The first days at the treeline had been tense. Half the village eyed Simon and Schalezusk with suspicion, calling them remnants of Bloodtusk warmongers. Others, the realists, whispered in hushed tones that pride wouldn't fill stomachs. When the children cried at night from hunger, their wails cutting through the cold air, it was the realists who finally stepped forward.
One evening, three orcs approached the brothers' campfire with hesitant steps. Behind them others followed, carrying empty baskets and hollow eyes that spoke of gnawing starvation.
"You two… you have food, don't you?" one asked, his voice thick with shame.
Simon nodded calmly. "We do. And it's yours, if you'll share shelter with us."
