Chapter 47

Steam swirls into the dimness of the dining hall. Every table has at least half a dozen massive stew pots. The aroma of rosemary and roasted meat makes my mouth water. I watch the orcs serve themselves.

The recipe is mine. It always feels like comfort food for me.

Appreciative murmurs rise. Many look in my direction and dip their heads.

"Is this yours, Violet?" Drundak, the orc healer, asks from the closest table, his tusks gleaming in the glow of the fire.

I grin. "How do you like it?"

"Flavorful. Rich. You did a good job."

"Thank you." And I plaster a smile on, disguising the simmering unease beneath.

My place in this clan is still up in the air. I can't have Thorn. I won't need to babysit Eirik forever.

What are they going to do with me when they tire of my food? Would their kindness wane if my usefulness did?

I learned that's the rule in human society… but is it the same here?

Thorn readjusts in his massive chair next to me. I peek at his plate and the sight tugs painfully at my heart. He hasn't touched his food. Does he hate it?

His dark eyes look into the distance. Distracted. Worried.

His clan is dying. Of course he's worried. Of course he can barely eat. And maybe it's because he's worried and because her usefulness is running out that Thorn wants to blame this on Nell.

Did he tire of her? Maybe she did something he disliked? My heart squeezes in my chest and I lose my appetite too. I focus on feeding Eirik, having to stop every two spoonfuls to wipe his chin.

But soon even Eirik tires of me. For the first time, he pushes away from me. His little arms wave toward Thorn. The king glances down at him.

Eirik tugs at Thorn's fur cloak. "Up!"

Without a word, Thorn picks him up. My lap feels cold. I sink against my chair, the spoon clanking inside my bowl.

Maybe my fate is closer than I expected. If even Eirik wants me gone, there's no way I can stay here.

But I also cannot go back.

The hall buzzes with the usual chatter, but our table doesn't. Thorn says nothing, and he eats nothing. He makes Eirik eat, then bounces him in his arms for the rest of the evening. Ursha cleans up her plate and serves herself seconds, but she's more serious than usual. Even Zog looks upset; his gaze is also lost in the distance, his spoon hovering, empty, over the stew bowl.

This evening sucks. For a moment there, I was happy to be back. I even had Thorn one last time. It didn't change the reality of things—the attacks, my lack of perspective, the fact I can't leave.

I watch the orcs eat. They hum in delight, eat more, and some even argue for the last stew in the pot. My lips curl into a smile.

Maybe that's the closest I'll ever have to feeling loved.