Chapter 16 Ressa
RESSA
Falla's watching me again.
I can feel his gaze tracking my movements as Drogath explains the Leprechaun Trail rules with his usual dramatic flair—something about trickster spirits and tests of joy and partnership resilience.
The shaman's voice fades to background noise while I focus on the weight of Falla's attention, the way awareness prickles across my skin like heat from an open flame.
Last time we stood in these woods together, I'd been fighting memories of running, of fear, of Stonevein orcs hunting me through the trees. Now there's just Falla and the way his blue-green eyes carry warmth instead of threat, patience instead of predation.
I turn my head and catch him staring. He doesn't look away or pretend he wasn't, just holds my gaze with that steady intensity he wears like armor.
"Ready?" he asks, the single word carrying layers of meaning beyond the scavenger hunt.
Am I ready to walk through the woods where I used to only find terror? Ready to trust that nothing will hurt me here? Ready to believe that safety exists in partnership with an orc male instead of despite him?
"Yeah." The answer comes easier than expected. "I'm ready."
The trail begins at the forest edge where carved markers indicate the first checkpoint. Other couples scatter into the trees around us—Kai and Saela disappearing with practiced stealth, Ursik practically dragging Kerra forward with loud enthusiasm that defeats any concept of strategy.
Falla falls into step beside me, close enough I can feel his body heat but leaving space between us. Always giving me room to choose proximity instead of assuming permission.
The first marker bears a carved riddle in symbols I don't immediately recognize. Falla crouches to examine it, his long black hair falling forward over his shoulder.
"'Three leaves speak truth, one speaks lies,'" he reads, his brow furrowing. "'Follow the liar to find what you seek.'"
I scan the surrounding area and spot them immediately—four carved wooden shamrocks mounted on nearby trees, each pointing in different directions. Three bear traditional three-leaf designs while one has four leaves instead.
"The four-leaf one." I point to the northward marker. "That's the liar. Shamrocks only have three leaves."
Falla's mouth curves into something approaching a smile. "Smart."
"Practical." I move toward the indicated direction, warmth blooming in my chest at his praise. "There's a difference."
"Not much of one when you're right."
The path leads deeper into the forest where spring growth softens the winter-bare branches. Sunlight filters through new leaves in shifting patterns that would normally make me nervous—too many shadows, too many places for threats to hide.
But with Falla beside me, the shadows stay just shadows. Nothing more threatening than absence of light.
We find the second checkpoint near a small stream where a wooden box sits balanced on stones. A sign reads: "Open carefully—tricksters don't play fair."
Falla reaches for the latch then pauses, his healer-trained caution kicking in. "Carefully could mean anything."
"Could be trapped." I circle the box, examining it from multiple angles. "Or maybe that's the trick—making us overthink something simple."
"One way to find out."
He opens the latch with slow precision and the box springs wide, wooden frogs launching into the air on springs with enough force that I yelp and stumble backward. Falla catches my elbow automatically, steadying me while the frogs scatter across the ground in chaotic bouncing patterns.
For a moment I just stare at them. Then laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest—real, genuine amusement that feels foreign and perfect at the same time.
"Frogs," I manage between gasps. "They set a trap with wooden frogs."
Falla's still holding my arm, his expression caught between concern and reluctant amusement. "You alright?"
"I'm—" Another laugh escapes before I can contain it. "I'm fine. That was just so ridiculous."
His tension eases incrementally, then he's smiling too—a full, genuine expression that transforms his usually serious features into something lighter. Younger, almost.
"Ridiculous is accurate." He releases my arm but stays close, his shoulder brushing mine. "Should we collect them or is that part of the trick?"
I gather the nearest frog, the wood smooth and cleverly carved. Inside its mouth sits a tiny scroll.
"'Laughter opens paths that fear keeps closed,'" I read aloud. "'Follow the sound of joy to find what waits.'"
Falla tilts his head, listening. Faint music drifts through the trees—something rhythmic and cheerful that definitely wasn't there moments ago.
"This way." I start toward the sound, the frog still clutched in my hand. Some instinct makes me want to keep it, this silly carved thing that startled laughter from me instead of screams.
The path winds through denser growth where wildflowers dot the undergrowth in scattered color. I should feel trapped by the trees closing overhead, the way the forest canopy blocks the clear sky. Should feel my pulse racing with memories of running blind through similar terrain.
Instead I just feel... present. Here in this moment with Falla beside me and music ahead and spring air sweet with growing things.
Safe.
The realization hits with quiet certainty rather than dramatic revelation. I feel safe here. In these woods that used to represent terror and death. With an orc male I would've run from weeks ago.
Everything's changed. I've changed.
Or maybe I'm just becoming myself again. The version that existed before fear took over.
The music leads us to a small clearing where a tiny instrument sits mounted between trees—wooden chimes that ring when wind passes through them, creating melody from motion and air. Another puzzle box rests at its base.
"No frogs this time," Falla predicts dryly. "Probably something worse."
"Only one way to find out."
I open the latch more carefully this time. Instead of springs, the box contains colored smoke bombs that puff harmless clouds when disturbed—green and gold and silver mist that smells like pine and honey.
And nestled among them, another scroll.
"'What the leprechaun values most: tricks that bring smiles, riddles that challenge minds, treasures that shine but mean nothing.'" I look up at Falla. "What does that mean?"
He's examining the smoke with clinical interest, watching how it dissipates through sunlight. "Everything we've encountered has been playful. Non-threatening. The treasure we're supposed to find probably isn't gold."
"Then what?"
"Partnership." His blue-green eyes meet mine. "The whole point is spending time together. That's what the leprechaun values."
Of course. The festival's been building toward this all week—each challenge designed to strengthen bonds through shared experience rather than competition or survival.
Joy compatibility, not just functional teamwork.
"So we just keep following the trail?" I ask.
"Unless you want to stop."
I shake my head immediately. "No. I want to keep going."
Truth is, I don't want this to end. This lightness, this safety, this feeling like I'm more than just accumulated trauma trying to hold human shape. With Falla I get to be someone who laughs at wooden frogs and solves riddles and walks through forests without fear eating me alive.
I get to be me.
The trail continues deeper into Frostfang territory, each checkpoint revealing new surprises—a carved box that plays tinny music when opened, a rope bridge that wobbles but holds steady, a tree hollow containing nothing but mirrors that reflect our faces back distorted and ridiculous.
Falla makes a sound that might be a laugh at that one, his reflection stretched tall and thin while mine appears compressed and wide.
"Flattering," I observe dryly.
"Extremely." He's definitely smiling now, the expression easier than before. Like he's remembering how.
We find joke scrolls mixed with real clues—puns about orcs and humans that range from terrible to actually funny. Falla groans at most of them but I catch him hiding smiles behind carefully neutral expressions.
"'What do you call an orc who tells jokes?'" I read from one scroll.
"Unemployed," he answers immediately.
"'A Pundit.'" I wait for reaction.
His face does something complicated between grimace and amusement. "That's awful."
"That's the point." I tuck the scroll in my pocket with the frog. "The leprechaun values tricks. Bad puns definitely qualify."
"Your standards for treasure are questionable."
"I treasure my new bracelet." I hold up my wrist. "I must have some good taste."
Falla's expression warms in response. He touches my wrist lightly where the bracelet rests against my pulse point, his fingers gentle.
"I suppose you do," he says quietly.
We're standing close enough I can see how the blue and green swirl together in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate slightly when he looks at me. The forest surrounds us with privacy and soft light and the distant sound of other couples laughing through their own hunts.
I want to kiss him. Want to close the small distance and taste his mouth again like yesterday when we made rainbows and everything felt possible.
But he's already stepping back, his hand dropping away from my wrist. Giving me space I didn't ask for.
"We should keep going," he says, voice rougher than before. "Trail's not finished."
Right. The trail. The hunt. The festival activities we're supposed to complete.
I follow him toward the next marker, trying to ignore disappointment settling heavy in my chest. Does he not want to kiss me? Did yesterday mean less to him than it did to me? Maybe I'm reading everything wrong, seeing attraction where he only offers friendship and professional concern.