The dirt ceiling shuddered beneath a stampede of swift feet. Oralia tilted her head, listening as the thundering steps moved in the direction of the main entrance. She followed the heavy footfalls, weaving her way around the busy excavation workers and the discarded piles of dirt and rubble, past the yellowed sheet serving as a dust curtain, and out into the main area beyond. The soldier manning the hatch announced Mul’s return a split second before the hatchway creaked open, filling the underground bunker with the shrill squeal of rusted hinges. Two scrawny volunteers scrambled inside first, followed by Sergeant Windshot. Mul was the last to enter. The mountain man dropped down the shaft and slammed the hatch shut over them.

  “Will you move already?” Mul rounded on the bleak-eyed sergeant for constantly being underfoot. “And what in the realm are you standing around gawking at me for anyway? Go give all the herbs we collected to Briony. I’m sure she’s dying for the opportunity to boss someone else around for a change.”

  Sergeant Windshot gazed up at Mul the same way an exhausted sheep might regard its shepherd. It was a cautionary respect, wary of the shepherd’s crook while simultaneously grateful for being told what to do for a change. The appreciation disintegrated from the sergeant’s ashen face at the mention of Briony’s name. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “That’s your problem, right there. You’re thinking. Stop that. I don’t keep you for your brains, Lorn,” Mul replied.

  “But—”

  “I keep you for your speed. Lack thereof, actually. It’s nice knowing that if we get jumped, it’ll be you getting turned into a pincushion, not me.”

  While Sergeant Windshot’s change of heart had come at a pivotal moment, prompting half of the realm's military force to rally with him against Cray, one courageous act alone was not enough to dissolve the history of distrust between him and the villagers. Briony, in particular, had made her contempt for Windshot crystal clear.

  “Don’t you even think about sending that turncoat my way,” Briony’s voice called from the makeshift infirmary shoved all the way in the corner. “If you’ve got something to bring me, Mulberry Stoneclaw, then you will deliver it yourself.”

  “Briony, my sweet turtledove, light of my life, perpetual thorn in my side, I see your black heathen heart has grown fond in my absence.” Mul plucked the tattered knapsack from the sergeant’s white-knuckled grip, but remained where he was, watching Oralia wade through the seated crowd in his direction. The underground bunker was packed tight with villagers, deserted realm soldiers, and New Adderwood reinforcements, rendering Oralia’s progress painfully slow. “I’ll be over to sweep you off your feet soon, my darling. It appears our fearless leader wishes to celebrate my return in person first.”

  Sergeant Windshot slunk off in a cower, unwilling to meet Oralia’s stare. She made a mental note to check her expression before approaching next time. It hadn’t been her intention to scare him off. He may not have had a spine of steel, but he possessed the ability to relay information without needing to be strangled first. The sergeant’s premature withdrawal meant she had to rely solely on Mul for a rundown of his mission.

  Mul’s shit-eating grin assured her that getting the information from him would be the equivalent of pulling teeth. Oralia sighed and ran a heavy hand down her face. “I expected your return days ago. What happened?”

  Hiding underground, waiting to be discovered was, admittedly, not an ideal strategy. Winter’s abrupt arrival, coupled with the injured, meant a fast retreat was out of the question. It was Mul who came to Oralia’s aid. Having had his fill of hiding in dingy underground basements for a lifetime, the mountain man elected to remain topside following the evacuation. He, along with Sergeant Windshot—who also possessed no desire to hang around a bunch of angry civilians for entirely different reasons—had spent their time above ground obscuring Oralia’s trail. Together, they erased old tracks, created new ones, and zigged and zagged their way across the forest in a manner that would have confused even the best of trackers.

  What was supposed to have been a quick in-and-out venture, however, had morphed into three agonizing days without word. Oralia had nearly given up on Mul’s return at all.

  The mountain man pulled a twig out of his tangle of a beard with a wince. “I may have overestimated my sneaking abilities. Can’t take a single step in this cursed forest without trodding over the enemy’s foot. And boy, let me tell you, they are everywhere. Cray’s furious that you gave him the slip again. He torched the village in retaliation. Not that it did him any good now that his soldiers have nowhere to sleep, but—”

  Oralia cut his account short, knowing Mul’s proclivity for rambling on if left unchecked. “Did anyone see you?”

  “A few. They’re dead now, though. So unless Cray’s got a necromancer at his beck and call, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  Oralia allowed her silence to prompt more out of him.

  Mul rolled his head back, groaning. “Yes. Of course, we hid the bodies. I’m not bloody stupid.”

  “And you made sure you were not followed?”

  “Yes, Mother. I was a very good boy and did exactly as you told me.” Mul’s smile pulled uncomfortably tight, revealing his front teeth. Having made his point, the man soon lost interest and allowed his gaze to wander the crowded room. His attention settled on the yellowed sheet hanging from the entrance to the back rooms. “What’s with the curtain? Giving the good people a false sense of privacy while you and the big fella consummate your honeymoon?”

  Oralia would have stomped his foot had she thought it would have done any good. Unfortunately, as was the case for all Stoneclaws, pain only encouraged them more.

  “I do not like that the bunker only has one point of access. We would be, as they say, trapped like rats if Cray were to find us.”

  She and Mul shared a knowing look. The ‘if’ in Oralia’s statement was performing some rather heavy lifting. They both knew it was not a matter of if, but when. To his credit, the mountain man did the unthinkable and kept his blasted mouth shut, generously refraining from announcing it to the rest of the bunker.

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  Oralia continued, “Captain Bernstein and his forces have been working around the clock to remedy that. They’re tunneling their way out of the back chamber. The other is being used to house the displaced dirt and rubble in the meantime.”

  Alas, constructing an emergency tunnel was not something that happened overnight. Not even for dwarfs. Oralia only hoped that Mul’s cover-up was sufficient in keeping Cray off of their scent long enough for it to be completed.

  “That at least explains why you’ve got everyone packed in up front like sardines,” Mul said. “How soon until it’s operable?”

  Soon, according to the dwarfs. Operable and stable, however, did not always go hand-in-hand. Despite Captain Bernstein’s best efforts, without proper support, sections of the emergency exit kept collapsing. Said information was best left unsaid. Hope operated best when there wasn’t the literal threat of being crushed to death looming over its head.

  “Rali tells me that it is close,” was all Oralia was willing to omit on the matter.

  “Rali?” Mul’s face brightened at the mention of his favorite plaything.

  “Do not even think about it,” Oralia warned. She recognized the mischievous look he wore and knew trouble was the only thing that would come of it. “I forbid you to go anywhere near the construction. Rali is in a foul mood as it is. She is liable to bring the whole thing down on top of you.”

  Mul was a warrior forged by fire. Against insurmountable odds, he’d survived countless battles, beasts, witches, and more self-instigated fistfights than most warriors four times his age. And yet, while experience often brought wisdom, such was not the case for Mulberry Stoneclaw. The damn mountain man leapt at the opportunity to goad death whenever possible. He forgot all about tormenting Briony as he set his sights on a much more deadly prize. “Pickle, my one and only!” he called, strutting past Oralia with his chest puffed like a profoundly stupid peacock. “Your big strapping honey bear is here to help. Come give me a welcome-home smooch.”

  Good gods, the man was single-handedly going to get the entire tunnel brought down on top of himself for recreation. Oralia reached out and caught Mul by the arm, preventing him from sacrificing the rest of them for the sake of his ego. “You will do no such thing.”

  “You can’t stand in the way of true love, boss.”

  “I can and I will if it means surviving the night.” Oralia was quick to change the topic of conversation. “You said you had medicinal herbs for Briony, yes? Take them to her. See if you can be of any help while you are there.”

  “Don’t push your problem child onto me,” Briony protested from the other side of the room. “I have my hands full as it is.”

  It was all the convincing Mul needed. He redirected his eager steps in Briony’s direction like a suicidal moth drawn to a funeral pyre.

  Oralia started back towards the construction, intent on overseeing its completion, only to find an elderly faun blocking her path. Oralia greeted her, “Novera.”

  “I have not seen you sit down since we arrived,” Novera remarked.

  “Correct. And I have no intention of doing so now.”

  “Which is why I will not be giving you a choice in the matter. You need rest.” Novera tilted her horns, motioning for Oralia to join the cluster of patients arranged along the wall. “Not just for your sake, but that of your mate’s as well. Sascha’s awake now. He’s been asking for you all morning.”

  “But the exit—”

  “The project will continue without you. Go.” Novera spoke it as a command, not a suggestion. “Sit and talk with him.”

  Knowing it was an argument she was not destined to win, Oralia conceded the fight with a soft snap of her tusks. Guilt intermixed with dread as she carefully navigated to the far wall. Her thoughts, those pesky, relentless voices she’d done her best to shove out of sight, caught up with her at last. A better partner would not have had to be told. A true partner would have been at their better half’s side day and night, through thick and thin, no matter the cost. But Oralia could barely bring herself to sit still for more than a few minutes. She hated that after pining for Sascha’s company for weeks, now that they were reunited and she had the chance, she suddenly wanted to be anywhere else.

  It hurt to look at him, knowing that her last memory of Sascha would not be the strong, charming bastard that had burrowed his way under her skin and into her heart—but as this. The beaten, broken shell of an orc who, even now, couldn’t be convinced that he was better off without her. She hated her own utter helplessness, knowing that she could do nothing to make him better. And despite it all, the only thing he wanted was to be next to her, and she couldn’t even manage that without being told.

  The makeshift infirmary was shoved all the way in the corner, overflowing with patients. Oralia recognized several familiar faces, including Trant, Dewpetal, and Daana. The latter was in the most severe shape of all. The elfling lay still, her forehead beaded in sweat, drifting in and out of consciousness. Ashwyn was at her side, squeezed in between Daana and Sascha, offering what comfort she could. Ashwyn’s form of comfort primarily revolved around talking, but Oralia had no room to judge. It was more than she had done herself.

  Ashwyn noticed Oralia’s approach and lifted her eyebrows in mock surprise. “What’s this? Are you actually listening to reason for a change?”

  “Far from it. There is nothing reasonable about hiding in a hole underground.” As there was nowhere else to sit, Oralia decided Ashwyn’s spot would do nicely. “I would like to be with Sascha for a while.”

  Ashwyn stared sweetly back up at her as if expecting more.

  “Alone.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  “Move.”

  Anyone else would have leapt out of the way, but Ashwyn was family—worse yet, a younger sibling—and was, therefore, automatically exempt from the rules of intimidation. Ashwyn, in true form, honored Oralia’s wishes not by doing as she wanted, but by following the command to the letter. She moved. Literally, wiggling aside, allowing enough room for a small child to fit between her and Sascha. The gleeful smile split across her face assured Oralia that her younger sister knew exactly what she was doing.

  Unfortunately for her, Oralia would forever be the bigger sister in both title and physical stature. Oralia retaliated, not by removing her sister from the equation, but by sitting on top of her.

  “Good goddess, I forget how heavy you are.” Ashwyn struggled with futile desperation to get out from underneath her.

  Oralia ignored her. She turned to Sascha, who watched with an amused expression, and ran her hand lovingly down the side of his battered face. “Hello, Sunflower. I am so happy to see my brat sister keeping you company.”

  Ashwyn strained to speak around her sister’s crashing weight. “Brat sister? I am the reason you two are together. The big lug was my friend first, remember?”

  Sascha rolled onto his side and nuzzled against her. His eyes flickered open briefly before closing again. His hot breath tickled her neck. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  There was a thoughtful pause before he added, “You smell like dirt.”

  Oralia threaded her fingers through his hair and smiled weakly. “You should be grateful. There are far worse things to smell like.”

  Sascha inhaled loudly through his nostrils. “Smoke.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of excrement, but I concede that smoke smells more caustic than dirt.”

  “No,” Sascha mumbled, eyes still closed. “I smell smoke.”

  Oralia’s fingers froze in place. She lifted her head and drew breath in through her nostrils and back out her mouth, running the scent along her tongue. She smelled dirt, body odor, old blood, and beyond that, faint but growing stronger, the telltale scent of smoke.