The rest of the day blurs together in quiet contentment. For the first time in what feels like ages, things are finally looking up, and we savor the chance to breathe. We eat every apple from the wild tree Talla found. There's still plenty to do, but exhaustion settles over everyone — everyone except me.
I feel rested, for the most part, and watch as one by one the Direfangs crash near the fire, huddling around Charlie and Grizz like two giant teddy bears. The youngest get the prime spots, tucked right up against the bears' thick fur for warmth.
My bears briefly look at me. They aren't used to so much attention, but they seem to be loving it.
As dusk settles in, I sit near the fire, bare‑chested, the faint healed line across my ribs catching the last of the light. I scrub my shirt clean in boiling water, wring it out and find a branch to hang it on above the fire to dry it off. The embers sizzle as my shirt drips.
Shineah rests next to where I sit, the firelight shining in her long red hair. I watch her for a long time as I hold the tree branch as if I were roasting meat.
Shineah is close enough that I can hear the soft hitch in her breath when she shifts. Close enough that I could reach out and brush a strand of hair from her cheek. I want to, but resist the urge.
The chill air on my bare back reminds me of our night at the Whispering Falls… I remember the warmth of her body clinging against me in the cold… At least we can have a fire this time. The flames are getting a little small though and I want to keep her warm.
I place my hand gently on her back and let my spiritual flame flicker to life. I can hold it for a while, but if I keep it up too long it'll drain me — and Shineah isn't the only one who needs warmth tonight.
I prop my tree branch in between two rocks and go to fetch more firewood, something the forest around us is in no short supply of. There is quite a bit, but we have already burnt up all the stuff immediately around our campsite causing me to wander off in the darkness to get more. When I get back however, I notice that my tree branch didn't hold like it was supposed to and find my shirt is now in the flames. My eyes narrow in disappointment and suddenly the chill air on my back feels harsher than it did before, almost as if it were mocking me.
As I try to pull my shirt out, I find that it is half eaten by the flames already and there isn't enough left of it for it to be useful for anything. I wad up the remains and toss the remains back into the fire. The fire pops, sending a spray of sparks into the dark.
I lower myself onto one of the larger rocks near the fire — the same one I used to prop the branch — and feed in the wood I gathered. The warmth washes over my chest, steady and comforting. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, letting the heat soak into me.
My eyes grow heavy. The fire crackles softly. The camp is quiet. The cold brushes my back, but the flames keep my front warm enough. Sleep takes me sitting upright on the rock, head dipping forward as the night settles around us.
When I wake, the fire is nothing but glowing coals. My neck aches from the angle I slept in, and my arms feel stiff from being folded under me. I push myself upright and stretch, blinking at the pale morning light filtering through the trees.
The camp is already stirring. The Direfangs stretch and yawn, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Someone pokes at the coals with a stick, trying to coax a flame back to life. Charlie and Grizz lumber to their feet, shaking out their fur and snorting at the cold.
Shineah is awake too. She kneels near the bears and glances my way for just a heartbeat — a soft, unreadable look — before turning back to help her mother pack up what little we have.
I rub my arms against the morning chill, suddenly very aware of my bare chest and the absence of my shirt as I catch many lingering stares. It leaves me feeling exposed.
"What happened to your shirt? I thought you washed it." Shineah asks.
I give a sideways glance, annoyed at my folly. "It… didn't stay where I put it," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "It… fell into the fire..."
Shineah's face scrunches empathetically, but she suppresses a smile as her eyes linger on my exposed form. She clears her throat and looks away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The camp stirs, the cold morning light shining in Shineah's hair. The fire has burned down to a bed of dull coals, their faint glow fighting a losing battle against the creeping chill. Smoke hangs low, clinging to blankets and hair and the rough hides stretched over packs. The Direfangs move through it with the slow, heavy motions of people who slept little and dreamed badly.
A few adults I'm still not familiar with glance our way — not with hostility, but with the wary gratitude of survivors who spent half the night watching Shineah and her mother fight to keep me breathing. One man stands with his arms crossed, studying me with a guarded expression. A woman beside him gives Shineah a small nod, her eyes flicking over me as if confirming the miracle held through the night. Another hunter pauses in his work, assessing me the way someone might look at a tool they aren't sure will hold. An older man mutters something under his breath about orcs and fires, though there's no real bite to it, just habit. A lanky youth looks away quickly when Shineah notices him watching.
The children are quieter than the adults. A few small ones huddle close to Charlie and Grizz, not out of playfulness but because the bears are warm and safe and comforting. One little girl clings to the leg of a blonde‑haired woman, her face blotchy from crying. Another child sits alone near the fire, staring at the ashes with a hollow, distant look that tells me he didn't sleep well. When Shineah's mother passes, a few of them whisper "Granny" in small, trembling voices seeking comfort.
Shineah steps a little closer to me, brushing a bit of ash from my shoulder. Her voice is steady when she speaks, but I can feel the tension in her hand. "Tormack," she says quietly, "these are the ones who made it out with my mother."
She gestures first to the man with crossed arms. "This is Rokan. We trained together when we were young." Rokan gives a curt nod, his eyes flicking between us.
The woman beside him receives a warmer look. "Talla. She was like a sister to me." Talla's nod is softer, though her gaze lingers on my tusks before she looks away.
"And this is Mara," Shineah adds, gesturing to the woman beside Talla. "She was always the one fixing our gear when we broke it."
Shineah turns slightly, indicating the hunter who'd been evaluating me. "That's Garrun. He's one of our best trackers." Garrun inclines his head, expression unreadable.
The older man grumbling about orcs snorts when she gestures toward him. "Varrik," she says simply. He grunts again, but there's a flicker of respect in his eyes.
Finally, she nods toward the lanky youth. "And that's Derrin. He was just a little boy when I left." Derrin shifts uncomfortably, muttering something I can't hear.
Then Shineah hesitates — just for a breath — before looking toward a few faces she doesn't name. The blonde‑haired woman. Two children who stare at her like she's a story come to life. A teenage boy who watches her with awe and confusion. Shineah's voice softens. "Some of these… I don't know. They were little when I left. Or they weren't born yet. And the blonde woman appears to be a new addition."
One of the smaller boys wipes his nose on his sleeve and edges closer to Shineah's mother, seeking the kind of comfort only she seems able to give this morning.
Shineah draws a breath, steadies herself, and tells everyone, "This is my husband, Tormack."
The word hangs in the cold air like a promise. The Direfangs don't cheer. They don't smile. But something shifts — a subtle loosening, a shared exhale. They accept it. Not fully. Not easily. But enough.
Shineah's mother steps forward last, her presence cutting through the morning haze like a blade. Up close, I see the soot smudged across her cheek, the silver threaded through her hair, the exhaustion she refuses to bow to. Her eyes sweep over me, "You can call me Mom."
The children press closer to her. The adults return to their tasks. And Shineah gives my arm a small squeeze before moving to help her mother, leaving me standing in the center of a tribe that feels like one wounded, wary family — and somehow, I'm now part of it.
The introductions fade into the cold morning air, and almost immediately the camp's mood shifts. The adrenaline of the night is gone. What's left is exhaustion… and hunger.
A small boy clinging to Shineah's mother quietly says, "Granny… I'm hungry…"
Another child echoes him, tugging at the blonde woman's sleeve.
A third just curls tighter against Charlie's flank, his stomach growling loud enough for me to hear.
The adults don't snap at them — they're too tired for that — but there's a shared heaviness in their eyes. They all feel it. They all know the little ones can't go long without food.
Shineah's mother lifts her chin. "We'll eat," she says, not loudly, but with the kind of certainty that makes the children quiet down. "We always do."
A few of the adults exchange glances. They have no packs. No blades. No bows. Nothing but the clothes they were captured in.
Then one of the hunters — the one Shineah called Garrun — reaches down and unthreads his belt. For a moment I think he's just adjusting it, but then he folds it in half, loops it through itself, and gives it a practiced flick of his wrist.
It becomes a sling.
A second hunter does the same. Then a third. The belts are worn, cracked in places, but the leather is thick and flexible. I realize, with a jolt of admiration, that these weren't just belts at all — they were weapons disguised as clothing. Tools their captors never recognized.
Rokan gives a short, humorless snort. "Witches don't know a hunter's tricks."
Talla elbows him lightly. "Be grateful they didn't."
The children perk up a little at the sight of the slings, though their faces stay pinched with hunger. One of the smaller boys tugs at a sleeve and whispers, "Are we getting breakfast?" His voice is so small it barely reaches me.
Rokan rolls his shoulders. "Three slings. Enough to bring something down if we're quick."
Talla nods, already scanning the treeline. "We'll need to spread out. The little ones can't wait long."
Shineah's mother looks to each of the kids that cling to her, "If they're going to go get you food, you'd better have the fire ready when they get back." She points to the embers. "You three are on firewood duty." The children moan, but the mother knows a task is the best medicine for keeping their minds off their tummies.
I step forward before the hunters can move out. "My bears can help," I say. "They've kept me alive for years. They can smell berries, roots, anything edible. And if there's fish in the water nearby, they'll know."
Garrun pauses, studying Charlie and Grizz with a new kind of calculation with the wary hope of a man who knows he needs every advantage.
"So, just how good at fishing are your bears?" he asks.
"Better than I am," I say.
Shineah gives a small, tired smile. "He's not exaggerating."
Rokan snorts. "Fine. Let the orc and his beasts find berries. We'll take our slings."
My eyes narrow a bit at that. The way he said it rubs me the wrong way, but I swallow it down. I whistle softly, and Charlie lifts his head, ears pricking. Grizz rumbles, coming to my side. I scratch behind his ear. "Are you guys hungry? Let's go look for some food."
"Don't get lost," Shineah calls, already turning to help her mother tend to the little ones.
Spreading out, the hunters slip into the trees with the confidence of people who've done this their whole lives. The camp noise fades behind us — the crackle of the fire, the soft chatter of children and their granny trying to put them to work. Garrun takes the lead without a word, Rokan circling wide to flush game toward us, and I fall in beside the bears, letting their noses guide the way.
Garrun spots the rabbit first. He doesn't speak — he just slips a stone into the sling, gives it a single smooth rotation, and crack — the rabbit drops instantly.
I blink. "That was… impressive."
Garrun shrugs, already moving to retrieve it. "Breakfast."
As he bends to pick it up, Rokan steps out from behind a nearby cedar, completing his wide sweep through the trees. He eyes the rabbit with a grunt of approval.
Garrun holds the rabbit out to me, a gesture of inclusion. A gesture of trust.
I shake my head. "I can't eat that."
Rokan snorts. "Too good for rabbit?"
"No," I say quietly. "It's unclean."
Both hunters pause. Not offended — just confused.
Garrun's expression scrunches. "Unclean, for an orc? How?"
I tap my chest. "For me. For my flame." I light a small flame in my hand. "If I eat what God forbids, the flame weakens. The flame only works so long as I am obedient."
Rokan's eyebrows lift a fraction, though he tries to hide it. "Well, I can't do that. To me, food is food. If I turned down every rabbit I found, I'd have starved years ago. Let's hope your God gives you something else."
I smile and pat Charlie's side. "He gave me them and they have helped a lot."
We continue our hunt. The tribe needs more than a little rabbit to sustain it and I still want to prove I can contribute.
As we continue, Garrun glances at me. "Shineah said magic doesn't touch you. That true?"
"It's true."
"How?"
I take a breath, choosing my words carefully. "It is a blessing God gives to those who follow him. God's power is superior to it. Think about it like light and shadow. The shadow has no power over the light. The only way shadows are made are when things block out the light."
Rokan slowly nods with understanding.
I think about it more carefully and the words then just flow. "Sometimes people want something God won't give. And when He won't give it, they go to the wrong places, defiling themselves in doing so. Instead of facing the light, they turn away from it and look to the shadows. That is what people do when they start messing with corruption and magic. And in doing so, they block out the light to try and get what they want. When they do this, they become weak to the very power they seek. They become subjects to it."
I look ahead through the trees. "I strive to stay filled with light. That's why magic has no hold on me."
Garrun exhales slowly, the weight of the night's miracle still fresh in his mind. "So the flame… it's not magic?"
"No."
The two hunters exchange a thoughtful glance, then turn their attention back to the woods.
After a few hours, we return to camp with our bounty — a sling of fish slung over Charlie's back, a bundle of roots and berries in my arms, and Garrun carrying the rabbit for the others. One of the slingers trudges behind him with a limp gray squirrel tied to his belt. Another drops a crow onto the pile, its feathers still clinging to the skin. Someone else comes trudging up the trail shirtless grinning like a fool, his shirt bunched in his hands, sagging under the weight of a dozen wriggling crayfish trying to escape.
Shineah's mother rises first, relief softening her face. "Good," she says. "Good. This will help."
The hunters begin dividing the food. Garrun hands off the rabbit, and someone murmurs, "The bears ate most of the fish and berries, but at least the orc brought something back." A few heads turn my way, and shake their heads.
Mara jumps up upon seeing the rabbit with an assessing look of someone already planning three steps ahead. "Good hide on this one," she murmurs. "Thin, but strong. I can strip it and stretch it before sundown. Might even have cord by morning."
She glances at me — "You'll need a sling of your own if you're staying with us. Rabbit'll do for that. Shirt leather…" She taps the squirrel. "Not from these. Need something bigger. Deer, goat, or maybe a young elk."
Mara ignores him. "If the weather holds, I can have the hide scraped tonight. You want to learn to use a sling, you come find me in the morning. No sense wasting good cord on someone who can't hit a stump."
One of the hunters snorts. "Oh, I don't think he can touch it, he says they're unclean and they'll take his powers away."
Shineah looks at me, this is news to her.
I hold up my hand, "I can't eat them, but after their hides are processed they should be fine."
The kids gather around the food and are already grabbing handfuls of berries. Shineah takes the berries aside, leading the kids away to keep them clear of the adults preparing the other food.
I want to help with the food, but seeing Shineah with the children pulls my attention away. She sits on a fallen log with four children pressed close to her with mouthfuls of berries. One leans against her shoulder, another clings to her sleeve, and the smallest sits in her lap, fingers curled in her tunic. I smile at the sight of it, seeing her so motherly.
I step closer, quietly.
Shineah looks up at me, her eyes soft but heavy. "Their parents didn't make it out," she murmurs, her voice meant for me alone. "Most of the little ones lost someone. Some lost everyone."
The smallest boy buries his face against her, and she smooths his hair with a tenderness that stirs something deep inside my chest.
"They're Direfangs," she says, brushing a tear from the boy's cheek. "That means they belong to all of us now, they are children of the tribe and so long as we are a part of this tribe, they are our children."
The words settle over me like a weight and a blessing all at once. My eyes widen with a quiet hope that this means her days in Oakhaven are gone.
Shineah shifts the smallest child to her other arm and pats the log beside her. "Come sit," she says softly. "They should know you too."
I sit, and the children look at me with wide, uncertain eyes. One reaches out, touching my arm as if testing whether I'm real. Another leans closer to Shineah, watching me from the safety of her side.
She shifts the smallest boy in her arms slightly so I can see his face. "This is Bren," she murmurs. "He hasn't spoken much since the attack." His hair is a tangle of dark curls, his eyes red from crying.
She nods to the girl pressed against her other side. "And this is Lysa. She's shy with strangers." Lysa peeks at me from behind Shineah's sleeve, her pale hair sticking to her cheeks.
Two more children sit close, knees touching. Shineah brushes a hand over their heads. "This little one is Tiv and the other is Mira." Tiv appears to be a skinny boy with sharp little eyes that miss nothing and Mira looks like a round‑cheeked little chipmunk, her hair braided unevenly, with berry juice staining her hands.
I watch her with them — the way they lean into her, the way she holds them without hesitation. They cling to her like she's always been theirs. And she holds them like she was born for it.
Before too long, the Direfangs crowd around a hot pot, cracking crayfish shells, laughing when the hot juice burns their fingers. It's loud, messy, and familiar to them.
Derrin holds a crayfish out to me, the tail still steaming. "Here. Best part."
I shake my head. "I can't."
He frowns. "Can't or won't?"
Shineah looks at me again — the same look she gave when the hunter mentioned the rabbit. Curious and a little confused. Trying to understand.
I keep my voice even. "I can't eat them."
A few heads turn. Not many. Just enough.
Garrun snorts. "Another thing the orc can't have."
Rokan narrows his eyes and lifts a strip of crow meat toward me, testing. I shake my head. The squirrel follows — another shake. Then someone nudges a piece of fish in my direction. I nod to that one, but add, "Only if I have to. Meat's a last resort for me."
A loud hush ripples through the group as everyone stares at me. "This orc is an odd one, that is for sure!" I hear someone say, but don't see who.
Shineah watches me for a long moment, trying to fit this new piece of me into the man she thought she knew.
By late afternoon, the camp settles into a weary rhythm. The Direfangs work with the quiet determination that they have years of experience with. Talla and Mara scrape hides on a flat stone, their hands moving in steady, practiced motions. Rokan and Garrun take turns with my axe to shape branches into crude spear shafts. A few others weave strips of bark into makeshift baskets for gathering. It's not much, but it's something — the first steps toward rebuilding a life that was stolen from them.
I help where I can, doing additional foraging with Charlie and Grizz letting the little ones ride on their backs and when I get back I split branches and stack wood. Every so often, someone glances toward the sky, searching the treeline for the owls that were sent out, but we don't see anything yet.
"They'll find our wolves and be back, just give em time." Shineah's Mom assures.
The absence of the owls hangs over the camp like a held breath.
As dusk settles, the cold creeps in again. The fire burns low, and the Direfangs huddle close, shoulders touching, our only two blankets shared. Shineah sits beside her mother, helping braid a little girl's hair. I watch her from across the fire — the way the flames catch in her red hair, the way she leans in when the child whispers something, the way she smiles without thinking, surrounded by familiar faces. Despite the circumstances, she is at home here.
I want to sit beside her, feel her warmth again. But every time I take a step in her direction, someone else needs her — a child tugging her sleeve, her mother asking for help, Talla calling her name. And each time, she gives me a small, apologetic look before turning away.
It isn't rejection, she just has a lot on her plate right now, but still… it stings.
When the fire burns low, I gather more wood. Shineah notices and rises to help, but her mother touches her arm, saying something I can't hear. Shineah hesitates, then stays where she is. I pretend not to notice.
Night falls fully. The cold deepens. The children curl against the bears again, and the adults settle into uneasy sleep. I sit on the same rock as the night before, the heat warming my front while the cold bites at my back. I keep watch for a while, and eventually, after the kids are asleep, Shineah rises and comes over, tracing her hand across my exposed back. It gives me goosebumps. She gives me a soft, empathetic smile, and I lean gently into her touch.
She places her hand by my cheek, and I rise, drawing her into a quiet embrace, resting my forehead against hers, feeling her warmth.
My heart swells as we share a kiss that lingers — soft, tired, grateful — but then she pulls back and clears her throat, glancing at the others before returning to the tiny bit of room she has on one of the two blankets we brought. Both are completely full. There is no room for me anywhere, and with a sigh, I do my best to once again make myself comfortable in my seat by the fire.