Orin's Chapter

Orin waited until he could no longer hear the hoofbeats of the Queen’s guards before turning to Estaria. The wagon’s interior felt close and warm, the canvas walls creating a surprisingly intimate space despite the constant motion beneath them. A shaft of sunlight pierced through a small gap, dancing with the dust motes stirred up by their movement.

“You’re wondering how everyone knew about you,” Orin said, his voice barely carrying over the creak of wooden wheels. He shifted on the bench, his weathered hands resting on his knees. “Leona told me first. Then I informed the caravan master, who spoke with key members of our group.”

Estaria opened his mouth to speak, but Orin held up a calloused hand. “It’s not what you think. We needed to know because this,” he gestured at the wagon around them, “isn’t our usual way. The caravan prefers to stay unremarkable. Invisible, even.”

The wagon hit a rut, jostling them both. Orin steadied himself with practiced ease while Estaria grabbed at the bench. Outside, someone called a warning about the road condition, and the wagon train adjusted its pace.

“Normally,” Orin continued, “we don’t take on anyone who might draw attention. No nobles running from arranged marriages. No merchants fleeing debts. And certainly no one with royal guards on their trail.” His eyes, kind but direct, met Estaria’s. “We’re simple folk who prefer simple problems.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Estaria’s temple. The air inside the wagon had grown stuffier, though whether from the rising sun or the tension of the moment, he couldn’t tell.

“Then why did you accept me?” Estaria asked, keeping his voice low.

Orin’s face softened slightly. “Because Leona vouched for you. She’s earned that right over the years.” He paused, scratching at his chin. “But that meant everyone needed to know. To understand the risk. To be ready.”

The wagon swayed as it rounded a bend. Through the canvas, the sound of casual conversation drifted in – caravan members returning to their normal routines now that danger had passed.

“Each person who knows about you made a choice to help,” Orin said. “The cook who shares extra portions without comment. The porter who ensures your tent is properly placed. The storyteller who includes you naturally in evening conversations.” He leaned back, his joints creaking almost as much as the wagon. “It’s not just about hiding you. It’s about making you belong.”

Estaria absorbed this, feeling the weight of so many people’s deliberate choices. The wagon hit another bump, and he braced himself better this time.

“We don’t care for drama,” Orin said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Drama brings attention. Attention brings trouble. And trouble?” He shook his head. “Trouble puts every person in this caravan at risk. From the youngest child to the oldest grandparent.”

Through a gap in the canvas, Estaria caught glimpses of the caravan’s daily life continuing around them. A woman mending clothes as she walked. Two men discussing the weather. A child running alongside a wagon, laughing at some private game.

“That’s why we’re careful,” Orin continued. “Why we have signals and systems. Why everyone knows their part when scouts approach.” He gestured toward the road behind them. “Like today. No panic. No confusion. Everyone knew exactly what to do.”

The wagon’s rhythm had settled into a steady pace now, the familiar creak-and-sway that marked their journey west. Orin stood, carefully balancing as the wagon moved.

“We’ll stay in here a while longer,” he said, “until we’re sure they’ve truly moved on.” He moved toward the front of the wagon, then paused. “Remember, Estaria. These people chose to help you. Not because of who you are or what you might be. But because Leona asked, and because helping those in need is what we do.” He smiled slightly. “Just… preferably without all this excitement.”

The late morning sun filtered through the canvas, warming the space. Outside, someone started singing a traveling song, others soon joining in. The simple melody spoke of open roads and starlit nights, of campfires and shared meals.

Estaria settled back against the wagon wall, listening to the harmonies blend with the sounds of turning wheels and creaking wood. He understood better now - not just how they knew him, but why they had chosen to help. These weren’t people following orders or seeking advantage. They were simply good people, doing what they thought was right.

Orin ducked into the tent he shared with Leona, the familiar scent of her herb-infused soap mixing with the lingering smoke from the evening’s campfire. His joints ached from the day’s tension, spent crouched in that wagon with Estaria. The lantern cast dancing shadows across the canvas walls as he removed his boots, placing them carefully by the entrance.

Leona sat cross-legged on their bedroll, her graying hair loose around her shoulders, already changed into her sleeping clothes. She looked up from the ledger she was studying, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You told him Brannic’s version?” she asked, setting the book aside.

Orin nodded, reaching for the worn leather wrap that held his knife collection. The familiar weight of it in his hands brought comfort after the day’s stress. He could feel Leona’s gaze on him as he settled onto his own bedroll.

“You’re starting to like him too, aren’t you?” she asked, her tone gentle but knowing.

The question caught him off guard. His hands stilled. He hadn’t realized it was true until she said it out loud. A deep sigh escaped him as he unrolled the leather wrap, revealing the row of carefully maintained blades. He selected his favorite hunting knife, the one with the bone handle worn smooth from years of use.

Orin’s weathered hands moved methodically over the bone handle of his knife, the familiar motions of cleaning and maintaining the blade almost mechanical. The lantern light caught the steel’s edge, highlighting years of careful maintenance.

“It’s not about liking the boy,” Orin said, his voice rough. The words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

Leona shifted closer, her presence warming the space between them. “Of course it is.” Her hand came to rest on his forearm, stilling his repetitive motions. “You see something of yourself in him. Maybe even something of Marcus.”

The name hit Orin like a physical blow. His shoulders tensed, and the knife trembled slightly in his grip. He set it down carefully on the leather wrap, refusing to meet Leona’s gaze.

“Marcus made his choice,” Orin said, the words bitter in his mouth. “He chose the city over the caravan. Books over tradition. A different life over…” He gestured vaguely at the tent around them, at the sounds of the camp settling for the night beyond the canvas walls.

“Over you?” Leona’s voice was gentle but firm. “Is that what you still think after all these years?”

The distant sound of someone playing a reed pipe floated through the evening air. A melody Orin recognized - one he’d taught Marcus when his son was just a boy. His throat tightened.

“He was supposed to learn the routes,” Orin said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The signals. The safe houses. Everything I knew, everything my father taught me. The caravan was supposed to be his heritage. And instead, he chose to Fenhaven? That pit. I hate even going there.”

Leona’s fingers intertwined with his, warm and reassuring. She squeezed his hand. “That wasn’t a rejection of you, Orin. It was Marcus finding his own path.”

“A path that led him away from everything we built here.” The old pain surfaced, familiar as the knife handle in his other hand. “Away from me.”

“Look at me,” Leona said, and waited until he did. Her eyes held the same steadiness they had when she’d first joined the caravan, when she’d first shown him that love could exist after loss. “Liking Estaria, helping him, teaching him - it’s not a betrayal of Marcus. You’re allowed to care about someone else’s journey.”

Orin shook his head, grimacing, “The boy reminds me of myself sometimes,” Orin admitted. “Lost but determined. Trying to do right by people who trusted him.” He picked up a cloth and began wiping down the knife’s handle, more gently now. “And yes, sometimes he reminds me of Marcus. The way he questions things. The way he looks at the world like it’s full of possibilities instead of just dangers.”

“Then let yourself care,” Leona said. “Not because he’s replacing anyone, but because caring is what you do best, even when you pretend to be all gruff and practical about it.”

A small laugh escaped Orin, surprising them both. “Gruff and practical got us through some hard times.”

“Yes, it did.” Leona released his hand and settled back on her bedroll. “But so did your heart. The way you make space for strays and wanderers. The way you teach without making it feel like teaching.” She smiled. “The way you loved Marcus enough to let him go, even if you’re still learning to forgive yourself for it.”

Orin carefully rewrapped his knives, each one sliding into its designated pocket in the leather. The familiar ritual helped settle his thoughts. “Marcus writes sometimes, you know.”

“I know,” Leona said softly. “You keep his letters in that box under your side of the bedroll.”

Orin nodded, tucking the wrapped knives away. “He’s doing good work there. Important work.” The admission felt less painful than it once had. “Different from what I imagined for him, but good.”

“Just like we’re doing good work here, helping Estaria find his way,” Leona said. “Different from what we usually do, but good.”

The night had deepened around their tent, the sounds of the camp quieting to the occasional murmur of conversation and the soft nickering of horses. Orin lay back on his bedroll, feeling the day’s tension slowly release from his muscles.

Orin lay awake for nearly an hour, his thoughts shifting from Marcus to Estaria. The boy trusted them so completely now. Accepted their story without question.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Measured. “I wanted to tell him the truth.”

Leona’s hand tightened on his. She knew which ‘him’ he meant. “We agreed, Orin,” looking like she just bit something sour.

“I know.” His throat felt tight. “But after today, watching him thank us for protecting him…” He couldn’t finish.

Outside, the camp fell quiet save for the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant call of a night bird.