Page 56 of Her Orc Healer

A thought tugged at the edge of my mind. “Hey,” I said, almost too casually, “that word you said the other night. When you were half-delirious.”

Kazrek slowed beside me. “I said a lot of things while I was half-delirious.”

I smirked. “You said... Dorth-something. Dorthan’zel?”

He blinked. “Dorthan’zul.”

“Right.” I faced the bookshelf to avoid looking directly at him. “What does it mean?”

A pause. I could feel him shifting slightly beside me, and when I glanced over, he was rubbing the back of his neck. Always a good sign with Kazrek—his version of awkward.

“It’s... hard to translate exactly.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Try.”

His gaze flicked to mine, a little wary. Then he sighed, resigned. “It means... home. Sort of. But more than that. My home. My safe place. It’s a word we—Orcs—don’t throw around lightly.”

Something in his tone made my breath catch. “So, like a cozy cottage kind of home, or...?”

He huffed a laugh. “No. More like... the person who is your home. Your constant.”

I blinked. “You said that to me.”

“You were feeding me broth and threatening to beat sense into me. It felt appropriate.”

A startled laugh escaped me, quick and breathless. “So you meant it?”

He looked at me then, steady and unflinching. “Yeah. I did.”

Home. That word had always felt heavy—something I carried, not something I was. I’d been the one people came back to, the one who stayed when everyone else left. And I’d told myself that was strength. Responsibility.

But hearing it from him—soft, reverent, like it was the highest thing I could be—did something strange to me.

He didn’t say it like I was an obligation. He said it like I was a place he’d choose.

Maybe... maybe being someone’s home didn’t have to mean giving yourself away. Maybe it could mean being seen. Kept. Wanted.

The thought lodged in my chest like a stone I wasn’t sure I could swallow. But I didn’t spit it out either.

I turned back to the bookshelf and pretended to read a spine that said something about vowel harmonics in root languages. “You know, it really isn’t fair that Orcish sounds that pretty. I was expecting something more... growly. Less heart-melting.”

Kazrek let out a low, amused sound. “We’re full of surprises.”

His lips curved, just slightly, and something in my chest tightened at the way his eyes softened. But before he could respond, a shuffle of movement drew my attention.

A dwarven archivist rounded the end of the aisle, arms full of scrolls and an expression like she’d caught us passing notes during a lecture. She was small but solid, her golden hair twisted into a thick braid coiled at the nape of her neck, and her eyes were sharp as whetted steel behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

I stepped back instinctively, putting a more appropriate distance between Kazrek and myself.

“We’re looking for texts on inherited magic,” I said quickly, aiming for professional and falling somewhere closer to flustered. “Particularly in children. Unusual manifestations.”

The archivist huffed, not unkindly. “Third floor, eastern wing. Historical accounts. Look for the orange-bound ledgers near the window alcove. If they haven’t been moved. Again.”

She shifted her grip on the scrolls, eyeing Kazrek. “You’re a bit of a rare sight in here.”

I tensed at the implication, but Kazrek just offered a patient smile—tusked and slow enough to make the archivist blink.

“I find knowledge comes in many forms,” he said. “Some more surprising than others.”