Page 8

I leaned over a table of unfurled scrolls, carefully noting their titles in the ledger Edwin had entrusted to me.

Though I'd been hired as a cleaner, he had quietly shifted me toward more scholarly work—cataloging, transcription, sorting the post-war backlog of donations.

He never mentioned the change directly, just handed me new tasks with the quiet confidence that I could complete them.

Ellie dozed against my chest, wrapped in a sling that left my hands free to work.

Her warm weight was a comfort I'd never take for granted.

At nearly eight months old, she was becoming more alert, more curious, more herself with each passing day.

I'd learned to work around her rhythms—cataloging during her naps, reading aloud when she was awake, as if she might absorb the histories of Alderwilde alongside the sound of my voice.

I winced as I reached for a particularly stubborn scroll, feeling the pull in my shoulder.

My body ached in new ways since I'd begun training with Uldrek.

Not the ache of tension or the sharp, hidden bruises I used to lie about.

These were different. Clean. Earned. The satisfying soreness of muscles learning their purpose.

"Who reorganized the eastern chronologies?" Fira's voice cut through the quiet, her accent thickening with annoyance as it always did when she was flustered.

I looked up to find the dwarven woman standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, expression thunderous beneath her neatly trimmed beard. "Wasn't me," I replied. "I'm still on the cartography section."

Fira huffed, but the irritation felt more for show than true anger. "They were in perfect order—by moon cycle and scribal attribution! If Kestrel touched them again, I swear I’ll glue his fingers together.”

I fought a smile. "Maybe it's the Archives ghost."

"Don't even start with that." Fira narrowed her eyes. "This place has enough rumors without adding spirits to the mix."

She stomped across the alcove to examine my work, peering over my shoulder with the critical eye of someone who'd spent decades correcting apprentices. After a moment, she nodded sharply.

"Your notation's improving," she said grudgingly. "Not awful."

"High praise," I murmured.

To my surprise, Fira's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. She placed something beside my elbow—a small bundle wrapped in cloth—then turned to leave.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Spiced apple biscuit." She didn't look back. "You're too thin. Bad for the baby if you waste away."

Before I could thank her, she was gone, muttering about archives ghosts and disappearing scrolls. The small kindness warmed me more than the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

I unwrapped the biscuit, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cardamom.

My stomach rumbled in response. Lately, I was hungry all the time—another change I hadn't anticipated.

For months, food had been fuel, necessary but joyless.

Now, I found myself looking forward to meals, savoring flavors, craving more than simple sustenance.

Chewing thoughtfully, I glanced at the old clock on the opposite wall—nearly midday.

Four hours had passed since I arrived, yet the morning had flown by in a haze of focused work, the rhythm of cataloging punctuated only by Ellie's occasional stirring.

I'd need to feed her soon, find something for myself as well, and then return for the afternoon shift.

I carefully rolled the scrolls I'd been working with and secured them with their ribbons.

The ledger I closed with equal care, marking my place with a thin strip of leather.

Order and method—these were the constants that had kept me grounded throughout everything.

Even when the rest of my life had spun out of control, I could always rely on the quiet satisfaction of a task properly completed.

Gathering my personal items into the small satchel I carried everywhere—a clean cloth for Ellie, a spare wrap, the small wooden rattle from Fira—I made my way toward the front of the building, intending to find a quiet corner in the garden behind the Archives to feed Ellie.

As I approached the main hall, I heard voices—one familiar in its measured cadence, the other a lower rumble that sent an unexpected ripple of warmth through my chest.

"—third shelf from the right, past the reference section," Edwin was saying. "Though why anyone would want those particular texts is beyond me. Dreadfully dull history of provincial tax collection, if I recall correctly."

"Not for reading," came the dry reply. "For balancing. The binding's thick enough."

Uldrek. Here, in the Archives. The realization quickened my steps before I could question why.

I rounded the corner to find them standing near Edwin's desk—the elderly archivist leaning on his cane, looking up at Uldrek with undisguised curiosity.

Uldrek, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease, his large frame somehow not imposing in the scholarly space.

He wore a dark tunic, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing tattoos on his forearms. The wolf's fang necklace glinted against his throat.

Edwin noticed me first, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ah, Miss Fairbairn. Your, ah, companion was just asking after you."

Uldrek turned, his golden eyes finding mine immediately. "Lunch delivery," he said, lifting a small cloth sack. "You didn't eat enough yesterday."

My heart kicked once against my ribs—not from fear, but something else entirely. I told myself it was surprise at his appearance. The lie was unconvincing even to me.

"I ate," I protested weakly.

One corner of his mouth lifted. "Half a piece of bread and some cheese. While doing those side step drills I showed you."

Edwin's eyebrows rose slightly, but he did not comment. Instead, he gestured toward the front doors with his cane. "Perhaps you might take your midday meal on the steps? The weather's quite pleasant today."

I hesitated, uncertain how to explain Uldrek's presence. We hadn't discussed what to tell others about our arrangement, about the lie-turned-something-else that now bound us together.

But Edwin merely smiled, as if nothing about the situation was unusual. "Go on, then. The scrolls will still be here when you return."

Uldrek nodded to the archivist and turned toward the doors, clearly expecting me to follow.

I did, adjusting Ellie in her sling as we stepped out into the crisp autumn air.

The Archives stood at the edge of what I now knew was the Heart District, its stone facade weathered by centuries of Everwood's seasons.

Wide steps led down to a small courtyard, where a handful of benches were arranged beneath towering oak trees.

At midday, dappled sunlight bathed the area in a warmth that belied the approaching chill of late autumn.

Uldrek settled on the middle step, stretching his long legs in front of him. After a moment's hesitation, I sat beside him, leaving just enough space between us to maintain propriety—though what that meant between a human woman and her supposed orc mate, I couldn't say.

"Here." He handed me the cloth sack. "Wasn't sure what you liked."

I opened it curiously. Inside were several small bundles wrapped in leaves—the kind street vendors used for hand pies and portable meals. The scent that wafted up was rich and earthy, spiced but not overpowering.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Mushroom and root pastry. Greta at the corner stand makes them with black pepper and thyme. Good fuel."

I unwrapped one, still warm from the vendor's oven. The crust was golden and flaky, the filling a savory mixture of woodland mushrooms, carrots, and herbs. My stomach growled audibly at the scent.

"Thank you," I said, genuinely touched by the thoughtfulness. "But you didn't have to—"

"You're slow on pivots when you're hungry," he interrupted matter-of-factly. "And your left side drops. Food helps."

I took a bite of the pastry, savoring the complex flavors. It was delicious—far better than the quick meals I cobbled together during work breaks.

"You noticed all that?" I asked between bites.

Uldrek shrugged. "I pay attention."

"To fighting stances," I clarified.

"To everything," he replied, and there was something in his tone—not quite vulnerable, but honest in a way that made me look at him more closely.

He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, eyes scanning the courtyard in a habit I recognized as ingrained vigilance.

The sun caught the edges of his profile, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the set of his tusks, the faint lines at the corner of his eye.

Not quite a smile, but something adjacent to it.

Ellie chose that moment to stir, wiggling in her sling with increasing determination. She'd slept longer than usual, and now she was awake, hungry, and ready to make her presence known.

I set down the pastry reluctantly, preparing to excuse myself to find a more private place to feed her.

"Here," Uldrek said, casually extending his hands. "I'll hold her. You eat."

I stared at him, momentarily frozen by the offer. He didn't press, didn't insist. Just waited, hands open, watching me.

Slowly, I lifted Ellie from the sling. She was fussing in earnest now, her small face scrunched in preparation for a full cry. I passed her to Uldrek, our fingers brushing in the exchange.

His hands dwarfed her tiny form, yet he handled her with a sureness that surprised me. No hesitation, no awkwardness. He settled her against the crook of his arm, supporting her head with practiced ease, as if he'd done this a hundred times before.

Ellie's cries paused as she registered the change. Her dark eyes widened, taking in the unfamiliar face above her. For a heart-stopping moment, I feared she would scream—but instead, she stared up at Uldrek with intense curiosity, one small hand reaching toward his face.