Heldrik hears it too, but that doesn't soften his expression. In his worldview, personal motivations make people unpredictable, and unpredictable allies are dangerous.
"Your brother's death doesn't make you trustworthy."
"No. But it makes me useful."
Smart answer. Practical rather than emotional.
"We'll see."
Heldrik turns away without dismissal or invitation, returning to his maps and reports as if we'd never interrupted his work. The message is clear: Kaelgor exists on sufferance, nothing more.
Welcome to the family dynamic.
I guide Kaelgor toward the supply area, where cooking fires burn low and steady. Most of the camp is on patrol or handling equipment maintenance, leaving the central area relatively quiet.
"Your uncle seems pleasant," Kaelgor observes.
"He's practical. Sentiment doesn't win wars."
"Does it lose them?"
Complicated question.
"Sometimes."
I pull ingredients from my personal supplies: dried meat, root vegetables, spices traded from southern merchants who don't ask too many questions about their customers' affiliations. The provisions that turn basic sustenance into something approaching civilization.
Cooking calms me. Always has.
Control over fire, ingredients, outcome. Simple cause and effect.
The portable stove ignites with a soft whoosh of combusting oil. I arrange the ingredients with practiced efficiency, letting muscle memory handle the familiar routine while my mind processes the morning's complications.
Kaelgor watched me kill those wolves without hesitation. Accepted medical treatment without suspicion. Worked beside me to save lives during the collapse.
But he's still Ironspine. Still allied with clans that consider humans acceptable targets.
Still dangerous.
Water bubbles in the pot as I add meat and vegetables in a carefully timed sequence. The spices go in last, cardamom and black pepper from the southern kingdoms, dried herbs gathered from mountain slopes where the air tastes of snow and possibility.
Mother's recipe. With modifications.
She never had to feed orcs.
Kaelgor stands near enough to help if needed, far enough away to avoid crowding. His stomach growls audibly, a sound that carries more honesty than most conversations.
When did he last eat? Real food, not field rations?
The stew thickens as it cooks, filling the air with rich aromas that draw interested glances from passing soldiers. I ignore them and focus on the simple pleasure of creating something nourishing from basic components.
This separates us from animals. The ability to transform raw materials into something better.
Though some would argue that's what makes us dangerous.
I ladle stew into two wooden bowls, offering one to Kaelgor without ceremony. He accepts it.
"You didn't have to feed me."
