The days after the spined hare hunt passed like smoke drifting from the hearth: slow, curling, and strangely comforting.
Lorian couldn't walk far without hissing in pain, the bandages across his ribs binding him tighter than any chainmail ever could. Every step reminded him of the claws that had raked his side, and every breath tugged against half-healed flesh. Still, he tried.
And every time he tried, Sylvara was there to scold him.
"Sit down before you split the stitches." Her tone was sharp as flint, though her hands were steady as they guided him back to the stool by the fire.
"I can stand," Lorian muttered, wincing.
"You can wobble. That's not the same."
From the corner, Borgu let out a laugh loud enough to rattle the rafters. "Elf's right! You wobble like drunk goblin!"
Lorian shot him a glare, which only made the orc grin wider. "Careful," Borgu added. "One gust of wind, and poof! You fall over like twig." He mimed collapsing dramatically, arms and legs flailing until Sylvara smacked him with the back of a spoon.
"Out," she ordered.
Borgu went, still chuckling, the sound carrying outside as he whistled tunelessly.
Kael, seated at the table with a whetstone and his old dagger, didn't look up from his work. But the corner of his mouth twitched—his closest thing to a laugh.
By the third day, Lorian had learned to accept Sylvara's care. He still muttered, still complained, but he let her change his bandages without protest. She worked in silence, her fingers cool and precise.
At first, he thought she was simply cold. That her hands were steady because she didn't care. But once, when he winced harder than usual, her brow furrowed—just slightly, just for a moment.
And in that fleeting crease of worry, he saw something else.
Not indifference. Not disdain.
But a fear carefully locked away.
She caught him staring and immediately snapped, "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, though his chest felt warmer despite the pain.
Kael put them to work in gentle ways. Lorian sorted herbs, Sylvara instructed him on which were useful and which were poisonous. Borgu chopped firewood, though half the logs ended up splintered from his enthusiasm. Kael fished by the river, patient enough to bring back something edible every evening.
Meals became their hearthstone.
Borgu insisted on cooking meat until it was charred black. Sylvara wrinkled her nose at the smoke, muttering that orcs had no taste. She countered with stews flavored with herbs so fragrant even Lorian forgot the bitterness of his medicine. Kael was practical, tossing whatever was available into the pot, his soldier's habit of turning scraps into sustenance.
One evening, as flames crackled and shadows danced along the walls of their hut, Borgu leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Not bad. Almost tastes like home. Except… too many leaves."
Sylvara, ladling stew into bowls, rolled her eyes. "It's called seasoning, you brute."
"Seasoning is salt. This is… green water."
"Green water that kept you from choking on your own smoke last night," she shot back.
Kael stirred his bowl, lips quirking as he watched them bicker. Lorian, caught between them, found himself laughing despite the ache in his ribs.
The sound made the others pause. For a moment, the hut was quiet, save for the fire. Then Borgu slapped him on the back—gently, for once—and roared with laughter of his own.
"Look at that! He laughs! He's not broken after all!"
Sylvara tried to hide her smile behind her spoon. Kael only nodded, but his eyes softened as they lingered on the group.
Nights stretched longer. The forest outside whispered with life, but inside their little circle of firelight, the air was warm, safe.
Lorian found himself listening, really listening, to the others. Borgu's ridiculous stories of orc feasts that lasted three days. Sylvara's rare, reluctant tales of elven forests, each word wrapped in a longing she didn't show. Kael's occasional anecdotes from the war, told with the weariness of someone who had seen too much, but always tempered with humor at his own expense.
He spoke less, but when he did, the others listened. Even Sylvara.
And in those moments, he felt the weight of distrust shift, if only by a grain.
On the seventh day, Kael set down his fishing rod and looked over the group as they sat by the fire.
"You've all done well," he said simply.
Borgu grinned. Sylvara raised a brow, as if unsure whether it was a compliment or a trick. Lorian straightened, pride prickling through the dull ache of his wounds.
Kael leaned forward, gaze steady. "This is more than survival now. This is life. Ours. Together. Remember that."
The flames crackled. The forest hummed beyond the walls.
And in the quiet that followed, Lorian realized something.
For the first time in years, maybe in his entire life, he wasn't waiting for the next order, the next march, the next blade.
He was waiting for tomorrow.
And that was enough.