Morning came with the scent of smoke and bread.
For once, it wasn't the smell of something burning because Borgu tried to "improve" breakfast — it was real bread. Actual, warm bread.
I stood by the small clay oven we'd built three weeks ago and watched Lorian pull a loaf from the heat, his face set with the seriousness of a priest handling a relic.
"Careful," Sylvara said behind him. "If you burn it, I'm not pretending to like it."
He scowled, blowing on his fingers. "I won't burn it. I followed the steps exactly."
"That's what you said when you turned porridge into armor plating."
"That was an experiment," he muttered.
Borgu leaned in from the window, grinning wide. "If bread hard, orc use for training."
I rubbed my temples. "He's going to eat that whole thing, isn't he?"
Sylvara sighed. "He's going to try. The rest of us should plan the escape route."
The camp — no, the village — had changed since the last time I stood like this and thought about it. Where there were once a few scattered huts, there were now a dozen solid buildings: proper roofs, wooden walls, even chimneys that didn't leak smoke like dying beasts.
We had pens for the tamed goats Lorian found in the hills, small fields of herbs, a workshop that Borgu had turned into a shrine of noise and splinters, and a clear path leading down to the creek.
Sylvara called it "home." Borgu called it "fortress meat-haven."Both, in their own way, meant the same thing.
By midday, the rhythm of work filled the air.
Borgu hauled logs from the forest, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a war chant.Sylvara tended the herbs with a focus that could rival a general's strategy.Lorian scribbled notes about soil quality, climate, and something he called "pre-magical nutrient potential."And I fixed fences, roof panels, and the growing list of things that somehow broke themselves.
Gareth, as usual, kept watch near the edge of the treeline — quiet, methodical, the shadow that made everyone feel safe.
Every now and then, I'd catch myself standing still and just watching them.Not out of command — just pride.
They'd all learned how to live again.Even me.
"Kael," Sylvara called, wiping her hands on her apron. "We need more clay for the new water jugs."
"Where's the last batch?"
"Borgu used it."
I turned to him. "For what?"
He looked up from a half-built structure of sticks and rope. "Statue."
"…Of what?"
"Me."
Lorian snorted so hard he nearly dropped his quill.
Sylvara pressed her fingers to her temple. "He's been at it for three days."
"It's a masterpiece!" Borgu declared. "Symbol of orc glory and village prosperity!"
"It looks like a log with muscles," I said flatly.
He frowned. "Art ahead of time."
Later that afternoon, a light breeze swept through the camp — the kind that made the leaves whisper and the cooking fire flicker just right. Sylvara hung herbs to dry, Lorian scribbled notes about the yield, and Borgu sang something that sounded like a tavern song if you removed all rhythm and decency.
When I sat near the main fire to sharpen my blade, Lorian plopped down beside me.
"Kael," he said quietly, "do you ever miss it?"
"The war?"
He nodded.
I stared at the flames for a long while. "No," I said finally. "But sometimes I miss the clarity."
"Clarity?"
"When you're in a war, you always know what you're supposed to do — survive, fight, protect. Here…" I gestured toward the huts, the fields, the laughing orc trying to balance a log on his head. "…Here it's quieter. But quieter doesn't always mean easier."
He thought about that, then nodded slowly. "I think I get it."
"Good. Now go help Sylvara before she throws a pot at you."
"Too late," he muttered as a clay shard landed beside his foot.
By evening, Borgu's statue had somehow doubled in size.
He called it "Borgu, Guardian of the Meatpile."Sylvara called it "an eyesore."Lorian said it "defied all known geometry."I just said, "It's staying outside the fence."
The orc looked heartbroken. "But chief—!"
"Outside," I repeated.
He sighed heavily, dragging it toward the gate like a sulking child moving his toy.
That night, the air was cool and still. The stars came out in a spread of silver, and the forest beyond hummed with insects and frogs. The fire crackled steady between us, casting gold light across tired faces and easy smiles.
Sylvara passed around mugs of her latest brew — mild, herbal, calming. Borgu called it "elf juice of sadness," but he drank two cups anyway.
Lorian was talking about making paper from bark. Gareth was listening, eyes half-lidded but alert. And I just leaned back, hands behind my head, watching it all unfold.
This — this was the kind of peace no one ever wrote songs about.The kind that grew out of laughter, work, and small victories.The kind worth guarding.
When the fire burned low, Sylvara looked at me from across the flames. "You're smiling."
"Am I?"
"Barely," she said, smirking.
I shrugged. "Guess the rain did some good after all."
"It always does," she said softly. "It washes away the old dust."
Her words lingered as the flames flickered.The kind of thought that settled deep, without trying.
Hours later, long after the others had gone to rest, I stayed up, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest.
No howls, no footsteps, no whispers.
Just wind.
And for the first time in months, I believed it — that maybe peace wasn't just something we stumbled into by accident. Maybe it was something we could keep, if we built it right.