Page 18

Chapter 17

T he morning light filtered through the shop windows, catching motes of dust that danced like scattered stars. I watched them absently, my hands moving through the familiar motions of grinding pigment while my thoughts drifted elsewhere. To last night. To Kazrek.

Behind me, Maeve's laughter rang out, followed by Auntie Brindle's quiet clucking. They sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an array of river stones and dried flowers. Another magic lesson—though Auntie Brindle insisted on calling them "conversations with the world."

"Gentle now, little one," the brownie murmured. "Let the stone tell you what it remembers."

I turned just in time to see Maeve's small hands cupped around a smooth gray pebble, her face scrunched in concentration. A faint glow emanated from between her fingers, soft and pearl-like—nothing like the darkness that had sparked from that pendant at the market.

My chest tightened. I forced myself back to the mortar and pestle, to the steady rhythm of grinding indigo into submission. It was easier than thinking about last night—about how Kazrek had grown distant after his friend's arrival, how his usual warmth had cooled to something almost formal as he walked us home.

He hadn't lingered at my door. Hadn't pulled me close or pressed his lips to my temple like he usually did. Just a quiet " see you tomorrow " and then he was gone, leaving me with an ache I hadn't expected. An ache I hated myself for feeling.

"The stone remembers water," Maeve announced proudly. "Cold water, deep under ice."

"Very good," Auntie Brindle praised. "What else?"

I pressed harder with the pestle, the scraping sound almost loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Almost.

Behind me, the bell above the shop door chimed. I didn't look up.

"Did you hear the Silverroot Circle has arrived?" someone asked—one of the Riverside regulars, I thought, judging by the perfume and her voice like honey steeped in gossip. "They came through the gates last night—mages, fortune-tellers, a whole damn fleet of wandering scholars. Some say they’ve got seers who can read fate in a puddle."

"And war-bards from the borderlands," another voice chimed in. "One of them’s supposed to have sung the storm down over Moonshadow Pass during the siege."

It had been like this all morning. The whole town seemed enchanted by the caravan’s arrival. Everyone had something to say.

And I couldn’t stop wondering what they meant to Kazrek.

When had I become so used to him? When had his presence become something I expected, something I missed when it was gone?

He hadn't come this morning. No breakfast from Grok's kitchen. No quiet conversation while I worked. No steady presence making the shop feel fuller, warmer, home. The thought made my chest ache. I wasn't supposed to need this—need him—so much.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to focus on my work instead of the gnawing absence in my chest. It was fine. He was fine. And I was not about to sit here like some love-struck fool wondering whether he planned to darken my door again.

The shop bell chimed again, and I looked up before I could stop myself. The morning light flooded in around three massive figures—and suddenly, my quiet shop was full of orcs.

Kazrek stood in the doorway, carrying what looked like enough food for a small army. Behind him loomed his friend from last night—Uldrek, I remembered—grinning as he ducked through the frame. But it was the third orc who drew my attention: older, with streaks of silver in his long dark hair, his hands marked with old burn scars. He carried himself with quiet authority, and both Kazrek and Uldrek seemed to unconsciously defer to him, adjusting their stance as he passed.

"Kaz!" Maeve abandoned her stones, launching herself at Kazrek's legs. Without missing a beat, he shifted the food to one arm and scooped her up with the other, settling her against his chest like always.

"Good morning, zuzu'rak ," he rumbled, and something in my chest eased at the familiar warmth in his voice.

"We brought breakfast," Uldrek announced, already claiming a spot at my work table. "Though your mate here insisted we get extra of everything because apparently you're too busy being stubborn to eat properly."

I stiffened at the word “mate,” heat crawling up my neck. But before I could correct him, the older orc fixed him with a quelling look.

"Mind your manners, pup," he said, his voice deep and weathered. "I'm Vorgrim Redtusk. You must be Rowena."

"Yes," I said, wiping my ink-stained hands on my apron. "Welcome in."

Vorgrim's eyes swept the room, taking in the neat rows of bottles, the grinding station, the scattered evidence of Maeve's lesson with Auntie Brindle.

“Mmm.” Vorgrim’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he gave a slight nod. “Good space. Clean. Purposeful.”

I wasn’t sure why his approval mattered, but the tightness in my shoulders eased slightly.

Kazrek set the food down on the counter and shifted Maeve in his arms. She grinned up at him before wriggling to be set down. The moment her feet hit the floor, she turned and eyed our newcomers with open curiosity.

Maeve had always been cautious with strangers, but that hesitation was nowhere to be found now. As soon as she caught sight of Uldrek and Vorgrim properly, she beamed.

“You’re smaller than Kaz,” she declared, pointing at Uldrek.

Uldrek’s brows lifted, and then he dropped into a crouch, holding out a calloused hand. “I’m Uldrek.”

Maeve took his hand without hesitation and gave it a tiny shake, her nose scrunching in concentration as if she were sizing him up.

“And you?” She turned to Vorgrim, who regarded her with quiet amusement.

“Vorgrim,” he said simply.

Maeve nodded solemnly, then turned on her heel and trotted back to Auntie Brindle. “They can stay,” she announced, plopping herself back down on the rug as if that settled everything.

Auntie Brindle snorted. “Generous of you, girl,” she murmured, though her dark eyes flickered with something knowing. Then she turned her sharp gaze to the three orcs. “And how do you know our healer?”

“Uldrek is… from my clan,” Kazrek answered.

“More than that,” Uldrek corrected, nudging Kazrek’s shoulder with his own before turning to me. “We fought together in the Shadowfall War. He may not appreciate me saying this, but Kazrek’s the reason I still have two working legs.” He smirked. “Or any legs at all, really."

Kazrek shook his head with a small sound of exasperation, but Uldrek clearly had no plans to let it go. He turned his grin on Maeve, who had inched closer to listen, her wide eyes fixed on him.

"Did you know he once stitched me up while under siege?" Uldrek continued, smirking. "Arrow broke clean through my thigh. There I was, bleeding all over the place, making a perfectly reasonable amount of noise about it—"

"Screaming like a stuck boar, you mean," Kazrek cut in dryly.

Uldrek ignored him. "And this one here," he gestured at Kazrek with a broad hand, "didn’t even bother with pleasantries. Just snapped the arrow in half and started sewing before I could pass out." He clapped Kazrek on the shoulder. "Heartless bastard, really, but effective."

Maeve gasped as if this was the greatest tale of heroism she had ever heard. "Kazrek, you fixed his whole leg?"

Kazrek sighed. "It was either that or let him die."

Maeve turned back to Uldrek solemnly. “You owe him forever now.”

Uldrek pressed a hand to his chest, looking scandalized. "A life-debt? Really?”

Maeve giggled, and I had to fight back a smile of my own.

Despite myself, I was watching Kazrek carefully. He carried himself the same as always—measured, solid—but there was something different about him with them. The easy way he bantered with Uldrek, the quiet deference he showed to Vorgrim. This was a different Kazrek than the one who lingered in my shop with quiet insistence, or the one who kissed me in the dark when no one was watching.

This was Kazrek among his own.

Auntie Brindle, still seated with Maeve, narrowed her sharp eyes on Vorgrim. "And you? Besides scaring children with your glacier stare, what’s your claim to fame?"

“Vorgrim was my mentor,” Kazrek answered for the older orc.

Maeve tilted her head up at Kazrek. “You learned from him? Like I learn from Auntie Brindle?”

“Close enough,” Vorgrim murmured, reaching for the tea and pouring himself a cup. “He was good at patching wounds before we met, but battlefield medicine and real healing are two different things. Managed to convince him not every wound needed stitching with a sewing needle and sheer willpower.”

“Barely,” Uldrek muttered, rubbing his leg as if his old wound still ached. “Nearly lost my damn soul to his bedside manner.”

Maeve gasped, solemn. “Kazrek, did you almost steal his soul?”

Kazrek turned a slow, unimpressed look on Uldrek. The other orc grinned, unapologetic.

“I did not,” Kazrek answered simply.

Maeve considered that for a moment, then nodded firmly, satisfied. “That’s good.”

Vorgrim, watching the exchange with quiet interest, lifted his tea to his lips. “Your girl’s sharp,” he noted, addressing Kazrek directly.

“She’s not my—” Kazrek started, but Uldrek cut in.

“She might as well be,” Uldrek said with a smirk, elbowing Kazrek in the ribs. “What’s the old saying? Blood is what you’re born with, but family is what you claim?”

I swallowed hard, glancing at Kazrek, but he wasn’t looking at me—his eyes were fixed on Uldrek, unreadable. This was something I hadn’t expected, something I wasn’t sure how to navigate. Kazrek, who rarely let anyone close, who carried his past like a wound that refused to close, had people. A friend who teased him like a younger brother would, and a mentor who carried enough quiet weight that even Kazrek, steady as stone, seemed to shift around him.

And now, they were here, in my shop, in my space, as if they belonged. And Maeve had already decided they did.

I glanced at Auntie Brindle, who watched the whole exchange with sharp amusement. “Well,” she mused, sipping her tea. “This day just got a great deal more interesting.”

Uldrek stretched his long legs under the table, entirely at ease, his hands laced behind his head as he surveyed the shop with the air of a man who had already decided he liked the place. "I have to say, Kaz, this is not where I pictured you settling down."

Kazrek grunted, tearing a piece of bread from the breakfast bundle they’d brought. "That’s because I didn’t settle down."

Uldrek smirked, tipping his head toward Maeve, who was currently attempting to weave dried flowers into Auntie Brindle’s thick curls. "Could have fooled me."

Kazrek didn’t respond. But I saw the slight tick in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched where they rested on the table.

Vorgrim, who had remained quiet, took another slow sip of his tea, his scarred hands remarkably steady. "Not a bad choice of place," he mused. "Peaceful enough. Though I imagine that youngling keeps you on your toes."

He was watching me now, his gaze unreadable, like he was assessing something he hadn’t quite made his mind up about yet. I lifted my chin just slightly, refusing to shrink under the weight of it. "She has her moments," I said. “But we all do.”

Uldrek chuckled. "She’s got a spine, this one."

"Of course she does," Auntie Brindle interjected archly. "Else I wouldn’t be wasting my time here, would I?"

Maeve tugged at Brindle’s hair again, frowning in concentration. "Auntie Brindle, hold still!"

Brindle scoffed but relented, allowing Maeve to continue her determined braiding. Then, she patted Maeve’s tiny hands. "Come, girl, let’s fetch the dye jars from the back. I need something bright in this dreary room, and I trust your eye for color."

Maeve beamed. "Can we mix new ones?"

"If you've got steady hands," Brindle replied.

Maeve turned to me, her face aglow with excitement. I nodded, brushing my fingers over her shoulder as she darted off with Brindle in tow.

The moment they disappeared into the back room, the air in the shop changed. The easy banter from earlier faded, replaced by something quieter, more measured. Vorgrim leaned forward, resting his scarred hands on the table. His eyes flicked to Kazrek, and for a long beat, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally: “I didn’t sense anything strange.”

Kazrek exhaled slowly, his jaw working. “You’re sure?”

Vorgrim nodded once. “There’s power in her, no doubt. But nothing that reeks of the kind of magic you described.”

I frowned, my grip tightening around the edge of the table. Magic you described .

Kazrek had told them.

Uldrek, who had been unusually quiet, stretched out his legs and tipped back in his chair. “She’s sharp, that’s for sure. Sharp like a blade you don’t realize is at your throat until it’s too late.” He smirked, but when he looked at me, something in his expression was almost cautious. “But she didn’t feel cursed.”

A small, clipped sound escaped me before I realized I’d made it. “You’ve been studying her?” My voice was quiet, but edged, controlled.

Three sets of orcish eyes landed on me.

Kazrek turned to me first, the muscle in his jaw shifting. “Rowena—”

“This is none of their business,” I snapped.

Kazrek stepped closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I could hear. "I trust them with my life," he murmured. "Which means I trust them with yours. With hers."

The words hit me like a physical thing. I turned away, arms crossed tight against my chest, trying to hold onto my anger. But it was harder with him so close, with the quiet certainty in his voice.

"You should have asked me first," I said, but the edge had dulled from my tone.

"You're right." His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and steady. "I should have. But Vorgrim... he knows things about old magic. Things that could help us understand what's happening to Maeve."

"And what if understanding puts her in more danger?" I challenged, finally turning to face him. "What if knowing draws attention we don't want?"

"Then you'll have two more warriors ready to stand between her and that danger," Uldrek cut in, his usual playfulness gone. When I looked at him, his expression was serious, almost grim. "Listen, I know you don't know us. But Kazrek? He doesn't give his loyalty easily. If he's chosen to protect you—both of you—then so have we."

I swallowed hard, searching his face for any sign of deception. But there was only steady conviction there, mirrored in Vorgrim's quiet nod.

"The girl has power," Vorgrim said simply. "Power that others will notice, whether we try to hide it or not. Better to understand it. To prepare."

My chest ached with the truth of it. I'd been trying so hard to protect Maeve by keeping her magic hidden, but maybe that wasn't enough anymore.

Slowly, I uncrossed my arms. "If anything happens to her—"

"It won't," Kazrek said firmly.

After a moment of tense silence, Kazrek's expression shifted. "Show them the symbol," he said quietly. "The one from the stone."

I hesitated, but only briefly, before moving to my workbench. The sketch was tucked beneath a stack of orders—the paper was soft at the edges from how many times I'd unfolded and refolded it, studying the mark that had branded itself into that dark stone when Maeve touched it.

Vorgrim accepted the sketch with careful hands, his scarred fingers tracing the lines as if reading a story written in their curves. His expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or concern.

"It's almost a protection mark," he mused, tilting the paper to catch better light. "But... not quite."

Uldrek leaned over his shoulder, frowning. "Feels backward," he said, reaching out to trace one of the spiraling lines. "A normal ward keeps something out. This looks like it's meant to hold something in."

My stomach clenched. "In?" I echoed. "What do you mean, in?"

"See how the lines curve?" Uldrek gestured to the way the marks spiraled inward. "Protection wards point outward, like thorns. This is more like..." He paused, searching for the right words.

"Like a net," Kazrek finished quietly. "Or a cage."

The word hung heavy in the air between us. I thought of Maeve's small hands touching that stone, of the shadows that had reached for her like hungry things.

Vorgrim set the paper down carefully. "We need someone who can read more than surface runes," he said. "Someone who understands how these things were made—and what they were made to do."

Uldrek rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s that elf that's been traveling with us for a few moons. Selior, I think. The elders call him a bone-mark reader. Old magic, rune-binding, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll go speak to him,” Kazrek said, his voice steady as he folded the parchment and tucked it away. “He may be able to tell us more, but I—”

“No,” I cut in. “I’m going, too.”

Kazrek’s gaze snapped to mine, his brow drawing low. “Rowena—”

“I’m not sitting this out,” I said flatly. “I won’t just wait here while you—” I exhaled sharply, forcing myself not to let my frustration slip into something more vulnerable. “This is about Maeve. I need to hear whatever Selior has to say firsthand.”

Uldrek smirked, tipping back in his chair. “She gives orders like an orc.”

Vorgrim hummed noncommittally, lifting his tea to his lips. "She gives orders like a mother protecting her own," he corrected. "A reasonable demand. I see no reason she shouldn’t come."

Kazrek’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. His eyes held mine for a long, unreadable moment before he gave a short nod. “Fine.”

Before anything more could be said, Maeve and Auntie Brindle returned from the back room, Maeve clutching two small vials of dye—one a bright marigold, the other a deep plum. “I picked the happy colors!” she declared.

Brindle patted her shoulder. "That you did, girl." Then, she turned her sharp gaze on the room, her brow arching ever so slightly at the shift in tension. "And what exactly are we off whispering about now?"

Uldrek, smooth as ever, sat up with an easy grin. “Tonight’s caravan feast!” he said, all mirth and mischief. “Rowena was just saying she and Kazrek would like to join.”

I shot him a hard look, but before I could form a rebuttal, he added, “There’s someone there Vorgrim wants them to meet.”

Brindle clasped her hands together. “Oh, that’s a fine idea. Maeve and I have plenty to keep us occupied tonight. The girl’s strong enough to start weaving her own energy into charms, and I won’t have that talent going to waste. It’ll do us both good to have a night to work without your brooding spirit hovering over our shoulders.”

Maeve, oblivious to my rising discomfort, clapped her hands. “Charm work? Can I make one for Kaz?”

Auntie Brindle hummed approvingly. “A fine idea, girl. Even orcs can use a bit of warding now and then.”

Kazrek, entirely unaffected by the sudden decisions being made around him, tilted his head ever so slightly toward me, waiting.

I felt caught between two forces—their expectations on one side, my own tangled hesitations on the other.

It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to go out and celebrate. The idea of a feast, of wandering among strangers while pretending I wasn’t quietly unraveling inside, held about as much appeal as licking hot wax. There were too many questions unanswered, too many risks still lurking in the corners of my mind. Maeve’s magic. The rune. That blue-cloaked woman.

And yet...

I did want to speak with the elf—Selior. I wanted answers, even the ones I was afraid of. And if this feast gave me an opening to get them, I wasn’t about to waste it.

But there was something else, too.

Kazrek was watching me—quiet, unreadable. Not expectant. Not urging. Just still. Like he didn’t want to sway me one way or another. Like he was being careful. I didn’t know if it was for my sake or his, but it made something restless stir in me.

He always stepped so lightly around my boundaries—never pushing, never asking for more than I offered. And I had told myself that was a good thing. That I needed that kind of space. But sometimes, it felt like he was waiting for an excuse to pull away.

And sometimes, I wanted to know what it would look like if he didn’t.

Also, maybe it would be nice to go somewhere with him. Not for necessity. Not out of urgency or fear. Just... to be with him.

A night out. A moment of quiet between the storms. A date, if I even remembered what that word meant anymore.

I inhaled, then let my shoulders relax.

“All right,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’ll go.”

Uldrek grinned, Vorgrim nodded approvingly, and Kazrek—Kazrek didn't—smile, not exactly. But something in him eased, like a knot he hadn’t realized was pulling too tight.

"Good,” Uldrek declared, slapping the table. “Then it’s settled. We'll see you when the sun touches the treetops.”

Maeve beamed, clearly delighted at the prospect of me attending something festive for once. “I can help you pick a dress, Auntie Ro!”

I groaned under my breath, already regretting this decision. But when I risked a glance at Kazrek, I found him watching me with that measured intensity of his, something unreadable flickering in his dark gaze.

He had stepped into my world first. Maybe it was time I did the same.

This time, I didn’t look away.