The morning after their feast was slower than usual. No one rose at dawn to chop wood or scout the river; even Kael, ever the soldier, lingered by the fire longer than he should have.
The smokehouse frame stood tall beside them, the garden rows glistened with dew, and for once, there was no urgent task pressing on their shoulders.
Borgu was the first to speak, his booming voice startling the quiet. "Strange," he said, gnawing on a bone from last night's leftovers. "Usually, I wake up and fight something. Wolf, bear, cousin. But now? Just wake up and… sit."
Sylvara shot him a sideways glance. "You call that progress?"
"Better than cousin," Borgu replied cheerfully.
Lorian chuckled, though his ribs still protested the motion. "I'll take sitting over fighting any day."
Kael poked the fire with a stick, his brow furrowed as though weighing something. "Sitting's fine. But if we're going to last here… we should learn who we're sitting beside."
That drew silence. Even Borgu stopped chewing.
Kael leaned back, eyes narrowed at the flames. "We fight together. Build together. But I don't even know half your stories."
Sylvara folded her arms, her expression cautious. "Stories are dangerous. The wrong ones can bind you as surely as chains."
"Or free you," Lorian said softly.
Her gaze flicked to him, sharp at first, but then softened.
Borgu, predictably, broke the tension. He slammed the bone down like a gavel. "I start! Borgu of clan Meatbreaker!" He puffed his chest proudly. "Strongest eater, loudest singer, breaker of six chairs with one sit!"
Sylvara pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why am I not surprised."
But Borgu grinned, undeterred. "Also—exiled." His tone shifted, but only slightly. "Clan said Borgu too wild, too much trouble. I said 'good!' Trouble is fun. Left with axe, left with name. Orcs never forget name."
There was no shame in his voice, only a kind of reckless pride.
Kael gave a curt nod. "At least you wear your scars without hiding them."
Sylvara was next, though reluctantly. She spoke without looking at them, her hands tracing absent patterns in the dirt. "I was… once of the Silvergrove. A healer. A singer of roots." Her voice dropped lower. "But war doesn't care for healers. And when I refused to lend my gift to bloodshed, I was cast out."
The fire crackled between them. No one spoke.
It was Borgu who broke it, scratching his head. "So they mad because you not kill?"
Sylvara's lips curved, almost bitterly. "Yes. For not killing."
"Pah!" Borgu spat into the fire. "Stupid elves. If you want blood, fight your own battle! Not throw away healers like bones!"
For once, Sylvara didn't argue. She only watched the flames, her expression unreadable.
When it came to Lorian, he hesitated. His hand brushed unconsciously at the bandaged ribs. "I was… a merchant's son. Nothing more. But when the conscriptors came, I wore armor instead of a ledger. Thought I'd be a hero."
His laugh was hollow. "Turns out heroes bleed the same as anyone else."
Sylvara's eyes softened at that, though she said nothing.
Borgu leaned over and slapped Lorian's back—gently, by Borgu's standards, though Lorian still winced. "Hero or not, you fight. That counts. Orcs respect that."
"Respect or pity?" Lorian muttered, but a small smile betrayed him.
At last, all eyes turned to Kael.
He stared into the fire a long time before speaking. "Kael Ardent. Once Captain of the Northern Legion. I fought for kings, for banners, for lines on a map." His jaw tightened. "Until one day, I looked down at the mud beneath me—saw it was filled with the faces of my men. Good men. Dead for nothing."
He exhaled slowly, as if each word was a burden. "So I walked away. Swore I'd never raise a sword for another banner again."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was the weight of truths finally laid bare.
Then Borgu, ever incapable of letting things linger too long, leaned forward with a grin. "So… we all kicked out of somewhere, eh? Orc, elf, soldier, merchant. Bad clan, bad forest, bad king, bad draft."
Sylvara sighed, though there was a faint curl at the corner of her lips. "Put that way, we're a collection of failures."
"Not failures," Borgu corrected. "Survivors. Builders. Maybe family."
That last word lingered in the air, surprising even him.
Kael's expression didn't change much, but his hand tightened around the stick he was holding. Lorian looked down, blinking fast. Sylvara pretended to be unimpressed, but she didn't snap back.
Instead, she reached into her pouch, drew out a small sprig of green, and tossed it into the fire. The flames flared briefly, releasing a sweet, herbal scent.
"A blessing," she said quietly. "For… family."
And under the starlit sky, with the fire warming their faces, they let the silence settle once more—not empty this time, but full.