A Fireside Reflection (A Short Story)
To be read after listening to Arc 6, Episode 3
This scene takes place in 1321 AEC in White Wolf Valley.
Credit: Adobe Stock
A biting wind rustled the pine needles overhead, yet the small clearing remained strangely peaceful. A ring of stones surrounded a modest fire, its crackle the only sound for miles. Nythera Rhyelith, usually vigilant and calculating, settled against a log, her shoulders relaxing in the warmth of the flames. Beside her, Thranak Gorehide finished scraping the remnants of their simple dinner from a dented metal plate.
They had chosen this spot to camp after a long day of travel, close enough to the main road for safety, yet far enough to savor a rare moment of privacy. As the embers glowed against the snow laden ground, Thranak turned his attention to the quiet elf at his side.
“You’re tense,” he observed in his low, resonant voice. “Another ambush on your mind?”
Nythera brushed a stray lock of raven black hair from her eyes. “It’s… habit. I’ve lived so long expecting a blade in the dark that it’s hard to shake the feeling.”
He nodded, setting his plate aside. The flickering firelight revealed the tusks that marked his orcish heritage. “We’re safe tonight. I promise.”
A slight smile tugged at Nythera’s lips. She believed him, if only for that moment. They sat in companionable silence, the flames dancing over their features. Finally, Thranak cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about the Bru’gall,” he began. “I heard rumors they’ve been raiding caravans near Aubrey.”
Nythera’s gaze flickered, an instinctual wariness rising. “Bru’gall,” she repeated. “Even among elves, we’ve heard of their… cruelty.”
Thranak leaned forward, resting his hulking form on his knees. “Cruelty, yes. Brutality, certainly. But not all orcs follow their ways. The Moz’zogg has its own code. We believe strength is nothing without honor. The Bru’gall... they believe fear keeps order. Sometimes, I think that’s all they know.”
Nythera studied the sharp planes of his face. For a moment, she pictured how many elves would dismiss him as a brute too. “I’ve heard others call all orcs savages,” she said quietly. “But you’ve proven them wrong time and time again.”
A faint throaty chuckle escaped Thranak. “I still remember the first time you saw me. You looked ready to cut me down where I stood.”
“Well, it didn’t help that I was drunk. And that was before I knew you were more than just muscle and a big axe,” she teased, a tenderness in her tone. “Before I realized you’d patch me up instead of leaving me for dead.”
He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against hers. “I’ve never met an elf quite like you, either.”
They lingered there, the warmth of his touch chasing away the chill of the night. Nythera felt the old tension in her chest loosen, a sensation she was still growing used to. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to speak the thoughts she usually kept buried.
“You know,” she began in a soft voice, “I’ve done terrible things. I’ve been many things: a killer, a hired blade, a ghost in the night. It’s easier for me to believe in the worst in people. It keeps you alive... but it’s lonely.”
Thranak’s gaze was unwavering. “I won’t pretend the world isn’t cruel. But it’s also what we make of it. My people taught me that strength should protect the weak. The Bru’gall took a different path.” His voice softened. “Just as you once did.”
Nythera’s eyes flickered with old guilt. She thought of her countless kills, of the lives she had snuffed out in the name of coin or vengeance. As if torn from a place deep within her, she confessed, “Sometimes I wonder if I can ever be anything else.”
“You already are,” he said simply, taking her hand gently. “You’re here, with me, talking about a better way. That’s more than some manage in a lifetime.”
For a time, they said nothing. The silence was not uncomfortable but rather brimming with unspoken trust. The distant hoot of an owl punctuated the stillness, reminding them they were not alone in the wilderness.
Eventually, a twig snapped somewhere behind them. Nythera’s instincts flared. Her body tensed, and she reached for the dagger at her hip. Thranak gently rested his hand on her arm. “Just the wind,” he murmured. “Easy now.”
She let out a shaky breath, fingers relaxing on the hilt. “Sorry. Old habit.”
Thranak smiled, warmth flickering at the corners of his lips. “I’d be more worried if you didn’t reach for a blade. Wouldn’t feel like you.” He glanced back at the fire, his voice softer but steady. “Whatever comes, we’ll handle it. Together.”
Nythera leaned into him then, letting her guard drop in a way she rarely allowed herself. In the glow of the dying embers, she realized how safe she felt. Not because the night was free of threats, but because they had each other. For once, she was not Raven’s Breath, the legendary assassin. She was simply Nythera, an elf sharing a quiet moment with the orc who saw the best in her.
They stayed like that until the fire was little more than ash and the stars shimmered overhead. In that hush, Nythera allowed herself the fragile hope that perhaps she could be more than her past. Thranak believed it, and for tonight, that was enough.
