Page 34 of Her Orc Healer

Kazrek let out a soft noise—a rumble of acknowledgment that might’ve been amusement.

“Is she still in the clanlands?” I asked gently.

He was quiet a beat longer this time, but there was no sharpness in it—just a pause. “No. She passed a few winters before the war.”

“I’m sorry.”

He gave a small nod. “She would’ve liked you. And Maeve. She’d have spoiled her rotten.”

“I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“What about your family?” Kazrek asked. “Your father ran your shop before you, didn’t he?”

“He did. And his father before him.” I gave a wry smile. “No pressure or anything.”

Kazrek’s mouth quirked. “What was he like?”

I reached for a grape, rolling it between my fingers thoughtfully. My mind went immediately to his work—to the inks he crafted like magic. He was proud of that. Of the formulas he'd perfected, the clients who came from three cities over just for a single vial.

But I knew—if someone had asked him about his greatest accomplishment, it wouldn’t have been the shop. It would’ve been us. Me and Finn. His family.

And I wondered—quietly, almost without meaning to—whatI’dbe remembered for.

Would it be the shop I kept afloat by sheer willpower? The long days, the careful labels, the stubborn way I carried everything alone?

Or would it be Maeve? Would they see the same sharp wit, the same red hair, the same fierce glint in her eye and say,That was Rowena’s girl?

I swallowed and pushed the thoughts aside before they could settle too deeply.

“He used to tell the most dreadful jokes,” I said aloud, hoping to steer myself back to safer ground. “Ink puns. Absolutely terrible. He’d tell them to customers. Even the grumpy ones. Drove my mother mad.”

Kazrek’s smile unfolded slowly, warming his whole face. It was... breathtaking.

“Tell me one,” he said.

I grimaced, then sighed. "Fine. He used to say this one whenever someone complained about the price of red ink: 'Well, that's because it's always in the red!'" I shook my head, feeling both embarrassed and fond. "He'd tell it with this ridiculous grin on his face, like he'd just shared the most clever thing in the world."

"That is... truly terrible," he said, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, he looked younger, unburdened.

"Oh, I know. I have dozens more, each worse than the last." I popped the grape into my mouth, hoping he wouldn't ask for another. "What about your father?" I asked. "What was he like?"

Kazrek was silent for a long moment, his hands resting on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was low, thoughtful. "Like many orc warriors, he carried scars, wore them proudly. But in private moments—" He paused, searching for words. "He would sing to my mother while she cooked. Old clan songs. His voice was terrible." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "But she loved it."

I let out a quiet chuckle, the image of a towering orc warrior singing off-key while his wife cooked flickering through my mind. “She must have had endless patience.”

“That she did.” He reached for another piece of bread, tearing it in half before handing a portion to me without thought, as if the motion was automatic. “He was a warrior first, but with her, he softened.”

I looked at Kazrek.Reallylooked at him. At the way his broad shoulders carried an ease that wasn’t there when he walked the city streets. At the way his hands—scarred, powerful hands that had no doubt wielded weapons in war—had spent the last day doing nothing but careful things. Cleaning my shop. Holding me steady. Preparing a meal.

It unsettled me. Not in a bad way. But in the way that made me too aware of how easy this was. How easily I’d started to let my guard slip.

I cleared my throat, glancing down. “You must miss them. Your family.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat with it, letting the breeze and the rustle of leaves fill the space between us.

“I do,” he said finally. “More now, I think. When things are quiet.”

I nodded, unsure what to say to that—how to acknowledge its weight without pressing too hard. We let the quiet settle around us again, softer this time. Companionable.