Chapter 7 Ressa
RESSA
"Ressa."
The voice cuts through the roaring in my ears, sharp and direct. Not threatening. Not mocking.
Falla.
I blink, the forest swimming back into partial focus. He stands a few feet away, not approaching but not retreating either. His expression remains neutral, clinical—the healer assessing a patient rather than judgment or pity.
"Four counts in," he says, his tone carrying the same matter-of-fact quality he uses when discussing wound care. "You remember."
My lungs burn. I try to pull air in but it catches, stutters, refuses to cooperate with what my body desperately needs.
"Four counts." Falla's voice stays level, a fixed point in the chaos. "In through your nose."
I force compliance, dragging oxygen past the constriction in my throat. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Hold it."
My chest screams in protest but I count silently, focusing on the numbers instead of the phantom sounds of pursuit that still echo in my ears.
"Four counts out."
The exhale shakes, unsteady and weak, but it happens. Air leaves my lungs. Makes space for the next breath.
"Again."
We repeat the pattern—I don't know how many times. Could be three cycles, could be thirty. Time loses meaning when panic has its claws in you, stretching seconds into eternities while simultaneously compressing everything into a single overwhelming moment.
Eventually, the forest stops spinning. The shadows return to being ordinary darkness between trees instead of hiding places for threats. My heartbeat slows from its frantic gallop to something closer to sustainable.
Falla reaches into his pack without moving closer, pulling out a familiar flask. The same one he had yesterday, filled with that bitter herbal mixture I still can't identify by taste alone.
"Drink."
He extends it toward me, arm outstretched so I don't have to close the distance. The gesture is deliberate—giving me control over the interaction, letting me decide when and how to accept help.
I take the flask with trembling fingers, uncapping it and bringing the opening to my lips. The first sip hits my tongue with that same sharp bitterness from yesterday, but underneath it there's something almost soothing. Something that settles the residual nausea churning in my gut.
"What is in this?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from the panic attack. "You've never said."
"Herbs." Falla looks unimpressed as I narrow my eyes. "Did you expect a detailed recipe?"
"Most healers like explaining their remedies."
"Most patients don't care about the explanation."
I take another sip, letting the liquid coat my throat and ease some of the tightness. "Fair point."
The silence between us feels less oppressive now, weighted with something other than my breakdown. Falla watches me drink, his assessment never quite clinical enough to be cold but never sympathetic enough to feel patronizing.
When I've finished half the flask, he nods toward the direction we came from. "We're heading back."
It's not a question. Not a suggestion. Just statement of fact, delivered in that blunt way that somehow makes decisions easier by removing the pressure of choice.
I should argue. Should insist we keep going, finish the challenge, prove I can handle this. But the exhaustion settling into my bones makes the prospect of continuing feel impossible.
"Okay."
We turn back toward the settlement, Falla setting a deliberately slow pace that accommodates my still-shaky legs, the ones that still ache constantly, without making it obvious he's compensating.
The walk feels longer returning than it did going out, each step requiring conscious effort to maintain.
My mind wants to spiral into self-recrimination—cataloging all the ways I failed today, how I couldn't even manage a simple scavenger hunt without falling apart.
But Falla's presence beside me disrupts those thoughts before they can fully form, his steady silence somehow more grounding than reassurances would be.
The sounds of the settlement reach us before the visual—voices raised in celebration or competition, the clatter of returned tokens being counted, Ursik's distinctive laugh booming above the general noise.
My stomach clenches reflexively but I push through it, following Falla as we emerge from the tree line into the gathering area.
The scene that greets us radiates victory. Ursik stands near the center, arms raised triumphantly while a young female guard beside him matches his enthusiasm with competitive fervor. Her grin stretches wide, all satisfaction and accomplishment.
"Ten serpents!" Ursik's voice carries across the entire space. "Count them and weep, you slow bastards!"
Other pairs mill around, some looking annoyed, others amused. Kai and Saela stand off to one side, their collection of tokens respectable but clearly not enough to compete with Ursik's haul.
Falla approaches the gathering without hesitation, his expression unchanged from its usual neutral assessment. If he feels any disappointment about our early return or failure to complete the challenge, it doesn't show.
"Congratulations," he says to Ursik, the word delivered with the same clinical precision he uses for medical diagnoses.
Ursik's grin somehow widens further. "Don't sound so devastated by our victory, Falla. Your face might crack from all that emotion."
"I'll risk it."
The young guard—I think her name is Kerra—laughs at the exchange, her competitive energy barely contained. "We dominated this challenge. Absolutely dominated."
"Clearly." Falla pulls our collected tokens from his pouch, adding them to the general pile without fanfare. Four serpents to their ten. Not even close to competitive.
Ursik's attention shifts to me briefly, something like concern flickering across his features before he buries it under more celebration. "Better luck next time, Little Bird. Though you picked a good partner—Falla's just slow because he's old."
"I'm younger than you."
"Age is a state of mind." Ursik waves dismissively. "And your mind is ancient."
Falla doesn't dignify that with response, instead turning to gesture toward the edge of the gathering. Away from the crowd. Toward quieter space.
I follow gratefully, relieved to escape the press of bodies and noise. We settle on the same fallen log from yesterday—apparently this is becoming our designated retreat location.
The celebration continues behind us, Ursik's voice periodically rising above the general noise as he recounts their victory with increasing dramatic embellishment. Other pairs compare their hauls, discuss strategy, replay moments from the hunt.
Normal competition. Normal celebration. Nothing threatening about any of it.
But my body still holds residual tension, muscles wound tight from the panic attack and the effort of walking back. I focus on breathing, on the solid wood beneath me, on the fact that I made it through today even if I didn't make it through successfully.
Falla sits beside me in silence, not pushing for conversation or explanation. Just existing in the same space, a fixed point I can orient around.
Eventually, the gathering begins to disperse as people return to their evening routines. Saela appears at some point, her approach careful and telegraphed so I can track her movement before she gets close.
"I'm heading back home," she says, her voice pitched low enough not to carry. "You need anything?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice yet.
She studies me for a moment—cataloging the same symptoms Falla probably already noted—before nodding. "Come find me tomorrow if you want company."
The offer comes without pressure, just availability. I appreciate that more than I can articulate.
After Saela leaves, Falla rises from the log with economical grace. "I'll check on you tomorrow."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Okay."
He nods once before heading toward his own quarters, leaving me alone with the gathering dusk and my tangled thoughts.
The knock on my cabin door comes after darkness has fully settled, soft enough to be polite but firm enough to be heard. I know it's Saela before I open it—she has a distinctive rhythm to her knocking that differs from Falla's clinical efficiency.
She stands on the threshold holding a small bundle wrapped in cloth, her smile warm but cautious. "Brought you some of the stew from dinner."
We both know I wouldn't venture out to find food.
My stomach chooses that moment to remind me I haven't eaten since morning, growling loud enough to be audible. Saela's smile widens fractionally as she steps inside without waiting for invitation.
The cabin feels less oppressive with her presence filling it—her energy somehow making the walls feel less like they're closing in today. It's nice. She settles into the chair near the hearth while I take the bundle, unwrapping it to reveal still-warm stew and bread.
"So," Saela starts, her tone carefully casual. "How was Day 2?"
I busy myself with the food, buying time to formulate an answer that isn't complete deception but also won't send her into worried-friend mode. The stew tastes better than it probably is, or maybe I'm just hungry enough not to care.
"It was fine," I manage between bites. "We didn't win, obviously. Ursik and Kerra destroyed everyone."
"Ursik's been planning strategy since Drogath announced this whole thing." Saela leans back in her chair, relaxed in a way I envy. "Pretty sure he made charts."
The image of Ursik bent over tactical diagrams for a festival competition pulls a genuine laugh from somewhere in my chest. "Of course he did."
"Kai said he lectured them for an hour about optimal serpent-finding techniques." Saela's eyes crinkle with amusement. "An hour. About wooden tokens."
We fall into easier conversation—Saela recounting moments from her day, the ridiculous competitiveness of some pairs, Drogath's increasing investment in making this festival "authentic" despite having no actual knowledge of human traditions.
It feels almost normal. Almost like the friendship we had before everything fractured.
But Saela's too observant to miss the shadows under my eyes or the tension I can't quite shake from my shoulders. Eventually, her expression shifts to something more serious.
"How are you really doing with all this?" The question comes gently, without accusation. "And don't say fine. I know you better than that."
I set the empty bowl aside, buying a few more seconds. The urge to deflect sits heavy on my tongue—to maintain the facade that everything's manageable, that I'm healing properly, that the festivals are just mildly uncomfortable rather than actively triggering.
But this is Saela. My oldest friend. The person who's known me longest and seen me at my worst.
"It's bringing up bad memories," I admit, the words scraping out reluctantly.
Surprisingly, Falla is the only one I've been honest with, and I don't know why.
"The hunting challenge today—being tracked through the forest. It reminded me of.
.." I trail off, unable to articulate the specific moments without falling back into them.
Saela's expression tightens with understanding and guilt. She was there, too. "Ressa, you don't have to do this. You can stop anytime. I never wanted—"
"I know." I cut her off before she can spiral into self-blame.
"But Falla's helping me work through them.
The memories. He..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound ridiculous.
"He doesn't treat me like I'm broken. He just helps me breathe through the panic and doesn't make it into this huge dramatic thing. "
"He's good at that." Saela's voice carries something warm, almost knowing. "The whole 'clinical detachment that's somehow more comforting than sympathy' thing."
"It shouldn't be comforting." The words come out sharp. "He's an orc. I should be terrified of him."
"But you're not."
The statement sits between us, impossible to deny.
I'm wary of Falla, yes. Uncomfortable sometimes with his presence and his directness and the way he sees through my defenses.
But terrified? No. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, even in those early days when I could barely stand being in the same room as him.
"It doesn't make sense," I mutter, more to myself than her.
"Feelings rarely do." Saela stands, moving toward the door with the careful grace she's developed from living among orcs. "But for what it's worth? Falla's a good male. Probably one of the best I've met, orc or human."
The conviction in her voice makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. Because deep down, in the parts of myself I don't want to examine too closely, I know she's right.
Falla is good. Patient and blunt and frustratingly perceptive, but fundamentally good in ways that terrify me because acknowledging it means confronting how much of my fear is based on what happened rather than who he actually is.