The Thornback Boar's carcass sat in the clearing like some grotesque monument to insanity. Its bulk dwarfed our huts, and the quills still bristled like a forest of spears.
I sat slumped against a log, every muscle in my body screaming. Borgu, of course, was strutting around like he'd just been crowned king of the world.
"Orc victory!" he bellowed, planting a foot proudly on the beast's flank. "Meatfist clan triumph again!"
"You almost died," I muttered, too tired to lift my head.
Borgu grinned. "Almost dying is half the fun!"
"…You're insane."
"Yes."
Sylvara crouched beside me, dabbing at the scratches on my arm with a damp cloth. Her touch was careful, gentle. "Kael… still alive," she said softly, as if that fact alone was worth celebrating.
"Barely," I muttered, but I couldn't help the faint smile tugging at my lips.
Borgu clapped his massive hands together, startling a flock of birds into flight. "Enough talk! Time for feast!"
I groaned. "Do we have to eat that thing? For all we know, it's poisonous."
"Poison?" Borgu scoffed. "Poison is just flavor that tests strength!"
"…That's not how poison works."
Sylvara tilted her head. "Boar… meat. Cook."
I sighed. "Oh no. Here we go again."
Processing the beast turned into its own battle.
"Cut here!" Borgu announced, swinging his knife like a lunatic. "Orc way: chop until meat appear!"
"That's not butchering, that's murder again," I snapped, wresting the knife from him.
I had some experience—soldiers don't exactly live on luxury meals, but I'd helped skin game before. Still, the boar's hide was thick, and every cut felt like hacking at a tree trunk. My arms burned.
Sylvara knelt nearby, carefully plucking a few of the quills. She examined them with wide eyes. "Sharp. Strong. Good."
"Good for what?" I asked between grunts.
She mimed stabbing. "Weapon."
Borgu's eyes lit up. "Elf clever! Orc need new spear. Quill spear! Stronger than iron!"
"…Gods help me, you two are actually going to arm yourselves with porcupine pig spikes."
"Thornback Boar not pig!" Borgu corrected indignantly.
"Fine. Porcupine boar."
"Better."
By dusk, we had enough meat to feed a small army. Unfortunately, we were only three idiots with no idea how to cook it properly.
Borgu immediately tried to skewer a hunk of meat and throw it directly into the flames. The resulting inferno nearly burned off my eyebrows.
"See? Perfect!" Borgu declared proudly.
I poked the blackened lump with a stick. "…It's charcoal."
"Charcoal tasty! Crunchy!"
Sylvara wrinkled her nose. "Bad."
I sighed. "Alright, my turn."
I dumped chunks of boar into a pot of water, added a pinch of salt, and stirred. My tried-and-true soldier's stew. Simple. Edible. Soul-crushingly bland.
Borgu took one sip, gagged loudly, and spat it into the fire. "WATER FLAVOR! DISGUSTING!"
"It's called 'being alive,'" I snapped. "You should try it sometime instead of eating charcoal."
Sylvara, watching us both with the patience of a saint, finally stood. She picked out herbs from her pouch, crushed them between her fingers, and sprinkled them into the pot. Then she added mushrooms, wild onions, and some berries I hadn't even noticed her gather earlier.
The smell that rose was heavenly.
"…Oh no," I whispered. "Food isn't supposed to smell this good."
Borgu sniffed suspiciously. "Smell trick. Like elf perfume. Food still pig slop."
Ten minutes later, he was on his third bowl.
The fire crackled warmly, casting long shadows across the clearing. We sat in a rough circle, bowls in hand, bellies slowly filling with Sylvara's masterpiece stew.
Borgu leaned back, rubbing his stomach. "Elf cook magic. Best meat ever."
Sylvara gave him a flat look. "…Not pig slop?"
Borgu froze. "…Uh." He glanced at me desperately.
I smirked. "She's asking if you take back what you said earlier."
Borgu cleared his throat. "Elf cook… not worst."
Sylvara's eyes narrowed.
I leaned toward her. "What he means is 'the best cook I've ever had in my life, please forgive my tiny brain.'"
"YES," Borgu blurted, nodding furiously.
Sylvara's lips twitched, and she actually laughed—a soft, melodic sound that made the forest feel brighter.
Borgu groaned. "Why elf laugh always at orc?"
"Because you make it too easy," I said, grinning.
As the night deepened, the tension of the earlier fight melted into warmth.
Borgu launched into a dramatic retelling of the battle, complete with wild hand gestures. "And then I, Borgu Meatfist, leapt onto beast's back! It tried to shake me off, but I hold strong, like true orc hero!"
"You screamed like a lunatic the whole time," I interrupted.
"War cry!"
"Sounded more like a piglet being stepped on."
Sylvara nearly choked on her stew from laughing.
Borgu glared at both of us. "…Human weak. Elf cruel. Orc strong."
I raised my bowl in a mock toast. "To our strong, cruel, weak family, then."
Sylvara blinked. "…Family?"
I froze. The word had slipped out without me thinking.
"…I mean," I stammered, "we're… kind of like one, aren't we? Living together, cooking, fighting off oversized nightmares…"
Sylvara's expression softened. "…Family." She repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it for the first time.
Borgu looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. "…Orc accept family. As long as family eat well."
I chuckled. "Of course that's your priority."
The fire crackled, and for once, the silence felt comfortable.
Sylvara hummed softly, a lilting tune that drifted through the trees. Borgu snored loudly, already passed out with his bowl still in his hand.
I stared into the flames, letting the warmth seep into my bones.
This wasn't what I'd planned when I left the army. I'd wanted solitude. Silence. An escape.
Instead, I had an orc who treated danger like dessert, an elf who turned stew into art, and a half-broken hut that somehow felt more like home than any barracks ever did.
Maybe the gods had a twisted sense of humor.
But as I listened to Sylvara's humming, I realized… maybe it wasn't so twisted after all.