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Nearby, Mendus, our son with his light jade-green skin and curly dark brown hair, trips and tumbles onto the flower bed. He lays on his back, giggling and staring at the sky, seemingly as content as we are. I can't help but marvel at how Montarok was right about our first child—a strong, healthy boy whose adventurous spirit keeps me on my toes. I have to watch him like a hawk or he’ll try to climb up onto stalagmites in the caves or find his way into the dried fruit stores.

We're seated on finely crafted wooden chairs, the work of one of our fellow escapees from the gladiator pits. A master craftsman in his former life, he'd only ended up enslaved after a drunken brawl with a noble. Life has taken a turn for the better for all of us. Out of the fifty people who escaped captivity with us, only two have moved on. Many have found love, including my best friend Zephyr, who is now happily wedded to a handsome orc man. We waited months after our escape to sneak back to the village, and Zephyr and my mom looked like they saw a ghost when I knocked at the doors. I knew my mom would want to come with us, but Zephyr shocked me by insisting she travel to the mountains with us to see how the orcs live. When she met a young warrior of the tribe, she never left.

Even more surprising was the unlikely pairing of Garvin and Martiltha, one of the tribe's formidable orc women.

“That’s your last drink tonight, you sneak another and we’re going to have some trouble,” growls Martiltha, the only woman who has been able to tame Garvin. He gives her a sheepish grin, savoring the last gulp of the cider he’s perfected over the three years in the mountain. Martiltha is a foot taller than him, with beautiful green eyes and long black braids that go down to her waist. They’re both sitting next to us, watching the children playing in the fields.

Nearby, my mother, who we moved from the village to be with us, is happily fussing over Mendus. She has adjusted well to her new life, becoming an unofficial grandmother to the tribe's children and taking particular delight in spoiling her first grandchild. She and Martiltha, who sits beside us, exchange warm smiles as they watch the children play in the fields.

As I lose myself in these peaceful moments, Montarok's eyes meet mine. He smiles at me—the kind of easy, comfortable smile that seemed unimaginable when we first met in the slave auction, a peace I never could have dreamed of during the stressful days in captivity together. He leans in and kisses me tenderly, his large hands softly running through my hair, which is now braided in the traditional plaits of his tribe.

And together, I know we can face whatever comes our way.

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