The first rain came in the middle of the morning.
Soft at first, like the sky was still deciding whether to cry or not. Then heavier — a steady rhythm drumming across the thatched roofs and freshly patched walls.
No thunder, no wind. Just rain.
For a moment, I stood outside with my hands stretched out, letting the cold water trace down my fingers. The smell of wet soil rose thick and earthy — the kind of scent that made you remember you were alive.
Behind me, Borgu shouted, "Rain test roof! If leak, human sleep wet tonight!"
I sighed. "That's not a test, that's sabotage."
He grinned, holding up a half-finished plank. "No, that's motivation."
Sylvara chuckled from under the eaves, arms folded. Her silver hair clung slightly to her cloak. "Perhaps a little rain will remind you not to cut corners, Kael."
I gave her a look. "Says the elf who refused to help build it."
"I offered supervision," she said, unbothered.
"You sat on a log and told me my measurements were uneven."
"They were."
Borgu let out a deep belly laugh. "Elf sharp tongue. Orc approve."
I ran a hand down my face. It was too early for this kind of diplomacy.
By noon, the camp was a collection of dripping roofs and steaming cookpots. Lorian had set up a small canopy near the fire, working on preserving vegetables. His method — a complicated mix of salt, herbs, and pure hope — smelled like something between pickles and regret.
Gareth, ever the quiet sentinel, was repairing arrows. He sat just outside the rain's reach, a cloak draped over his shoulders. The flick of his knife against the shafts was steady, practiced.
"Careful with the fletching," I told him. "We don't have much left."
He didn't look up. "I know. These were made from the last of the goose feathers."
"From the one Borgu tried to roast?"
"Same one."
I grimaced. "May it rest in pieces."
That earned me the smallest hint of a smirk. For Gareth, that was practically a laugh.
Around midday, Sylvara joined Lorian under the canopy.
He was mumbling something about ratios, while she leaned over, watching. The rain softened to a drizzle, making the air thick with damp warmth.
"Too much salt," she said.
Lorian frowned. "I measured it exactly as last time."
"And last time, Borgu nearly died."
"He coughed. Once."
"Twice," she corrected.
Their banter went back and forth — soft, rhythmic, comfortable. It was strange, but in its own way, those little arguments had become the heartbeat of the camp.
I watched them from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at my mouth. The kind of scene you'd never notice in the world before the war — too ordinary to remember, too human to forget.
Borgu decided the rain was a "challenge from the gods" and stripped to his waist to "train the body and spirit."
Ten minutes later, he sneezed hard enough to scare a flock of birds out of the trees.
Sylvara shouted from under the canopy, "You're going to catch something!"
"Orc catch glory!" he shouted back, flexing at the storm.
I muttered, "If he catches pneumonia, I'm not burying him."
Gareth, from his post, replied dryly, "He'll probably bury you first."
Fair point.
When the rain finally calmed to a misty drizzle, we gathered near the main fire. Borgu, now wrapped in a blanket, sat sniffling while Sylvara brewed something that smelled like mint and guilt.
She handed him the cup. "Drink it."
"Smells like elf poison."
"It's medicine."
"Orc not trust green drink."
"Then stay sick."
He hesitated, grunted, then downed it in one go. His face twisted like he'd swallowed fire. "Tastes like wet grass."
"Good," she said, smiling faintly. "Means it's working."
Lorian whispered to me, "Does she ever not win?"
"Only when she lets you think she lost," I said.
The afternoon passed in that quiet rhythm — patching, mending, sorting supplies. The sound of rain faded, replaced by the soft hiss of steam from wet stones near the fire.
There was no grand event, no discovery or conflict — just us, doing what needed to be done.
And in its own way, that meant more than any battle.
When dusk came, I decided to check the fields beyond the fence. The small plots we'd planted were sprouting well — rows of hardy grain and wild herbs that Sylvara claimed would grow even in cursed soil.
The rain made the leaves glisten, tiny droplets catching the dying light like gems.
Behind me, I heard soft footsteps. Gareth again, of course. He had that soldier's habit of never letting anyone wander off alone.
"Looks better than I expected," he said quietly.
"Nature's good at fixing what we break," I replied.
He nodded. "Wish people were the same."
I looked at him. "You're trying."
He gave a faint shrug. "Trying doesn't erase what I've done."
"Maybe not," I said, "but it changes what you'll do next."
He didn't answer — but the silence wasn't heavy this time. Just thoughtful.
Back at camp, Sylvara was stirring a pot over the fire. Something thick and fragrant.
I raised an eyebrow. "Soup?"
"Stew," she corrected.
"Borgu's experiment or yours?"
"Mine. Which means it's edible."
"Promising."
Lorian peeked in curiously. "It smells… different."
"That's called seasoning," she said, deadpan.
The elf and the young scholar had somehow become an unlikely duo — she teaching him things no book could, and he reminding her of the gentler parts of the world she'd long ignored.
When I saw them laugh together, I realized just how far we'd all come.
Once, they'd all been strangers bound by necessity.Now, they were… something closer to family.
Dinner that night was simple — vegetable stew, flatbread, and dried fruit. Borgu added some smoked boar, which he insisted made it "a warrior's meal."
We ate under the shelter, the fire crackling and the rain a soft percussion against the leaves.
Sylvara leaned back against a post, closing her eyes. "The forest smells alive again."
"It does," I said. "Feels like it's healing too."
"Perhaps it follows its caretakers."
I gave her a look. "You mean us?"
"Do you see any others?"
I smiled faintly. "Guess not."
Gareth stirred his bowl quietly. "Strange, isn't it? How this place feels safer than any city I've lived in."
"That's because no one here wants to kill each other for coin," I said.
Borgu raised his hand. "Orc might if someone eats last meat."
"Not helping, Borgu."
He laughed, unbothered.
Lorian spoke softly after a pause. "Do you think it'll last?"
I looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"This peace. This… small happiness."
Sylvara opened her eyes. "If we keep nurturing it, yes. But peace isn't something that stays. It's something you make again every day."
That silenced everyone for a while — not out of discomfort, but reflection.
The fire burned low. Outside, the rain began again, light and steady.
We didn't rush to sleep that night. We just stayed — a small circle of warmth in the middle of endless woods.
Later, long after the others had gone to their huts, I sat by the embers with my journal.
The words didn't come easily, but they came:
"The rain returned today. The walls held. So did we."
"We're not soldiers anymore. We're something different now — builders, healers, fools who believe in second chances."
"If peace is a fragile thing, then maybe that's what makes it worth protecting."
I closed the book and looked at the quiet camp.
Sylvara's hut — light flickering softly.Borgu's snoring echoing from his shelter.Lorian's quill still scratching faintly from across the way.And Gareth's silhouette, motionless at the fence — keeping watch not out of duty, but out of choice.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
The forest hummed softly around us, and for that single, fleeting night, it felt like the world had forgotten how to be cruel.