Page 17

Chapter 16

T he Everwood Archives smelled of dust and aging parchment—a familiar comfort as I traced my fingers along worn leather spines. Afternoon light filtered through high windows, catching dust motes that danced in golden shafts between the towering shelves. It reminded me, oddly, of Kazrek's eyes in a certain light, and I felt my cheeks warm at the unbidden thought.

While nothing had fundamentally changed between us, everything felt... different. Softer around the edges. The way he looked at me across the shop when he brought lunch, the brush of his fingers against mine when passing herbs or ink pots—it was all careful, deliberate. It was as if he was making sure I knew he remembered, but I wouldn't push for more until I was ready.

I shook my head, forcing my attention back to the books. We were here for answers, not whatever this ridiculous flutter in my chest was.

"You're smiling," Kazrek's voice rumbled from behind me, low enough not to disturb the hushed atmosphere. "Found something useful?"

I quickly schooled my expression. "Not yet. Just... remembering something."

His quiet hum told me he knew exactly what I was remembering, but he didn't comment.

We wandered deeper into the Archives, the narrow stone corridors growing quieter with each turn. Kazrek walked beside me with his usual steadiness, one finger trailing absently along the worn spines of the old tomes.

I paused near a shelf labeled Linguistic Traditions of the Eastern Tribes and tilted my head. The lettering was elaborate, older than most of the others.

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.”

She snorted. “Hmph. Fair point.” Then, with a flick of her braid over one shoulder, she muttered something about rearranged shelves and wandered off, leaving us alone once more.

I shot Kazrek an apologetic look, but he just shook his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Come on," he said, gesturing toward the spiral staircase. "Let's see what the eastern wing has to offer."

The eastern wing was a maze of towering shelves and narrow aisles, illuminated by enchanted orbs that cast a soft, steady glow. As we searched, Kazrek's presence remained a constant at my side, his warmth radiating through the cool air between us.

"Here's something," I murmured, pulling down a leather-bound volume. " 'Manifestations of Early Magic in Bloodlines.' Though..." I squinted at the publication date. "It's rather old."

Kazrek leaned over my shoulder to look, his breath stirring my hair. "How old?"

"Old enough that the ink is starting to fade." I turned carefully through the brittle pages. "And apparently old enough to suggest bleeding children to balance their humors."

"Perhaps not that one, then," he said dryly, plucking the book from my hands and returning it to its shelf.

I huffed a laugh. "You don't think bleeding might solve all our problems?"

"I prefer my patients with their blood inside them, thank you." His fingers brushed mine as he reached past me for another tome. "Though I did once know a healer who swore by leeches."

"And how did that work out?"

"About as well as you'd expect." His lips quirked. "The leeches lived very well-fed lives. The patients, less so."

I snorted, the sound echoing in the quiet stacks, and then continued to the next shelf.

I flipped through another fragile tome, my fingers careful not to smudge the delicate pages. “This one looks more promising,” I murmured, tilting it toward Kazrek. “Mentions spontaneous manifestations in young children. There’s a section on bindings, too—early methods used to contain unstable magic.”

He made a thoughtful sound, taking the book from my hands and tucking it under his arm. “We’ll bring it with us.”

I reached for another text, but before I could grab it, Kazrek leaned in again, his arm brushing against mine as he plucked the book down himself. The air between us thickened in an instant, the scent of leather and parchment overtaken by something distinctly him—warm, steady, grounding. I felt myself lean into that solidity without meaning to.

“You could have let me get that,” I said, my voice lower than I intended.

Kazrek turned the book over in his hands, unconcerned. “I could have.”

For a long moment, we simply stood there, the quiet of the archives pressing around us. There were only inches between us now, and the space felt charged, like the instant before a crack of thunder.

His gaze flicked to my mouth. My breath caught.

And then he leaned in.

His lips brushed mine with quiet deliberation, a breath of warmth, a taste of patience. My hands fisted in the front of his tunic before I even realized I'd moved, holding him there, keeping him just close enough to steal another breath. The world outside the warmth of his mouth faded—reduced to the quiet hush of parchment and the distant creak of wooden shelves.

I had told myself for so long that I wasn’t meant for this, that needing someone meant weakness, that desire was a distraction I couldn’t afford.

But here, pressed against him, I felt none of that fear.

Kazrek was not a complication. He was not something to be managed or endured. He was steady in the places where I wavered, patient where I hardened myself against hope. He did not ask for my burdens, but still, he shouldered them in the spaces between words.

I had spent years believing love was something that slipped through my fingers, something only meant for other people. But Kazrek kissed me like he had no intention of letting me go. And Seven help me—I wanted to hold on.

When we broke apart, his forehead rested against mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet space between us.

“Rowena,” he murmured, my name rough on his tongue.

That was nearly enough to undo me completely.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to take a step back. “We should—” My voice wavered. I cleared my throat. “We should get back to the front.”

Kazrek’s gaze remained on me, quiet and unreadable. But he nodded. “Agreed.”

As we made our way back through the stacks, Kazrek's hand settled at the small of my back—warm, steady, guiding. It was such a simple gesture, but it made my breath catch. I wasn't used to being touched like this—with casual intimacy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Worse still was how much I liked it, how I found myself leaning into that subtle pressure without meaning to.

The main hall of the archives came into view, and with it, the sound of Maeve's delighted giggling. We rounded the corner to find her perched on Edwin Fairweather's desk, carefully pressing a gold leaf seal onto parchment while the elderly archivist watched with surprising patience.

"Now remember," he was saying, adjusting his spectacles, "we must wait until the wax is exactly the right temperature. Too hot and it runs, too cold and the seal won't take properly."

Maeve nodded solemnly, her tongue poking out in concentration as she held the seal steady. "Like Ro's special inks?"

"Precisely." Edwin's eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. "Your aunt understands better than most the importance of timing and temperature in preserving knowledge."

Kazrek’s hand pressed slightly firmer against my back, and when I glanced up at him, his expression was soft. He saw it too—how naturally Maeve took to learning, how eager she was to understand the world around her. It made my heart ache in the best way.

Because despite the shadows lurking at the edges of our world, despite the fear curling in my chest whenever I thought too long about what had happened at the market, Maeve was still just a girl. A smart, sweet girl who found wonder in wax seals and books, in stories and learning.

And I would be damned if I let anything take that from her.

She deserved this—this warmth, this ease, this simple joy of discovery. Not a childhood spent looking over her shoulder, not a future spent running from ghosts she didn’t understand.

She deserved to thrive, not just survive.

And if it took scouring every archive in Everwood, if it took unraveling magic that should have been long buried, if it took standing between her and whatever darkness had set its sights on her—I would do it.

I would keep her safe.

"That's beautiful work, zuzu’rak ," Kazrek rumbled as we approached, and Maeve's face lit up.

"Kaz! Look what Mister Edwin showed me!" She carefully lifted the parchment to display the perfectly pressed seal. "He says I have steady hands, just like Auntie Ro!"

"So you do," he agreed.

Edwin cleared his throat, trying to hide his own smile. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

I held up our small stack of books, hoping the flush in my cheeks wasn't too obvious. "Maybe."

"Ah, yes—" Edwin adjusted his spectacles again, reaching for the sketch I'd shown him earlier. "May I see that symbol once more? Something about it has been nagging at me."

I pulled the folded parchment from my pocket, carefully smoothing it on his desk. The ink lines were precise—I'd copied the strange marking exactly as it had appeared on the cracked stone, each curve and angle rendered with careful attention.

"See here?" He traced the air above one swooping line. "It's reminiscent of old binding runes, but the center..." He frowned. "The center is wrong. Almost like it's been inverted."

Kazrek leaned in, his expression thoughtful. "During the war, we used similar markings in field medicine. Stabilization sigils meant to hold a patient's energy steady while we worked." His fingers ghosted over the outer ring of the symbol. "But those were simpler. This feels... older."

"You were a field medic?" Edwin's tone shifted, professional curiosity overtaking his earlier wariness. "Where were you stationed?"

"Northern front, mostly. Though I spent time in the healing tents at Moonshadow Pass after the third siege."

Something flickered across Edwin's face—recognition, maybe even respect. "I lost my leg there," he said quietly. "The siege, I mean. Was working as a record keeper for the Alderwilde Forces when the darkness broke through." He tapped his cane against the wooden floor. "Would have lost more than the leg if not for healers like yourself."

I watched as something passed between them—an understanding born of shared memories, of time spent in places where darkness had been more than just shadow.

My wartime years had been spent behind shop walls, grinding ink and binding books while others fought shadows. Not from cowardice—though sometimes it felt that way—but because someone had to keep things running. Had to preserve knowledge, maintain trade, ensure there were still pieces of normal life to come back to.

I remembered the endless lines of injured soldiers, how they would stumble into the shop asking for paper and ink—desperate to write home while they still could. I wrote many of those letters myself, when hands were too shaky or eyes too dim to manage it. And I remembered how the letters grew shorter as the war dragged on, until sometimes they were just names. Just "I'm alive," scrawled in whatever ink I could spare.

But watching Kazrek and Edwin now, I wondered if perhaps I had been preserving more than just knowledge. If maybe those letters, those moments of connection, had mattered more than I knew.

I cleared my throat. "The symbol," I said, drawing their attention back to the present. "You said it was inverted?"

"Yes," Edwin leaned forward, tapping the center of the design. "See how these lines curl inward instead of out? Traditional binding runes direct energy away from the subject. This seems designed to draw something in."

"Like a trap," Kazrek murmured, his expression darkening. "Or a vessel."

Mister Edwin tapped his fingers against his desk, looking between us. "Well, I must admit, I do enjoy a good mystery," he said, "but I cannot promise you answers where there are none. If this symbol exists in recorded history, it would likely be in the older, restricted collections—"

"Which I assume you can’t just waltz in and retrieve for me."

"Correct." He sighed. "Much as I enjoy your company, I’d rather not lose my position over it."

Maeve looked up from her sealing work, her small face suddenly serious. "Maybe it's hiding," she said quietly, rolling the seal between her palms. "Some things don't want to be found. Like the shadows under my bed—they run away when you look for them."

A chill ran down my spine at her words. Maybe she was right. Maybe some things were meant to stay buried, meant to remain in shadow. The thought whispered through my mind: maybe it shouldn't be found.

But then I looked at her—really looked at her. She sat there, legs swinging, completely absorbed in the simple joy of pressing patterns into wax. Her whole world was still full of wonder, unshadowed by the darkness that seemed to hover at the edges of our lives. And I remembered my earlier resolve: she deserved more than a life half-lived in fear.

"Thank you for your help, Mister Edwin," I said, gathering our borrowed books. "And for entertaining my little seal-maker here."

He waved off my thanks with a gentle smile. "It's been a pleasure. She has quite the eye for detail, this one."

Kazrek stepped forward, scooping Maeve up in one fluid motion that made her squeal with delight. She immediately settled against his chest, her small hands finding their familiar place on his shoulders. The sight made something warm unfurl in my chest—how natural they looked together, how easily he had become part of our world.

The night air was cool and crisp as we stepped outside, stars beginning to pepper the darkening sky. The streets were quiet, most shops already closed, their windows dark. Our footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, punctuated by Maeve's soft humming.

Without thinking—or perhaps thinking too much—I reached for Kazrek's free hand. His fingers immediately twined with mine, warm and steady, like they belonged there. Like this was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

It had been not even a day since I had let myself fully give in to him, since his hands had mapped my skin with quiet reverence, since I had laid bare more than just my body but the parts of myself I had long kept guarded. And yet, the strangeness I had expected—the fear, the retreat—hadn’t come.

Instead, there was this.

His warmth beside me. Maeve naturally curling into him, her trust as effortless as breathing. The ease with which his touch no longer startled me, no longer sent me searching for a way to slip free. If anything, I leaned into it now, fitting myself against his side without thinking, without second-guessing the comfort of it.

The old instinct to keep space between myself and others—to lock away my needs for the sake of survival—lingered like a ghost, but it was fainter now, its weight no longer so unbearable. What had once been an ironclad rule of self-reliance had begun to crack, and I wasn’t sure if I should be afraid of that or relieved.

Maeve let out a soft sigh as she burrowed deeper into Kazrek’s hold, her fingers curling around the fabric of his tunic. He made a low sound, something close to a hum, as his thumb swept absently along the curve of her back. I stared at the lull of movement, something tight pressing against my ribs.

“How does she always settle so easily with you?” I murmured, half to myself.

Kazrek glanced down at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light, but there was something warm in it. “Children know when they’re safe.”

His voice was quiet, steady. His meaning unspoken but understood.

So do you.

I swallowed, looking ahead at the winding streets instead. “Maybe,” I murmured.

The streets of Everwood stretched before us in shadowed quiet, the faint glow of lanterns dotting the path as we moved through the market district, past shuttered stalls and empty alleyways.

A distant creak of metal and wood caught my attention—the city gates opening at this late hour, their ancient hinges protesting the movement. Kazrek and I both paused, instinctively drawing closer together as we watched.

"Strange time for arrivals," I murmured, shifting to keep Maeve between us.

Through the widening gap came a procession of wagons, their wheels wrapped in cloth to muffle their passage. They weren't merchant carts—these were larger, more elaborate affairs, crafted from dark wood and adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift in the torchlight. Crystal lanterns swayed from their peaks, casting pools of silvery light that didn't quite touch the ground.

The lead wagon bore a symbol I didn't recognize: a tree with roots that spiraled into a perfect circle, branches reaching upward through a crown of stars. The whole thing was done in what looked like moonsilver, catching and throwing back the light in impossible ways.

"Do you recognize that symbol?" I asked quietly.

Kazrek didn’t answer right away. His golden eyes stayed fixed on the wagons, his expression unreadable.

"No," he said. "But…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening slightly, as if something about the sight unsettled him.

More wagons filed through the gates, each unique but bearing that same circular mark. Some had gardens growing from their roofs, trailing vines thick with night-blooming flowers. Others were wrapped in layers of gauzy fabric that rippled like water in the breeze. The people driving them were just as varied—elves with silver-marked skin, humans wearing robes that seemed woven from starlight, even what looked like a young giant, carefully leading a wagon twice the size of the others.

Maeve stirred against Kazrek's chest, lifting her head to watch. "Pretty," she whispered, reaching toward one of the crystal lanterns as it passed.

The light seemed to reach back, stretching toward her like curious fingers before snapping back into its glass confines. A figure in the nearest wagon turned sharply, their silver-marked face catching the moonlight as they stared directly at us. At Maeve.

I stepped closer to Kazrek, my hand tightening around his. Without a word, he shifted Maeve higher against his chest, tucking her face into his shoulder to block her view. The movement was protective, instinctive—and something in my chest ached at how naturally he shielded her.

The silver-marked figure continued to watch us as their wagon passed, their eyes reflecting the crystal light like mirrors. There was something knowing in their gaze that made my skin prickle with unease.

"We should go," Kazrek murmured, his voice low and tight.

I nodded, but before we could turn away, the last wagon rolled through the gates. Its frame was carved with spiraling designs that looked like the tattoos etched into Kazrek's skin. Unlike the ethereal beauty of the other wagons, this one carried a different kind of power. Built from dark ironwood and reinforced with steel bands, it seemed made for war rather than wonder. Bone charms hung from its eaves, clicking together like whispered secrets.

Kazrek went completely still beside me. His grip on Maeve tightened fractionally, but there was something else in his posture now—recognition, maybe.

A massive beast emerged from the shadows beside the wagon, its rider barely visible in the darkness. As they stepped into the lamplight, I realized it wasn't a horse at all, but some kind of mountain ram with curved horns and a coat like starlight on snow.

"Well, shit," a rough voice called out, warm with familiarity. "Didn't expect to see your ugly face ever again, Bloodfang."

Kazrek let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re a long way from the front lines, Wolfsbane.”

The other orc’s gaze flicked over him, then to me, lingering just long enough to make my spine stiffen. Then his eyes dropped to Maeve, still tucked securely against Kazrek’s chest. Finally, his attention landed on our hands, still loosely clasped between us.

His grin widened, sharp and knowing. “So are you, old friend.”