A sharp chill draft cuts through the clearing as Shineah drops to her knees beside Tormack. The air isn't cold enough to frost, but in the sweat and terror of the moment it feels like it slices straight through skin. Her hands fly, tearing at Tormack's shirt to inspect the wound. Her fingers tremble — adrenaline flooding her limbs, making them weak — yet she forces the fabric apart anyway.
The moment the air hits Tormack's side, a wet, bubbling sound rattles out of his chest.
Shineah goes white.
"Tormack…?" Her voice cracks. "No, no, no—"
Blood spills from the corner of his mouth as he tries to breathe. It gurgles. Chokes. The cold ground presses up against his back, and his vision tunnels.
Shineah's panic spikes. She fumbles for our pack, yanks it open, and dumps out what few supplies we have left — the scraps we kept after caching most of our load days ago. A tin of salt. A battered pot. A handful of herbs. A spare shirt. Odds and ends that look pitiful scattered across the dirt.
"Help me! Someone — please!" she cries, voice breaking.
From the treeline, a figure rushes forward — silver‑streaked hair, a face lined with hardship, and eyes that stop Shineah's breath in her throat.
"Mother—" Shineah's voice collapses into a sob.
Her mother drops to her knees beside Tormack, ripping her own shawl in half without hesitation and pressing the thick wool hard against his side. The moment she hears the bubbling breath, her expression tightens — a healer's instinct, grim and immediate.
"Roll him onto the injured side," she orders. "Now."
Shineah obeys instantly, though her hands are shaking so badly she nearly drops him.
"He's losing air," her mother mutters, voice low and steady. "We need to keep the good lung working."
Tormack's breath stutters then stops.
"Tormack!" Shineah leans over him, tears streaking down her face. "Breathe — please breathe—"
"If he won't breathe, you breathe for him," her mother snaps.
Shineah doesn't hesitate. She seals her mouth over Tormack's, forcing air into him in frantic, uneven bursts.
"Not so hard," her mother warns sharply. "Short breaths. Steady — or you'll overfill his good lung."
Her mother presses harder on the wound, trying to seal it with the torn shawl. Shineah gasps between breaths, "Mother, we don't have anything — I didn't bring—"
"You have enough," her mother cuts in sharply. "We'll make do."
Another chill draft sweeps across the clearing, and Shineah's mother glances toward the trees. "We can't stay out in this wind. Once he's stable, we move him."
Shineah leans over Tormack, forehead pressed to his, breath trembling. "Don't you dare leave me," she whispers. "Not after everything."
Her breaths come too fast. Her hands won't stop shaking. She's gone pale beneath the sweat and dirt, and her eyes keep darting without landing — unfocused, frantic. Her mother sees it instantly.
"Shineah," she says, low but firm. "Look at me."
Shineah doesn't respond. Her chest keeps rising and falling in shallow, panicked bursts.
Her mother reaches out, steadying Shineah's wrist with blood‑slick fingers. "Breathe. Slow. You're going into shock."
Shineah's breath hitches, but she still can't seem to pull air properly.
So her mother shifts tactics — the healer giving way to the mother.
"Shineah," she murmurs, voice softening just enough to slip past the panic, "if you fall over, I'll have two unconscious fools to drag through the woods. And I'm too old for that."
It's not a joke, not really — but it's familiar. It's grounding. It's hers.
Shineah's eyes flicker. Her breath stutters. She swallows hard and forces one slow inhale, then another.
"There you go," her mother says. "Stay with me."
Around them, the Direfangs move with quiet purpose. Two begin weaving branches and cloaks into a stretcher. Another gathers what little food remains. A pair head toward the stream they passed earlier, searching for clean water and a place sheltered enough to build a fire.
One of them wipes a streak of soot from his face with the back of his hand. "We need a place to clean up. I can feel this grime in my teeth."
Another snorts tiredly as he kicks aside a scorched pack. "And something warm to eat wouldn't hurt."
"Water first," Shineah's mother calls without looking up. "We need clean water — to boil, to wash. Not just for him. For all of you."
Charlie huffs nearby, his fur matted with dragon blood and blackened sludge. Grizz shakes himself once, sending flecks of soot and dirt scattering. The Direfangs give them a wide berth — not out of fear, but because everyone is just as filthy, scraped raw, and exhausted.
When the stretcher is ready, the Direfangs lift Tormack carefully. Shineah walks beside them, still pale, still trembling — but breathing. Present. Anchored.
Her mother steps close, bumping Shineah's shoulder lightly. "Good," her mother murmurs. "You're back. Now stay that way."
As they start carrying Tormack to safety, her mother leans in just enough for Shineah to hear — and for the tension in her daughter's shoulders to ease. " "Shineah, I know you are all well to do as a city councilwoman these days," she comments, her voice a low murmur filled with a mix of affection and teasing, "but please tell me this is more than hired help."
Shineah pauses, her face faintly shifting from pale to scarlet. "M‑… mother…" The word catches, barely more than a breath, and she manages only a small, exhausted sound in place of anything stronger. But the color in her cheeks — faint as it is — shows the comment did what it needed to. She's here again. Present.
The hollow isn't far — a dip in the earth sheltered by leaning pines and a curtain of brush. The Direfangs slip into it with the ease of people who've used it before, their movements instinctive even through exhaustion.
Shineah's mother steps forward the moment they arrive, her voice steady, carrying without needing to rise. "Set him down there — on the flattest ground. Gently."
The Direfangs obey without hesitation.
"You two," the mother says, pointing with her chin at a pair of broad‑shouldered hunters, "gather wood. Dry if you can find it. Damp if you can't. We'll make it work."
They nod and jog off.
She turns to another. "You — dig a shallow pit. We'll need a place for the fire that won't smoke us out."
To the pair who fetched water: "Fill the pot. Boil what you can. The rest, use to wash your hands and arms. You're all filthy."
One of the Direfangs grins tiredly. "So are you, Matron."
Shineah's mother snorts. "I'll wash when I'm done keeping this fool alive."
A ripple of soft laughter moves through them — not loud, not bright, but warm. Familiar. The kind that only comes from people who've bled together more than once.
She gestures toward Charlie and Grizz. "And someone, clean those bears before they decide to clean themselves on us."
A few Direfangs groan but move to obey, muttering good‑natured complaints.
Then she turns back to Shineah — not with command, but with gentleness. "You. Sit. Drink. You're no use to him if you fall over."
Shineah opens her mouth to argue, but her mother's look — that quiet, immovable look — settles her. She trembles, but is still present.
The hollow fills with movement: scraping earth, snapping branches, the low rumble of bears being coaxed toward water. It feels… familial. Not a military unit. Not a band of survivors. A tribe.
And at the center of it, Shineah's mother moves like someone who has done this her entire life — guiding, steadying, holding everyone together by sheer force of will and love.
Shineah's mother glances at Tormack's rugged, still form and shakes her head with a wry smile.
"Not hired help, you say?"
She gives Shineah a gentle, knowing nudge, her eyes twinkling despite the gravity of the moment.
Shineah's eyes fix on Tormack's pale face. She blushes deeply, then glances at her mother — a rare, soft smile flickering before settling into something steadier. Her voice is thin, still trembling, but firm where it matters. "Mother… he is my husband. We married at his homestead, just before all this."
She swallows, breath catching. "He may be rough‑hewn, and his faith may be different… but his heart is true. His strength saved us. He's the man I'll build a life with. The father of the children we'll have… someday."
Her mother's jaw drops open. "Are you pregnant?!"
Shineah lets out a small, breathless laugh — half exasperation, half disbelief. "Mother! No. Not yet." A flush rises on her cheeks. "There's been no time — cultists, corrupted beasts, Oakhaven in chaos… we only just married."
She casts a worried glance back at Tormack's still form, her voice softening. "First, we mend this husband of mine. Then we bring peace back to these lands. After that… maybe blessings will come."
Her mother chuckles, warm and delighted. "All it takes is one time," she teases, hope threaded through every word. "And you'd best keep him happy — a man like this won't stay put if you don't."
Shineah groans softly, but there's affection in it. "Mother, please." Her blush deepens as she brushes a stray lock of hair from Tormack's brow. "One step at a time. He needs to heal. And then… there's a war to fight."
Her mother beams, quiet and satisfied, pride softening her features. A silent understanding passes between them.
Then her mother's voice drops to an eager, conspiratorial whisper. "Now, daughter," she murmurs, eyes sparkling, "tell your old mother everything. Husband. Married. When did this happen? How did you meet such a… rugged specimen? Did he sweep you off your feet? And why, pray tell, was your own mother not invited to the wedding?"
Shineah sighs, dragging a trembling hand through her long red hair. She's exhausted, still pale, but a faint, helpless smile tugs at her lips.
"Mother… it wasn't like that. Any of it. We met in the Whisperwood — under the Master's shadow. There was no sweeping. No courting. Just… fear. Fighting. Trying to keep each other alive."
Her gaze softens as it falls on Tormack.
"He saved Oakhaven. He saved me. He helped restore Arion. And when he broke — when the darkness nearly swallowed him — I…" Her voice thins. "I asked him to marry me. To give him something to hold onto. To give us something to hold onto."
She swallows hard, breath shaking.
"It happened at his homestead. Just a few days ago. Arion, Charlie, and Grizz were the only witnesses. No feast. No guests. No time. Just a promise. Because we needed strength more than celebration."
Her mother stares at her. Then shoves her shoulder harder this time. "Come on! That was as vague as ever!"
Shineah drags a trembling hand through her long red hair, trying to steady herself. "Mother… Oakhaven wasn't just in trouble. It was sick. Twisted. The people were changing — not in their bodies, but in their minds. Fear everywhere. Whispers everywhere. It felt like the whole city was… rotting from the inside."
Her mother's eyes narrow. "Rotting? From what? Bandits? Poison?"
"No," Shineah breathes. "Something worse. The cultists planted crystals — dark ones. They burrowed into the city's spirit. They made people doubt themselves, doubt each other. They made you feel like your own thoughts weren't yours anymore."
Her mother's face goes pale. "And you were in the middle of that? Alone?"
Shineah lets out a shaky laugh. "I thought I could handle it. I thought I could stop it before it spread. But the crystals… they got into my head. Wrapped around me. I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I felt myself slipping away."
Her mother steps closer, voice trembling. "Daughter… why didn't you come home?"
"Because I couldn't," Shineah whispers. "And because I didn't want you to worry."
Her mother snorts. "Too late for that."
Shineah's lips twitch in a tired smile. "I know."
Her mother folds her arms, trying to look stern. "And where was this husband of yours during all this?"
Shineah's breath catches. "We weren't married yet, but he was saving me."
Her mother blinks. "Saving you?"
Shineah nods, voice cracking. "He found me when I was trapped. He broke the crystals. He tore through the corruption like it was nothing. He pulled me out when I couldn't pull myself out."
Her mother's expression shifts — awe, fear, pride, all tangled. "And then?"
Shineah swallows hard. "And then I almost lost him. The corruption got into him too. It twisted his heart. It made him believe he was alone. Unloved. A monster." Her voice trembles. "I watched him fall apart in my arms, Mother. I thought he was going to die."
Her mother's voice softens. "Is that when you realized you loved him?"
Shineah looks down at her hands, then back at Tormack's resting form, a faraway look in her eyes. "Love..." she murmurs, testing the word on her tongue. "It wasn't a sudden burst, Mother, not like the stories say. It was a slow, relentless recognition. I admired his strength, his conviction, his unwavering belief even when the world around us was crumbling." She pauses, her gaze returning to her mother. "But in Oakhaven, when he lay broken, his spirit bleeding... that was when I truly understood the depth of it. It wasn't just admiration then. It was a fierce need to protect him, to heal him, to be his anchor in a sea of despair."
Her voice, though still a whisper, is imbued with profound certainty. "When I saw him breaking like that…" She presses a hand to her sternum, as if trying to hold herself together. "It hit me how much he mattered. How much losing him would destroy me. That was the moment I told him I wanted to marry him."
Her mother steps closer, but Shineah keeps talking, the words spilling now.
"And the worst part?" Her voice cracks. "It keeps happening. He keeps ending up on the brink of death because he comes for me. Because he protects me. Because I'm in the middle of things I shouldn't face alone." She wipes at her eyes, frustrated. "I know he chooses it. I know he'd do it again. But it doesn't stop the guilt. It doesn't stop the fear that one day he won't get back up."
Her mother's expression softens with a deep, aching sympathy. "Oh, Shineah…"
Shineah shakes her head, tears slipping free. "I didn't know how to tell you any of this. I didn't know how to explain what it felt like — watching him fall apart because of me. Because I wasn't strong enough. Because I didn't see the danger soon enough. Because I thought I could handle it alone."
Her mother cups her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear. "Daughter… you don't carry that weight alone. Not anymore."
Shineah leans into her touch, exhausted. "I love him, Mother. And I'm terrified of losing him. Terrified, it'll be my fault."
Her mother pulls her into a fierce, grounding hug. "Then we'll make sure you don't."
Shineah swallows hard. "After that, we went to stop the cultists in the market. He fought through them, burned their altar, drove back whatever they were trying to summon. He saved the city, but when it was over… he just collapsed. No wound. No blood. No explanation. He just fell."
Her mother takes a deep breath.
Shineah continues, "I didn't know if it was the corruption again, or the fire, or something worse. I didn't know anything. I just knew he wasn't waking up. And I was terrified. I'd already watched him break once that night. Watching him fall again…" She shakes her head, tears slipping free. "I thought I'd pushed him too far. I thought I'd killed him."
She wipes her eyes, frustrated.
"I wanted to take him to a physician, but what was I supposed to say? That he burned through corruption with holy fire? That he collapsed after saving me and then the city? No one would have believed it. They barely believed what they saw with their own eyes. And with his orcish features…" Her voice tightens. "People were already staring. Whispering. Afraid. Some of them looked at him like he was the monster the cultists were trying to summon."
Her mother's face darkens with a protective anger, but Shineah keeps going.
"If I'd carried him into a healer's house in that state, they might have refused him. Or worse. I couldn't risk it. Not when he was so vulnerable."
Her voice softens.
"So I got him a room at the inn. I sat with him. I watched him breathe. And I prayed he'd wake up."
"After the battle… after the fire and the fear and the screaming… he woke up in that little room at the inn. And the first thing he did was look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I should have felt relieved. I should have felt joy. But instead, I felt this… tightening in my chest. Because I knew what was coming."
She rubs her palms together, remembering the moment too vividly.
"I tried to reassure him. I tried to tell him my vow was real. But the words came out wrong. I said we'd marry when Oakhaven was safe. And the moment I said it, I saw something in him break. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly. Like a door closing."
Her breath trembles. "He pulled away from me. Wouldn't look at me. And I didn't understand at first. I thought he was overwhelmed. I thought he needed rest. But then he stood up and started gathering his things. And when I reached for him, he flinched. As if my touch hurt him."
She presses a hand to her sternum, the memory still sharp.
"I didn't know what I'd done wrong. I didn't know why he was leaving. And when he walked out that door… I felt this cold panic settle in my bones. I asked Arion what happened, and he told me the truth. That Tormack heard postponement, not promise. That he felt abandoned. That he thought I'd lied."
Her voice cracks. "And Mother… that shattered me. Because I hadn't lied. I just didn't know how to say what I really felt. I didn't know how to tell him that the moment he looked at me with that kind of devotion, I felt like I was drowning. Not because I didn't want him. But because I did."
She wipes at her eyes, frustrated with herself. "I've spent my whole life being strong. Being the one who doesn't falter. But when he looked at me like that… I felt exposed. Seen. And I didn't know how to hold that kind of love without breaking under it."
She takes a shaky breath. "So when he left, I told myself I had to stay. That Oakhaven needed me. That duty came first. But the truth is… I was afraid. Afraid that if I chased him, I'd have to admit how deeply he mattered to me. Afraid that if I stayed with him in that room, on that morning, I'd lose myself completely to him."
Shineah's mother watches her closely, saying nothing, letting the silence draw the truth out.
Shineah exhales. "But the moment he walked out that door, I felt something inside me tear. I tried to ignore it. I tried to bury myself in duty. But Arion… Arion looked me in the eye and told me what I'd done. That Tormack thought I'd lied. That he thought I'd used him. That he thought I'd never meant any of it."
Her voice breaks. "And Mother… that shattered me. Because I had meant it. Every word."
She wipes her eyes, frustrated with herself.
Shineah takes a steadying breath, her voice softening as she moves into the next part of the story.
"So I rode after him. And when I found him in the forest, he wasn't collapsed or dying — he was standing there, trying so hard to look strong, even though I could see the hurt all over him. I told him I meant my vow. And he still doubted me. And I understood why. So I gave him a date. A real one — three days later."
A faint, almost shy smile touches her lips.
"And then… we married. Under the trees. Quiet. Simple. Just us, Arion, and the bears. It was… peaceful. Beautiful. I've never felt anything like it."
"Three days?!" her mouth drops open, looking her daughter over before letting her gaze drift toward Tormack's unconscious body, eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and carved‑from‑stone arms. "And you expect me to believe you rushed all that for spiritual reasons?"
Shineah's face goes scarlet. "Mother!"
Her mother lifts both hands in mock innocence. "What? I'm only saying… the man is built like a mountain. I'd have hurried too."
"Mother!" Shineah hisses again, burying her face in her hands.
Her mother laughs softly, the sound warm and teasing, but not unkind. "Oh, don't pretend you didn't notice. I raised you, girl. I know that look in your eye."
Shineah groans into her palms. "It wasn't like that."
Her mother hums, unconvinced. "Mm‑hmm."
Shineah finally lifts her head, cheeks still burning. "It wasn't. It was… it was real. It was love. It was the first time in days I felt safe."
Her mother's teasing fades into something gentler. "I know, daughter. I know."
Shineah nods, grateful — and then her expression shifts, the weight returning.
"But," she continues, her fingers twisting together, "that feeling didn't last. Not completely. After the vows… after the quiet celebration… when it was just the two of us standing there after the ceremony, before it was even dark… something inside me tightened."
Her mother's brow softens, but Shineah keeps going, the confession spilling now.
"There was this fear. I didn't dare say aloud. If I stayed… if we crossed that threshold… I might get pregnant. And I couldn't bring a child into a world still under the Master's shadow. I couldn't risk creating a life only to lose him — or the child — before we'd even begun."
Shineah swallows hard and draws a shaky breath, bracing herself. "And then… I went back to Oakhaven."
Her mother's expression tightens, but she stays silent, letting Shineah continue.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," Shineah says. "I thought if I announced our marriage publicly, if I stood firm and proud, it would calm the rumors. Show them he wasn't a threat. Show them I wasn't ashamed."
Her voice falters. "But the moment I told the council about him… the room changed. Half the council went stiff. The other half went pale. And when I said the word 'husband'…" She shakes her head. "It was like I'd thrown a torch into dry grass."
Her mother's brows knit. "You didn't."
"I did," Shineah whispers. "I tried to defend him. I tried to explain. But every word I spoke twisted in their ears. They thought I was manipulating them. Or bewitched. Or conspiring. And when I drew my sword—Mother, I swear it wasn't at them—it only made everything worse."
Her mother closes her eyes, pained. "The crowd turned," Shineah continues, voice trembling. "They started shouting. Accusing. Someone screamed that Tormack was the Master. And then… they ran. They ran for the gates. For him."
Her mother exhales sharply, disappointment flickering across her face. "Oh, Shineah… you should have known better. You know how fear works. You know how quickly a crowd can turn."
"I know," Shineah whispers, shame burning her cheeks. "I know. I thought I could control it. I thought I could fix it. Instead, I nearly got him killed."
Her mother shakes her head, not unkindly, but with the weary disappointment of someone who has seen her daughter's stubbornness before. "So you married him, fled and sent a mob after him…"
Shineah gives a crooked smile and slowly shrugs. "Pretty much…"
"I had hoped," her mother says softly, "that perhaps you'd stayed with him. And that maybe… there might already be a child on the way. Something good to come from all this madness."
Shineah's face goes scarlet. "Mother!"
Her mother lifts her chin. "I'm your mother. I'm allowed to hope."
Shineah looks away, twisting her fingers together. "There isn't," she murmurs. "Not yet."
Her mother sighs, disappointment clear.
But then Shineah hesitates. Her voice softens. "But… something did happen. At the Whispering Falls."
Her mother's eyes snap to her, sharp and curious.
Shineah swallows. "I was terrified. I still am. Intimacy… But when we were hiding there, when the mob was hunting him, when everything we built was burning behind us… he held my hand. He offered warmth. Comfort. Not expectation."
She presses a hand to her heart. "And for the first time… the fear didn't win. Not completely. Just long enough."
Her mother's expression shifts — disappointment melting into something softer, warmer, tinged with hope.
"Shineah," she murmurs, "are you telling me—"
Shineah cuts her off, cheeks blazing. "Don't get your hopes up, the thought that I could be pregnant now still terrifies me."
Her mother studies her, eyes softening with pride and understanding.