Page 10

Chapter 9

K azrek led me through the winding streets of Everwood, past the last row of buildings where the city gave way to open fields and the hush of the riverside. The River Alden cut through the city like a lifeline, its waters dark and steady, fed by the distant mountains. It was wide, slow-moving near the banks, but its depths were deceptive. Traders used it to carry goods to the neighboring towns, while children waded in the shallows on warm afternoons, their laughter echoing through the trees.

We followed a narrow footpath along the river’s edge. The breeze carried the scent of water and autumn leaves, crisp and clean.

For the first time in what felt like days, I took a full breath.

"I used to come here as a girl," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. The sound of my own voice felt strange after so much silence. "Finn and I. We'd build dams out of sticks and stones, pretend we were river spirits controlling the flow." A faint smile touched my lips. "They never lasted long, of course. The river always won."

Kazrek made a low sound, something like amusement, though his expression remained thoughtful as he watched the slow-moving current. “Rivers usually do.”

He paused, then added, “The rivers in my clanlands were faster. Colder. My father taught me to fish there. He said a warrior must be patient and understand the flow.”

A pang of something—envy, perhaps?—twisted in my chest. “Perhaps I should learn,” I mused aloud. “So I can teach Maeve.”

Kazrek’s gaze met mine. “I could teach you both.”

The offer hung in the air between us, simple yet profound. I opened my mouth to reply, to deflect, to point out that I hardly had time for such leisurely pursuits, but the words wouldn’t come. I simply nodded, a strange tightness in my throat.

A little further down the path, tucked beneath the shade of a sprawling alder tree, a large, flat rock jutted out over the riverbank, smoothed by years of wind and water. Kazrek led me there, setting the basket down gently before spreading a thick woolen blanket across the rock’s surface. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint, spicy aroma of the food he’d packed.

I sat stiffly on the edge of the blanket, my hands clasped in my lap. It felt strange, this stillness, this lack of purpose. It had been so long since I’d simply sat and done nothing that I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.

Kazrek, seemingly unbothered by my awkwardness, unpacked the basket. He pulled out a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of sharp cheese, a cluster of plump grapes, and a small clay jar filled with something that smelled deliciously of roasted vegetables and herbs. He handed me a piece of bread and a portion of the stew, his fingers brushing against mine in the exchange.

The warmth lingered.

I dipped the bread into the stew, the rich broth soaking into the crust. It was delicious—hearty and flavorful, with just a hint of spice. "This is good," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks flush at the inadequacy of the compliment. “Thank you.”

Kazrek grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on the river. He ate slowly, methodically, as if savoring each bite. I watched him, noticing how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he tore off another piece of bread.

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of the water against the riverbank. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it held a certain charged stillness, a sense of unspoken things hovering just beneath the surface.

“You said your clanlands… were they far from here?” I asked, breaking the quiet.

"Across the Spine Mountains," he said. “Many days’ journey.”

“Have you been back?”

He shook his head. “Not since the war.”

I nodded, letting the quiet take over again. We ate. Leaves rustled overhead, and the stew’s warmth lingered in my belly.

“The stew,” he said after a while, still watching the river. “It’s my mother’s. She said it was meant to steady the body.”

“Was she a healer too?”

He shook his head slightly. “No. But she was good at fixing things. People. Moods. Torn shirts.”

I smiled. “Oh, so just the important things.”

That earned a small glance. Not quite a smile, but close. “She used to say food solved more arguments than words ever could.”

“That sounds familiar,” I said. “My father believed the same thing about tea and ink.”

He arched a brow. “Ink?”

“Mmhmm.” I picked at the hem of the blanket. “He used to say a well-made ink could keep a peace treaty from falling apart.”

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—what I’d be 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. Really looked 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.

And then, to my surprise, Kazrek reached for another grape and flicked it at me.

It bounced off my arm.

I blinked.

A slow smile spread across his face, something quiet but amused lurking at the edges of it. “You were getting too serious.”

My mouth fell open. “Did you just throw a grape at me?”

He arched a brow. “It was a gentle toss.”

A startled laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. It wasn’t graceful or delicate—just the raw, unguarded sound of something shaking loose in my chest. “If you think I won’t retaliate, you don’t know me very well.”

Kazrek’s lips curved. “Then I suppose I should prepare myself.”

I picked up a grape and, with great dignity, launched it at him.

It bounced off his shoulder.

He huffed out something like a laugh, low and gruff, and my stomach flipped.

For a moment, just a moment, we weren’t a tired shopkeeper and an orc with ghosts in his past. We weren’t two people weighed down by things we couldn’t yet say.

We were just a man and a woman sitting by the river, throwing fruit at each other in the afternoon light.

And it felt terrifyingly, beautifully easy.

Kazrek reached for another grape, rolling it between his fingers, but he didn’t throw it. Instead, his gaze lingered on me—steady, searching, as if he were trying to commit something to memory. The warmth in my chest turned to something heavier, something that made the ground feel less solid beneath me. The river hummed, a soft, endless sound, but I barely heard it over the rush of my own pulse.

I cleared my throat and turned my attention to the basket, fiddling with the edge of the linen that lined it.

"Maeve will be disappointed to have missed this," I said, my voice too light, too casual. "She would have turned this into a full battle."

Kazrek didn’t look away immediately. I felt the weight of his gaze lingering a beat longer than necessary before he exhaled, shifting slightly, as if giving me space. "I have no doubt she would have won," he murmured.

I busied myself smoothing the fabric over my knees. "She’s competitive," I said, as if that explained everything. "And stubborn."

Kazrek laughed quietly, some of the tension easing from the air. "I can't imagine where she gets that from."

I shot him a look, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes was hard to ignore. I scowled, more for effect than anything else, and plucked at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Her mother was the same," I said. "Finn never backed down from anything. Even when she should have."

The words sat between us like a stone dropped into deep water. I hadn’t meant to bring up Finn again, not here, not now—but her absence was a shadow that never quite left.

Kazrek wiped his fingers on a square of linen and leaned back on one arm, studying me. I braced for a question, maybe a remark about my sister’s reckless nature or the trouble she had left in her wake.

Instead, Kazrek turned the conversation—subtly but surely—away from her.

“You are stubborn too,” he remarked.

I blinked at him, caught off guard. “I—”

He continued, as if I hadn’t tried to protest. “Determined. Fiercely so. It’s not a flaw, but I wonder if you know it’s not always a strength either.”

A flush crept up my neck. “I don’t have the luxury of being anything else,” I said. “Everything I’ve built only keeps standing because I refuse to let it fall.”

“And if you collapse beneath the weight of it?”

I clenched my jaw. “Then I get back up.”

I yanked up a stray blade of grass between my fingers, focusing on the texture against my skin rather than the uncomfortable press of his attention.

“You remind me of a story my mother used to tell,” Kazrek said after a beat.

I glanced at him, suspicious. “Which story?”

“The Tale of the Alder Oak.” His smile was subtle, knowing—like he’d already braced for my reaction.

True to form, I rolled my eyes. “I know that story. The foolish tree that refused to bend, even in the strongest storm, and so it cracked and fell while the smaller ones survived.”

Kazrek nodded. “Every village I’ve passed through has a story similar to it. Your forests, my clanlands, even the desert traders—different trees, different storms, but always the same ending.”

Warm frustration curled in my stomach. “Let me guess,” I said. “I’m the Alder Oak.”

“Aye,” he rumbled. “I think you are.”

I drew in a breath and tore another piece from the bread in my hands. “Stubborn and foolish, then. Good to know.”

Kazrek watched me silently for a moment, then shook his head. “Not foolish,” he corrected. “Steady. Strong.” There was a pause, his gaze searching mine. “But even the strongest trees fall, Rowena.”

A lump formed in my throat. I looked away, focusing on the river, the shifting water, the steady current.

I hated how well he saw me.

Hated, too, how much I wanted that—not pity, not condescension, but simply to be seen.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” I admitted, so softly I almost hoped he wouldn’t hear it.

But Kazrek heard.

Of course he did.

There was another pause, a long one, before he spoke. “You don’t have to be.”

The words wrapped around something deep inside me, something tight and aching that I hadn’t known was waiting to be unraveled.

I swallowed, hard. Cleared my throat. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, tossing my last bit of bread into the river.

Kazrek laughed under his breath but didn’t press further. He simply stretched out beside me, bracing one arm behind his head, and gazed up at the sky with the air of a man who wasn’t in any great hurry to be anywhere else.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and watched him for a moment. The way the afternoon light made the edges of his scars softer, the way his broad chest rose and fell with steady breaths. The way the gold flecks in his eyes caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, turning ember-bright when they flicked back to mine.

And rot, that look—calm, certain, unwavering.

I dropped my gaze before my thoughts could get away from me. “We should probably head back.”

Kazrek sighed, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave, but he sat up without protest. He packed the basket methodically, tucking away the remnants of our meal, while I shook out the blanket and folded it neatly.

We walked back along the river, the silence stretching between us again—but this time, it was the good kind. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

The path narrowed as we neared the outskirts of town, the ground uneven where tree roots broke through the dirt. I stepped over one easily enough, but the second caught me unaware, my boot snagging against the rough bark. I stumbled forward with a sharp inhale—

And then Kazrek’s hands were on me.

One arm wrapped firmly around my waist, the other catching my wrist before I could go sprawling. My breath hitched.

We were pressed together, my hands braced against the solid warmth of his chest, his fingers splayed against my back. I could feel the heat of him, the quiet strength in the way he steadied me.

For a moment, neither of us moved. My pulse thundered in my ears. Kazrek didn’t let go. I tilted my head up, and his gaze was already on me, molten and unreadable.

I didn’t think. Just felt the world go still between us, waiting for something to shift.

And then, I rose onto my toes and kissed him.