Page 12

Chapter 11

T wo days of silence.

That was all it had been. Not even forty-eight hours. But the space Kazrek left behind felt bigger than it should have.

The first day, I told myself I was relieved. That it was good he hadn’t come by. That after the mess I made, after the way I’d run like a fool, it was better this way.

By midday of the second, I wasn’t relieved. I was angry.

Not just at him—at myself, at the way my chest kept tightening every time the door creaked open, only for it to be a customer and not him. At the way I caught myself listening for his voice in the street. At the way, despite everything, I noticed his absence.

He had spent a week making himself a part of my life—showing up at my shop, fixing things I never asked him to fix, feeding me, looking after Maeve like she was his own blood—until his presence had become a routine. And now? Just because I panicked for half a second after a kiss, now he had the nerve to vanish without a word?

It shouldn’t have surprised me. People left. So why did this feel different?

I slammed the ledger shut harder than necessary, the sharp crack of parchment and wood ringing through the shop. Maeve, seated on the floor nearby, startled slightly, her wide green eyes flicking up from the little paper boats she had been carefully setting into neat rows.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her tiny brow scrunching in concern.

"Nothing," I said too quickly, forcing my hands to still where they rested on the counter.

Auntie Brindle hummed to herself as she bustled around the shop, rearranging things she had no business rearranging. She was too small to reach the shelves properly, but that didn’t stop her—she had commandeered a wooden step stool from the corner and was clambering up it with an agility that defied her years.

“You’re putting those in the wrong place,” I muttered, watching as she tucked a bundle of dried lavender beside the ink jars.

“Nonsense,” she replied without looking at me, stuffing something else into another cubby. “This shop of yours could use a touch of proper order. Spirits know you’ve been letting it fall into disarray.”

That bristled, but before I could snap back, Maeve gave an amused little hum from the floor and lifted one of her paper boats.

“Brindle’s right,” she said matter-of-factly. “You always say you’ll organize things, but then you don’t.”

I turned toward her with slow, exaggerated offense. “Whose side are you on?”

Maeve giggled, lifting another paper boat to press against her mouth in a poor attempt to suppress her laughter. She didn’t try to answer—she didn’t have to. Traitor.

Auntie Brindle cackled as she stuffed yet another bundle of herbs where it didn’t belong, untouched by my glare.

Maeve, triumphant, lost interest in her boats a moment later and started fiddling with one of my ink pots on the low shelf behind the counter. I heard the scrape of glass against wood and turned just in time to see her little hands twist at the lid.

“Maeve,” I chided, striding over before she could cause disaster, “that isn’t a toy.”

She huffed, reluctantly pulling her hands away. “I just wanted to see inside.”

“You’ve seen inside before.” I turned the ink pot, inspecting the lid for any loose smudges. “And last time you got it on your hands and nearly stained—”

“Will Kazrek be coming back soon?”

I froze.

Maeve’s question landed like a stone in my chest, solid and heavy. I forced my fingers to still on the ink pot, my grip tightening just slightly before I set it back down.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, because lying wouldn’t do either of us any good.

Maeve frowned. “But he always comes.”

Not always . Just… often enough that she had started counting on it. Just often enough that she had started trusting it.

I had, too.

Auntie Brindle’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, dry and knowing. “Funny thing about men like that,” she mused from where she sat at the worktable, plucking stems from a bundle of dried nettle. “You tell ’em to stay away, they listen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave me a look that made it painfully clear she thought I was slow. "You shut him out, girl. And now you’re surprised he ain’t kicking the door down to change your mind?"

"I did not shut him out," I said, bristling.

One gray brow arched.

I crossed my arms, feeling very much like Maeve must when I caught her red-handed in a mischief she wasn’t ready to admit to yet.

Auntie Brindle made a soft noise under her breath, somewhere between knowing and amused, and when I finally looked over at her, she was watching me with those sharp, glittering eyes.

"Well," she said, dusting her hands off, "I'll be glad to stay with Maeve while you go check on him."

I scowled. “I’m not checking on him.”

Auntie Brindle just kept plucking nettles, utterly unbothered.

Maeve, on the other hand, perked up, turning wide, curious eyes on me. “Why would you need to check on him? Is he lost?”

“No.” I crossed my arms tighter. “He’s fine.”

Maeve’s frown deepened, like she was solving a puzzle in her head. “Then why did you shut him out?”

“I didn’t,” I huffed.

Maeve’s brow furrowed. “Does he need a key?”

Auntie Brindle snorted. “Something like that.”

I shot her a sharp look, but the damage was done. Maeve’s face lit up like she had solved a great mystery.

“Oh! I can make him one!” She scrambled up and darted to her stash of paper scraps. “I’ll write Kazrek’s Key on it, and then he can—”

I groaned, rubbing at my temples. “Maeve, he doesn't need a key. He just—” I stopped, because I didn’t have a good way to finish that sentence.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t just vanished.

I had run.

"I'm not going over there," I insisted, running out of arguments.

Auntie Brindle hummed. "Suit yourself. But you're like a kettle left on the stove too long, girl—tense, steaming, about ready to whistle. And that little one’s not the only one missing him."

I turned my glare on her instead. “I don’t—”

She just gave me that maddeningly smug look, waiting.

I exhaled sharply, hands curling into fists before I forced them loose again. The truth was, if I didn’t go, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. Not from Brindle, not from Maeve, and certainly not from my own thoughts, which were already looping around his absence like a snake eating its own tail.

And maybe—just maybe—part of me wanted to go.

Just to see.

Just to confirm that he was fine.

Just to tell him he was an absolute ass for making me feel like this.

If I didn’t go, I’d keep inventing reasons not to. And maybe next time, there wouldn’t be a door left to knock on.

I grabbed my cloak with more force than necessary and swung it over my shoulders.

“I’ll be back,” I muttered.

Auntie Brindle smiled into her nettles. “Take all the time you need.”

Maeve waved. “Tell Kazrek I said hi!”

I muttered something unkind under my breath and stepped out into the night.

Kazrek’s clinic wasn’t on the main thoroughfare.

I already knew that.

The last time I was here, I’d barely been standing. I remembered the doorway in a vague, passing way—the rough grain of the wood beneath my palm as I steadied myself, the cool air outside hitting my face as I left. But I hadn’t really looked. I hadn’t taken in the narrow alley, the way the stones here were older, cracked, as if the city had forgotten this part of itself.

Now, I was seeing it properly.

Tucked away, quiet. No polished signs like the guild healers had—just a weathered plaque with KAZREK, HEALER carved deep into the wood. And beneath it, a scrap of parchment, scrawled in thick, bold ink:

CLOSED.

I stopped short, my breath puffing out in the cool night air.

A part of me wanted to take this as a sign and turn back before I made a fool of myself. But another, louder part—the part that had been stewing in frustration all day—wasn’t leaving without answers.

I raised my fist and knocked.

The alley was quiet, the distant hum of Everwood’s nightlife too far off to be of any use. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—maybe the usual sound of movement, the steady shuffle of a man who always seemed to be doing something. But the stillness behind the door felt… wrong.

I knocked again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

I was about to knock a third time when I caught it—the faintest flicker of light slipping through the cracks in the shutters. A slow shift of movement inside.

“Kazrek?”

The latch clicked, and the door cracked open just enough for warm, lantern-lit air to spill out.

Then, Kazrek was there.

And he looked… awful.

His usual precision was gone. The warrior’s tail at the nape of his neck had come loose, dark strands falling over his forehead. His dark eyes, always sharp, were clouded with exhaustion, his skin damp with fever sweat. The deep green of his skin looked duller in the dim light, the rough edges of old scars standing out against it.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, like he was bracing himself. One massive hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, his fingers curling against the wood.

“Rowena.” His voice was lower than usual, rough with something deeper than exhaustion.

“Kazrek,” I said slowly, anger stalling beneath something else, something unfamiliar. “What in the Seven is wrong with you?”

His jaw tensed, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, with obvious reluctance, he rumbled, “Nothing.”

I arched a brow, unimpressed. “Nothing?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was rougher than usual, carrying the kind of rasp that spoke of too many restless nights and a raw throat. He shifted slightly, shoulders tensing—to block the doorway, I realized, as if he meant to keep me out. “It’s just a fever. I don’t want you to catch it.”

I stared at him, the pieces snapping into place one by one. He hadn’t stayed away because of me. He hadn’t vanished because I’d pushed him. He’d been keeping his distance because he was sick—because this big, stubborn, impossible orc had gotten himself knocked on his ass and had chosen to hole up in his clinic rather than ask for help.

A laugh—breathless, incredulous—pushed past my lips before I could stop it. “You absolute idiot,” I muttered.

Kazrek scowled. “Rowena.”

Ignoring him entirely, I pressed my palm against his chest and shoved.

It was a slight push—barely enough to move a man of his size in normal circumstances. But Kazrek was off balance, his body wavering for just a second—enough for me to step past him into the clinic.

The scent of dried herbs hit me first—sharp rosemary, the faint peppery bite of feverfew, and something warm and grounding, like cedar. Bundles of herbs hung from the beams above, their knotted twine swaying slightly in the draft I had just let in. A worktable stood against the far wall, cluttered but not messy—mortar and pestle, small glass vials carefully labeled in Kazrek’s precise hand, a basin with a cloth left soaking in now-cold water. A row of narrow cots lined the opposite wall, the thin mattresses tucked with military precision. Some were empty. One had blankets slightly rumpled, as if he had been sleeping there instead of in his own bed.

I sighed, already knowing the answer before I spoke. “You’ve been treating yourself out here, haven’t you?”

Kazrek shut the door behind me with a quiet thud. "Rowena," he started, his tone edged in warning. "You should go."

I ignored him and instead stepped forward, pressing the back of my hand against his forehead before he could stop me. His body went still beneath my touch.

“You’re burning up,” I muttered, pulling my hand back. “And instead of letting someone help you, you just—what? Locked yourself away to suffer in silence?”

Kazrek’s jaw worked. “It’s just a fever. I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not the point,” I snapped, frustration bubbling over. “You vanish for two days, let me think—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. “And you’re standing here telling me it’s nothing?”

Something flickered behind his gaze—quick, unreadable—but then he only shrugged, that infuriating calm back in place. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

I stared at him. “A burden.”

He held my gaze without flinching, but his grip on the table tightened.

A muscle in my jaw ticked. “Kazrek, do you think I—” I stopped, inhaled sharply, let the words settle before continuing. “Do you think I would be here if I thought you were a burden?”

Silence stretched between us, thick as ink.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Seven save me, you’re as bad as I am.”

His brow furrowed slightly at that, but I was already moving, shrugging off my cloak and rolling up my sleeves.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily.

“What does it look like?” I shot back. “I’m taking care of you.”

Kazrek let out a low sound that might have been a laugh—rough, breathless. “I don’t need—”

I leveled a look at him. “Finish that sentence and see what happens.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

I ignored that, already stepping past him toward the shelf of neatly labeled jars. I didn’t know his system, but I knew enough about herbs to recognize feverfew, willow bark, and ginger when I saw them.

Behind me, Kazrek let out another slow breath, like he was weighing whether it was worth the fight. Then, after a long pause, I heard the rustle of blankets as he sat on the edge of the nearest cot.

I glanced back over my shoulder. He was watching me, his eyes lidded with exhaustion, his tusked profile sharp against the lantern’s glow.

I turned back to the task at hand, pouring hot water from the kettle into a clay mug. “You’d better not die on me, Kazrek,” I muttered.

He let out a soft huff of laughter, low and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”