Vale expected someone to stop her.
They didn't.
By morning, the camp was already awake. Smoke curled from the fire pit, the scent of bread and herbs mingling in the cool air. Wolves moved with purpose, trading places easily, no barked orders or rigid lines of authority.
She lingered at the edge, waiting for the familiar tightening—that moment when her presence would be questioned, her usefulness weighed.
Nothing came.
A young woman struggled near the supply racks, brow furrowed as she counted bundles of dried meat. She muttered under her breath, rearranging them again, clearly dissatisfied.
Vale watched for a moment.
Then she stepped forward.
"You're short three," she said gently. "Not missing—just miscounted. They're set aside for the western patrol."
The woman blinked, startled. "They are?"
"Yes. Marked differently. See the binding?"
She followed Vale's gesture, then exhaled in relief. "You're right. I thought I was losing my mind."
Vale smiled faintly. "It happens."
"Thank you," the woman said, already adjusting her notes. "I'm Elin."
"Vale," she replied before thinking better of it.
The name landed between them.
No reaction followed.
No stiffening. No sudden shift in tone.
Elin nodded once. "Good to meet you."
And that was that.
The rest of the morning unfolded much the same. Vale helped repair a torn net by the river, redirecting a simple knot to strengthen it. She pointed out a safer route for the hunting party when a recent rockslide made the old path unstable.
Each time, she expected resistance.
Each time, she was met with acceptance—or simple acknowledgment.
Once, a man older than her brushed past and said, "Good catch," before relaying her suggestion as his own.
The old resentment flickered.
Then faded.
No one was watching her to see if she'd react.
By midday, she realized something unsettling.
They weren't threatened by her competence.
They weren't impressed by it either.
It was simply… useful.
The realization sat heavy and light all at once.
She carried a basket of herbs toward the central stores when she sensed him nearby—not looming, not pressing, just present.
Theron stood near the fire pit, listening as two wolves debated patrol schedules. He didn't interrupt. Didn't assert.
When one of them finished, he spoke calmly. "Both routes have merit. Adjust based on weather. You'll decide when you're closer."
They nodded and dispersed.
He noticed Vale then—not with surprise, but recognition.
"You've been busy," he said.
She kept her voice neutral. "I helped where it made sense."
"It did," he replied simply.
That was all.
No praise.
No expectation.
No claim of oversight.
It unsettled her more than criticism ever had.
"I won't stay long," Vale said after a moment. "I don't intend to impose."
Theron studied her—not searching, not judging. "Staying isn't imposing."
The words brushed something raw.
She looked away. "It has been before."
"Then that was wrong," he said.
Not defensively. Not angrily.
Just fact.
Vale met his gaze, searching for the lie she'd learned always followed statements like that.
There was none.
Later, as dusk painted the clearing in amber light, Vale realized she had gone the entire day without bracing herself.
Without preparing for correction.
Without shrinking.
The habit returned the moment she noticed its absence.
She gathered her few belongings, intent on leaving before comfort could take root.
As she stepped toward the treeline, Elin called out, "We'll have extra stew tonight. In case you're hungry."
Not an invitation.
An option.
Vale paused.
She could go.
She should go.
Instead, she nodded once. "Thank you."
She stayed at the edge of the fire that night, listening to laughter and stories, watching shadows dance.
Theron sat across the clearing, never once looking at her for longer than a heartbeat.
Respect, she realized, could be quiet.
And that frightened her more than dominance ever had.