Page 91 of Her Orc Healer

A flicker of unease coiled low in my stomach.

I fumbled the key from my pocket, fitting it into the lock with cold fingers. The latch stuck for half a second before giving with a soft clack, and the door creaked open onto the dim, quiet shop.

No kettle boiling. No fire crackling in the hearth. No soft voice humming while herbs were sorted or pots stirred.

I stepped inside.

“Maeve?” My voice felt too loud in the quiet, but I couldn’t stop it. “Brindle?”

Nothing. Not at first.

Then—pop. A flicker of golden light, and the sharp scent of juniper and damp earth.

Brindle appeared midair in a shimmer of magic, her wings fluttering in a low hover just beside me. Her expression was unusually serious, her little face tight with worry.

“Not to alarm you, my dear,” she said gently, “but something's wrong.”

The words landed like a stone in my stomach.

“What do you mean?” I asked, already moving toward the stairs. My hands were shaking.

“She woke early,” Brindle said, gliding beside me as I climbed. “She was confused. Said everything felt… heavy. Her aura’s dimming.”

Dim. That word again. I hated how easily it applied to her now. Hated that I understood exactly what Brindle meant.

I pushed the bedroom door open with my shoulder.

Maeve lay curled small and still under the patchwork quilt, her skin flushed high on her cheeks but pale everywhere else. Her curls were damp against her forehead. The compass was clutched tightly to her chest—her fingers bone-white around it—and the needle inside spun in slow, uneven arcs, ticking faintly each time it jumped direction.

“Maeve.” My voice cracked.

She didn’t answer. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t lift. Her lips parted, shaping soundless words.

I dropped to my knees beside the bed, reaching for her.

“I’m here, love. I’ve got you.” I brushed her hair back, felt the heat radiating from her skin. Her body barely stirred when I slid my arms under her and lifted her against my chest. She felt heavier than she should have, limp and warm and far too still.

Brindle landed beside the bed, her wings no longer flickering with their usual brightness. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she reached for the small rune stone on the side table, the one Sylwen had given us.

She muttered something low under her breath—old words, the kind that hummed in the bones instead of the ears—and the stone flared with a pulse of light, casting a lattice of pale runes across Maeve’s chest before sinking inward, disappearing into her skin.

“It’s holding,” Brindle said quietly. “For now. But she’s slipping, Rowena.”

“Then fix it.” My voice came out sharp.

Brindle didn’t flinch. “This isn’t just magic. It’s blood. Legacy. I can slow it, but I can’t stop what’s inside her.”

I clutched Maeve tighter, my palm spread protectively across her back, her cheek pressed to the hollow of my throat. “There has to be something—some spell, some tonic, some name I haven’t said yet—”

“Don’t act out of fear. Not now.” Brindle placed a hand on my arm, her touch light but steady. “Let's figure this out.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The ward’s light had already faded. The compass in Maeve’s hands still spun. This wasn’t holding. And the pressure in my chest—the one that had lived there since the day I found Maeve on my doorstep—spiked until I could barely breathe around it.

Help wouldn’t come. Not from the Guild. Not from the Runery. Not from Kazrek. Not from old stories or borrowed spells. This was up to me.

Like it had always been.

I rose to my feet with Maeve still in my arms.