The morning after the Thornback Boar feast, our little clearing felt strangely alive. The air carried the scent of cooked meat instead of blood, the huts stood sturdier than before, and laughter—actual laughter—still lingered in the air.
Borgu was already awake, hacking at a tree with his axe while humming an orcish battle tune that sounded suspiciously like a drunk bear trying to dance.
Sylvara, crouched beside the firepit, carefully ground herbs with a stone pestle. She worked in silence, but her humming from the night before echoed faintly in my ears. I stretched, letting the ache of yesterday's battle settle into something almost tolerable.
It would've been a perfect morning.
If not for the fact that we weren't alone.
I noticed it first—the prickling of eyes watching us.
Not the way a predator stares at prey, but more like… curiosity. Hunger, too, but not just for food.
"Don't look," I murmured to Sylvara. "Someone's out there."
Her grinding stopped immediately. Her hand went to the dagger strapped to her thigh. Borgu, of course, didn't even slow his chopping.
"Orc know," he said cheerfully. "Been watching since dawn."
I whipped my head toward him. "You knew?"
Borgu shrugged. "Not enemy. If enemy, they'd attack already. Orc instincts perfect."
"Orc instincts nearly got us eaten by a giant porcupine pig," I shot back.
"Boar!" Borgu corrected indignantly.
Before I could argue further, a voice cracked through the treeline.
"Excuse me! Don't kill me!"
That… was new.
The stranger stumbled out of the brush—a young man, no older than me, with dark hair tied in a messy knot and clothes that had clearly seen better days. His boots were caked in mud, and a half-broken spear dangled from his hands.
He froze at the edge of the clearing, wide-eyed, as if realizing too late he might've just walked into his own grave.
Borgu pointed his axe at him. "Weak. Scrawny. Would snap in one bite."
"I'm not food!" the man yelped.
Sylvara's grip tightened on her dagger. She murmured something in Elvish—words I didn't catch, but the tone was sharp, suspicious.
I held up a hand. "Hold on. Let's hear him out before Borgu decides to roast him."
Borgu pouted. "…Orc never get to roast human."
"Because that's called murder."
"Small murder."
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
The stranger raised his hands nervously. "My name's Lorian. I—I've been wandering the forest for weeks. I thought I was the only one crazy enough to survive out here."
"Crazy, yes," Borgu agreed immediately.
Lorian swallowed hard, eyes darting between the three of us. "I saw your fire last night. Smelled food. And… well…" His stomach growled so loudly it echoed in the clearing.
I sighed. "Of course. Another stray."
Sylvara studied him closely, her sharp gaze almost uncomfortable. Finally, she spoke, her voice clipped but clear. "Why here?"
Lorian blinked. "Because—because you're alive. And I'd like to stay that way."
Borgu stomped closer, towering over him. He sniffed dramatically, circling like a wolf.
"Smell weak. Smell desperate. Smell… stew?"
Lorian flinched. "Is that bad?"
"No." Borgu grinned wide. "Means you eat with us."
I rubbed my temple. "We didn't agree to that."
Borgu jabbed a thumb at Lorian. "New family member. Done."
Sylvara's eyes narrowed. "…Too soon. Trust… not easy."
Her words carried weight. She still hadn't fully lowered her dagger. And for good reason—trust wasn't exactly something you handed to the first starving soul who stumbled into camp.
I looked at Lorian. "If you want to stay here, you'll have to prove yourself. We don't carry dead weight."
He straightened a little, though his arms trembled. "I can fight."
Borgu snorted. "With that stick?"
"It's… seen better days," Lorian admitted, glancing at his cracked spear. "But I know how to use it."
Sylvara muttered something under her breath. I caught a single word: liar.
This was going to be complicated.
We let him stay—for the day. Mostly because Sylvara, after much glaring, allowed him to sit near the fire once she was sure he wasn't about to stab us.
And because Borgu, predictably, was thrilled to have a new audience for his endless orc stories.
"Listen, twig-man!" Borgu roared, slapping Lorian on the back hard enough to nearly knock him into the fire. "When Thornback Boar come, Kael scream like baby, elf stab like fox, and I—Borgu Meatfist—climb beast back and ride it like warhorse!"
"That's not what happened," I muttered.
"It's exactly what happened," Borgu declared.
Lorian forced a laugh, clearly unsure if disagreeing with an orc was wise. "Sounds… impressive."
"Impressive is my middle name!" Borgu boasted. "Actually Meatfist is middle name. First name Borgu. Last name also Meatfist."
I buried my face in my hands.
Sylvara was less amused. She kept her distance, her eyes following Lorian's every move. Whenever he spoke, she tilted her head as though weighing his words.
At one point, when he reached for another bowl of stew, she snapped something sharp in Elvish.
Lorian froze. "Uh… what did she say?"
"She said if you steal more than your share, she'll gut you," I translated flatly.
Sylvara didn't deny it.
Lorian paled. "Right. Noted."
As the day wore on, I decided to test him.
"Alright, Lorian. If you're staying, you'll help. Borgu and I are finishing the hut for Sylvara. You can chop wood."
He blinked. "Chop wood?"
"Yes. With that." I tossed him an axe.
He nearly dropped it. His hands weren't calloused, not like a soldier's. He swung the blade, and it buried itself halfway into the log before sticking.
He grinned weakly. "See? Easy."
Then he tried to pull it out. The axe didn't budge.
Borgu roared with laughter, clutching his stomach. "Twig-man weaker than squirrel!"
Sylvara, for once, smirked.
Lorian flushed red. "I—I loosened it on purpose!"
"Sure you did," I muttered.
Evening fell again, and though the newcomer had made little progress proving himself, I found myself oddly reluctant to send him away.
He wasn't a warrior. Not like Sylvara, not like Borgu. But there was a stubborn spark in him. A determination to not simply vanish into the woods like so many others had.
That spark was familiar. It was the same one I'd felt in myself, back when I left everything behind.
Sylvara still didn't trust him. Borgu trusted him far too quickly.
And me? I wasn't sure yet.
But as we sat around the fire once more, the stew bubbling, Borgu already telling Lorian about the "glorious orcish art of headbutting trees," I realized something.
Our little family had grown by one. Whether I liked it or not.