Chapter 4 Ressa
RESSA
Iregret this already.
The thought loops through my mind as Falla approaches my cabin, his knock precise and exactly on time because of course it is. He probably planned his route to the second, calculated how long it would take to walk here, accounted for every variable.
I open the door before he can knock again.
"Ready?" he asks.
No. Absolutely not. Every instinct screams at me to slam the door, lock myself inside, pretend I never agreed to this madness.
"Sure," I say instead.
His blue-green eyes narrow slightly, reading the lie with the same efficiency he uses to assess injuries. But he doesn't call me out, just steps back to give me space to exit.
The morning air hits my face—cool, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and something cooking that makes my stomach twist. I haven't been this far from the cabin in weeks. Even the short distance to the door feels like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.
Falla falls into step beside me, not ahead, not behind. Exactly beside, like he's measured the distance between us and decided this is the precise amount of space I need to not feel cornered.
"You look like you're walking to your execution," he says.
"Feels like it."
"The worst thing that happens today is Drogath performs dramatically and makes us do something stupid." He keeps his voice matter-of-fact, stripped of false reassurance. "That's it. Nothing worse."
I want to believe him. The rational part of my brain knows he's right—this is a festival, a celebration, something meant to be fun and ridiculous. But the other part, the part that still feels fingers gripping too tight and voices laughing while I bled, that part doesn't care about rationality.
We round the corner and the settlement center comes into view.
My steps falter.
There are so many of them. Orcs everywhere—gathering in clusters, laughing, moving with that easy confidence that comes from belonging somewhere.
They're huge, all of them, built like they could break me without trying.
The logical part of my brain knows these are Frostfang, knows they're different from the Stonevein who held me captive.
The rest of me doesn't care about the distinction.
Falla's hand appears at my elbow—light contact, easy to break, just enough pressure to ground me. And oddly…I find comfort in it. I'm used to his touch.
"Breathe," he says quietly.
I do, forcing air past the constriction in my chest. In through nose, out through mouth, the way he taught me weeks ago when panic first started stealing my breath.
"We don't have to stay," he continues, still in that clinical tone. "Say the word and we leave."
The offer helps more than it should. Just knowing the exit exists makes walking toward the crowd fractionally more possible.
We move forward together, Falla adjusting his pace to match mine.
He positions himself slightly ahead as we enter the gathering, creating a buffer between me and the nearest orcs.
They notice us—how could they not, a human woman they all know was rescued from enemy territory—but Falla's presence seems to communicate something, because they give us space.
Saela spots us almost immediately, her face lighting up with genuine joy that makes guilt twist in my stomach.
She's been so worried, visiting when she can, bringing food I barely touch and comfort I can't quite accept.
The happiness on her face now, seeing me out of the cabin, participating in something. ..
I'm going to disappoint her. I know I am. This won't last.
She starts toward us, and I brace for the interaction, but Kai intercepts her with a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something I can't hear. Saela nods, understanding crossing her features, and instead of approaching she just waves, giving me space I desperately need.
"Your friend's smarter than she looks," Falla mutters.
"Saela's always been smart."
"Not that smart. She mated Kai."
The dry delivery startles a sound out of me—not quite a laugh, but close enough that Falla's mouth twitches with something that might be satisfaction.
I didn't know he could be funny.
We find a spot at the edge of the gathered crowd, close enough to participate but far enough from the center that I don't feel surrounded. Falla positions himself between me and the bulk of the gathering, a living wall that blocks most of my view of the other orcs.
It helps.
I focus on breathing, on the ground beneath my feet, on the familiar line of Falla's shoulders in front of me. Concrete things. Real things. Not the memories trying to surface.
Drogath appears at the center of the gathering, and even from here I can see he's dressed for maximum dramatic effect. Elaborate robes, face paint, arms spread wide like he's about to deliver a sacred pronouncement.
"Maybe this won't be so bad," I whisper.
"He hasn't started talking yet."
Drogath starts talking.
"WELCOME, FROSTFANG CLAN!" His voice booms across the settlement center, somehow both reverent and theatrical. "Today we begin the SEVEN SACRED DAYS of Verdant Fortune! The great human tradition honoring the legendary Padraig the Verdant Slayer!"
Falla's shoulders shift in what I've learned to recognize as suppressed irritation.
"None of that is real," he mutters.
"What?"
"Any of it. Padraig the whatever. He found it in some old human book and invented an entire mythology." Falla crosses his arms. "But try telling him that."
Drogath continues his pronouncement, explaining the seven days ahead, the trials of partnership, the blessings of prosperity. His words wash over me in a wave of invented tradition and dramatic gestures that would be funny if I wasn't so tense my muscles ache.
Around us, other pairs start forming—couples standing together, friends partnering up, everyone looking varying degrees of enthusiastic or resigned. I spot Ursik near the front, practically vibrating with excitement next to a female orc who looks equally eager.
"He's really into this," I observe.
"Ursik's into everything." Falla's tone carries the particular brand of exasperation that comes from long friendship. "Last month he tried to climb the ice falls because someone said it was impossible."
"Did he make it?"
"Halfway before Kai had to rescue him."
The conversation helps, giving me something to focus on besides the crowd and the memories and the growing sense that I shouldn't be here.
Falla seems to understand this, keeping up a steady stream of dry observations about the gathered orcs, their partnerships, Drogath's increasingly elaborate hand gestures.
Then Drogath claps his hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the murmur of conversation.
"The FIRST TRIAL!" He gestures dramatically at several tables being carried into the center. "The Verdant Marking! Partners will paint upon each other the sacred spirals of prosperity, marking themselves for the blessings to come!"
Assistants begin distributing bowls of green paint—thick, vivid, the color of new spring growth. Bright enough to stand out against the orc's dark skin. Brushes appear, some made of bundled grass, others carved wood with bristles I can't identify from here.
My chest tightens.
"Just painting," Falla says quietly, sensing the shift. "That's all it is."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Around us, pairs begin painting each other—spirals on wrists, cheekbones, temples.
The spirals are actually quite beautiful, elegant curves that catch the light.
Laughter rises as someone accidentally smears paint across their partner's nose.
Another couple debates the proper spiral direction with mock seriousness.
It's innocent. Playful. Completely harmless.
I know this. Logically, rationally, I understand there's nothing threatening about festival paint and cheerful partners marking each other with symbols of prosperity.
But logic doesn't stop the memory from slamming into me.
Rough hands gripping my arms. The smell of copper thick in my nose.
Wet warmth being smeared across my skin while voices laughed, deep and cruel.
Blood, not paint, marking me for something I didn't understand but knew was wrong.
The way it dried sticky on my skin, the way I couldn't scrub it when they finally threw me back in that cage—
"Ressa."
Falla's voice cuts through, sharp and close. I realize I've backed up several steps, my breathing gone shallow and rapid. The crowd seems closer than it was, the spirals on everyone's skin too vivid, too similar to—
No. Different. This is different. Green paint, not blood. Festival markings, not whatever horror the Stonevein were preparing me for.
But my body doesn't care about the distinction.
A bowl of paint appears near us, delivered by an assistant who moves on quickly. Brushes rest inside, innocent and harmless and completely terrifying.
My eyes snap to another couple paint spirals on each other's wrists, their laughter genuine and warm. Saela lets Kai mark her temple with careful precision, trust evident in how still she holds for him. This is supposed to be fun. Bonding. A harmless festival tradition.
I can't do it.
The realization crashes through me with crushing certainty.
I thought maybe, with Falla's help, with knowing it was just paint and symbols and nothing sinister.
.. but I can't. My skin crawls with phantom sensation, the memory of blood drying tacky and wrong.
My hands shake where they're clenched at my sides.
Someone laughs nearby—innocent, joyful—but the sound scrapes against my nerves like a blade.
Too many people. Too much green smeared on too much skin. The spirals blur together in my vision, becoming something else, something darker. My ribs ache where I'm breathing too fast, too shallow. The settlement center tilts slightly, or maybe that's me swaying.
My body is going into full panic mode. If I look away from the crowd, if I lose track of where everyone is, something bad will happen.
I need to watch them, all of them, need to know where the threats are even though rationally I know there are no threats here, these are Frostfang, they're different, they're safe—
But my body doesn't believe it.
My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
This was a mistake. Coming here, agreeing to participate, thinking I could handle something as simple as a festival. I'm broken and everyone can see it and I need to leave, need to get back to the cabin where it's quiet and empty and safe.
But I can't move as memories block out everything I'm seeing. As their laughter sounds dark and twisted like the guards who sliced my skin, who used me as their entertainment.
The green paint gleams wetly in its bowl, spiral patterns marking everyone around us, and all I can see is red, red, red—
My chest constricts painfully, vision tunneling at the edges.
Not here. I can't panic here, not in front of everyone, not where they can all see exactly how damaged I am.
But my body doesn't care about dignity or pride or what anyone thinks. The panic rises like a wave, unstoppable, dragging me under whether I want it to or not.