clearing, Borgu whispered loudly, "Elf maiden blush again."
"…I will hit you," I muttered.
Sylvara's needle jabbed the fabric a little harder.
At night, we sat by the fire. The rhythm of breathing, the crackle of flames, the distant hoot of owls.
Sylvara listened as Borgu and I bickered. Sometimes she tried to join in, her broken words making more sense each day.
"Kael… soft," she said once, pointing at me.
"…Excuse me?" I sputtered.
Borgu roared with laughter. "Elf learn quick! She speak truth!"
I buried my face in my hands.
But later, when Borgu was snoring loud enough to scare the wildlife, Sylvara glanced at me across the fire.
"…Soft… good," she said quietly.
I blinked, caught off guard.
"…Thanks," I murmured.
She smiled faintly, then wrapped her thin blanket tighter around herself.
Life was still rough. The huts creaked in the wind. Food was never certain. But for the first time, I wasn't just surviving.
I was… living.
With an orc who called me weak, an elf who called me soft, and a fire that never quite went out.
And somehow… it felt right.