8. Serah
SERAH
Isleep through the night for the first time in six years.
The realization hits when I wake to early morning light filtering through the dwelling's single window, my body rested instead of wired with exhaustion. No nightmares. No jerking awake at phantom sounds. Just... sleep. Deep and dreamless and utterly foreign.
I lie there staring at the ceiling beams, cataloging the impossibility of it. My hand moves to the knife under my pillow—still there, still within reach—but for once the weapon feels more like habit than necessity.
Something has shifted. Something dangerous and terrifying that I don't know how to name.
The canyon is becoming familiar instead of hostile. The Bone Warriors are becoming people instead of threats. And I'm starting to trust in ways that could destroy me if I'm wrong about any of it.
I should be more afraid of that than I am.
Instead I just get up, braid my hair back, and head toward the healing chambers like it's routine. Like I belong here instead of just surviving here. The distinction feels massive and microscopic all at once.
Lola is already elbow-deep in her work when I arrive, grinding herbs with the stone mortar she claims has "better energy" than the newer ones. She glances up, greeting me with that warm smile that still catches me off guard sometimes.
"You look rested," she observes.
"Slept well." The admission feels vulnerable somehow. Like acknowledging comfort means accepting something I'm not ready to accept.
"Good. The body heals better with proper rest." She gestures toward the table where dried plants are scattered in organized chaos. "Help me sort these? The blue-petaled ones go in one pile, the white ones in another. Zurkar needs them separated for different salves."
I settle across from her, fingers moving through the work automatically. We've fallen into this pattern over the past few weeks—her teaching, me learning, both of us existing in comfortable silence broken by occasional conversation. It shouldn't feel natural. Shouldn't feel safe.
But it does.
"Kaelen says you've been spending time by the river," Lola comments casually. Too casually. "At night."
My hands still in the herbs. "So?"
"So nothing." But she's smiling, that knowing expression that makes me want to throw something at her. "Just making conversation."
"You're fishing for information."
"I'm observing that you seem less... guarded. Less ready to bolt at any moment." She pauses, selecting her words carefully. "It's good to see. That's all."
I don't know how to respond to that. Don't know if acknowledging the shift makes it real or just makes me more vulnerable when everything inevitably falls apart. So I just grunt noncommittally and keep sorting herbs, letting her interpretation stand without confirmation or denial.
She laughs—actually laughs—at my non-response. "You're as bad as the orcs with communication sometimes."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you avoid feelings like they're contagious." She leans forward, expression softening. "Serah, it's okay to admit you're healing. To acknowledge that maybe things here aren't as terrible as you expected."
The statement lodges in my chest, uncomfortable and accurate.
Because she's right. Things aren't terrible here.
The Bone Warriors haven't hurt me, haven't chained me, haven't done any of the thousand brutal things I anticipated.
They've been... kind. Respectful. Human, almost, except not human at all.
And one of them in particular has been making it very difficult to maintain proper emotional distance.
I shove that thought away before it can take root.
"I'm just sorting herbs," I mutter. "Don't read into it."
"Of course not." But Lola is still smiling, clearly reading into absolutely everything, and I resist the urge to walk out just to prove I'm not that predictable.
Instead I keep working, letting the familiar motions settle the discomfort her observations stirred up. Separating petals, crushing stems, the methodical tasks that require attention without demanding emotional processing.
Lola starts humming while she works—some melody I don't recognize but that sounds Prothekian, all minor notes and haunting progressions. It should grate on my nerves. Should feel intrusive.
Instead it's just... nice. Peaceful, even.
When she accidentally knocks over a jar of ground root powder, sending pale green dust across the table, we both freeze. Then she starts laughing—this ridiculous, snorting laugh that's completely undignified—and despite myself, I crack a smile.
"Smooth," I comment dryly.
"Very graceful," she agrees, still giggling while trying to clean up the mess. "Zurkar's going to kill me. This stuff takes forever to prepare."
"We could just sweep it back into the jar. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
Her eyes widen in mock horror. "Are you suggesting we contaminate medicinal supplies with floor debris?"
"I'm suggesting we're practical about minor disasters."
"You're terrible," she declares, but she's grinning. "Absolutely corrupting."
The easy banter surprises me. Not because it's happening—Lola has been working toward this kind of comfort for weeks—but because I'm participating. Actually engaging instead of just tolerating her presence.
It feels dangerous. Feels like opening doors I've kept locked for good reason.
But when she makes another joke about Zurkar's potential reaction, I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound rough and unfamiliar in my own throat.
And it doesn't destroy me.
Zurkar doesn't mind my presence in the healing chambers. Doesn't treat me like I'm underfoot or useless or taking up space better utilized by actual clan members. He just... allows me to be there. To learn. To work alongside Lola with the same patient instruction he shows her.
It's disorienting.
"The zabilla plant," he explains one afternoon, holding up a thick succulent leaf, "grows exclusively in desert regions. The gel inside treats burns and speeds wound healing. But you must harvest it carefully—the outer skin secretes an irritant that causes rashes if handled improperly."
I watch him demonstrate the proper cutting technique, blade sliding through the leaf without touching the outer layer. His movements are precise, economical, nothing wasted.
"Try," he instructs, passing me a fresh leaf and knife.
My hands know blades. Know how to cut and slice and defend. But this is different—requires finesse instead of force, control instead of desperation.
The first attempt goes poorly. Gel spills everywhere, my cut too deep and too rushed. Zurkar just retrieves another leaf and gestures for me to repeat.
"Slower," he says. "Patience, not speed."
The second attempt is better. The third actually succeeds, a clean slice exposing the healing gel without contaminating it with outer skin residue.
"Good," Zurkar acknowledges. Not effusive praise, just simple recognition of competence achieved. Somehow that matters more than elaborate compliments would.
I find myself returning to the healing chambers regularly.
Not because Lola requests it or because I have nowhere else to go, but because the work is...
grounding. Gives me purpose beyond just surviving another day.
Beyond planning escape routes and cataloging threats and waiting for everything to fall apart.
Zurkar occasionally assigns me menial tasks—grinding herbs, cleaning equipment, organizing supplies—but he also teaches. Shows me which plants counteract poison, which ones reduce fever, which ones should never be mixed because the combination turns toxic.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask one day, suspicious of the knowledge being offered so freely.
His violet eyes study me with that uncomfortable perception shamans seem to cultivate.
"Because you're intelligent enough to learn it.
Because the clan benefits from having more people who understand healing.
Because..." He pauses. "Because you deserve to know you're more than what others made you. "
The statement hits somewhere vulnerable, burrowing past defenses I thought were impenetrable. I don't know how to respond, don't know what to do with kindness that expects nothing in return.
So I just nod and go back to grinding the herbs he assigned, blinking against the unexpected burn in my eyes.
The river becomes habit.
I don't plan it consciously. Don't wake up thinking tonight I'll go sit by the water and wait for an orc to show up. But my feet carry me there anyway, drawn by something I refuse to examine too closely.
Rakk always comes.
Not immediately. Sometimes I wait twenty minutes, sometimes longer. But he always appears eventually, that massive frame materializing from the darkness like he can sense when I'm there.
Maybe he can. Maybe orcs have some kind of tracking ability I don't know about. Or maybe he's just taken to patrolling this area specifically because he knows I'll be here.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
"You're late," I comment one evening when he arrives after a particularly long wait.
"Training ran long." He settles beside me on the boulder we've claimed as our unofficial meeting spot, leaving that careful space between us he always maintains. "Dad was in a mood."
"Chieftain moods sound dangerous."
"They're exhausting," he corrects. "Lots of lectures about responsibility and clan leadership and why I should be more serious about my future."
I glance at him, studying the way moonlight catches on his tusks. "Are you not serious about your future?"
"Oh, I'm plenty serious. Just not about the specific future he wants for me." Something shifts in his expression—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "But enough about Dad's expectations. How was your day?"
The question shouldn't feel significant. It's basic courtesy, the kind of small talk people make everywhere. But from Rakk, directed at me, it feels like more. Feels like genuine interest instead of obligation.
"Learned how to harvest zabilla gel without getting a rash," I offer.