Page 10 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he storm wasn’t on the forecast.

I know because I checked—twice. Tight schedule this week. No margin for delays. The sky had been clear when I left the trailer this morning, the sea quiet, compliant.

Now?

Now the wind howls like a living thing, tearing at the edges of the boardwalk. Rain lashes sideways. Waves slam the pylons below with brutal rhythm.

I stand beneath the awning of a shuttered café, jaw tight, watching as the storm rolls in faster than the crews can react. Merchants scramble to pull carts and displays under cover. Loose debris skitters across the planks like frightened crabs.

I should return to the trailer.

I do not.

Because through the sheets of rain, I see a figure struggling near the old popcorn stand—one of the relics slated for demolition. The roof is sagging under the weight of the downpour, boards groaning.

And beneath it—an old man I vaguely recognize. Emerson Clarke. Owned the stand since the seventies. Too stubborn to retire. Too frail to weather this alone.

“Fool,” I mutter.

Then I move.

Boots pound the slick planks. The wind fights me with every step, salt spray stinging my face. Rain soaks through my suit jacket in seconds, but I barely feel it.

“Sir,” I call, voice rough. “You must get clear.”

Emerson looks up, eyes wide. “Can’t—my hip?—”

The roof gives a groan like a dying beast.

I don’t hesitate. I duck beneath the sagging frame, boards snapping beneath my boots. The old man clutches the counter, shaking.

I wrap an arm around his thin frame. “Hold tight.”

He nods, teeth chattering.

I lift him—light as driftwood—and turn to carry him out.

Then something gives above us.

A beam. Heavy. Falling fast.

I twist instinctively, shielding Emerson with my back. The beam clips my shoulder, hard enough to send a sharp, wet burst of pain through muscle and bone.

I grit my teeth, stagger, but do not fall.

“Move,” I snarl at myself. “Move.”

The next breath burns, but I push forward—storm be damned.

We emerge into the open. Emerson coughs, gasping.

“There,” I say, setting him down beneath a sturdier awning. “Stay.”

He grips my arm. “Thank you, son.”

I nod once, then glance at my shoulder.

Blood.

A long gash slices from bicep to forearm, shirt and skin torn alike. Rain washes crimson down my fingers.

I curse under my breath. Not life-threatening. But inconvenient.

Around me, the storm still rages. Shouts echo from farther down the boardwalk. People need help. But the world swims slightly now—edges blurring.

I start to move anyway.

“Drokhaz!”

The voice cuts through the wind—sharp, urgent.

I turn.

Rowan.

She’s running toward me, rain plastering her hair to her face. Eyes wild, scanning me top to toe.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demands, skidding to a stop. “You’re bleeding!”

“I am aware.”

She glares, breathless. “Sit. Now.”

“I am fine.”

“Bullshit.”

I sway slightly. The boards feel less steady beneath my feet than they should.

Rowan curses. “Stubborn bastard. Come on.”

Before I can protest, she grabs my uninjured arm with surprising strength and starts dragging me toward the bookstore.

I do not resist.

Should resist.

But her touch is warm, grounding.

We reach the door. She fumbles with the lock, shoves it open, hauls me inside. The storm fades behind us, muffled by old glass and wood.

I take one step—and the room tilts sideways.

Rowan catches me hard around the waist. “Oh no you don’t.”

She kicks the door shut, bolts it, then half-guides, half-drags me toward the stairs.

“Up,” she orders. “You’re not bleeding all over my floor.”

I manage a breathless chuckle. “Pragmatic as ever.”

“Damn right.” Her jaw is set, eyes fierce.

We reach the landing. She pushes open a door into a small upstairs room—cozy, cluttered, warm despite the storm outside. A faded quilt lies folded on a worn armchair. Shelves sag with books and knickknacks.

“Sit,” she says again. I obey this time, sinking onto the bed.

Rowan vanishes into the bathroom. I hear cabinets bang, the clatter of a first aid kit.

Then she’s back, kneeling beside me, fingers gentle but sure as she peels away my soaked jacket and shirt.

Her breath hitches when she sees the wound.

“Damn it, Drokhaz,” she whispers.

I watch her work, expression unreadable. Her hands tremble slightly at first, then steady as she cleans the gash, dabs antiseptic, presses gauze against raw skin.

“Why?” she asks softly.

I frown. “Why what?”

“Why risk yourself for this place?”

I consider the question.

“For the people,” I say finally. “For the stories.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp. “You mean that.”

“I do.”

She swallows. “You’re a damn mystery.”

“So are you,” I murmur.

Our eyes lock.

Too close. Too real.

She clears her throat, stands abruptly. “Rest. You’re no good to anyone dead.”

“I do not?—”

But exhaustion drags at me now, deeper than blood loss. The adrenaline fades, leaving lead in its place.

I lean back against the pillows, vision blurring.

The last thing I see is Rowan, standing in the doorway—arms crossed, watching me with something I can’t name.

Then the world goes dark.

Her hands are steady now.

Too steady.

I watch her work, silent as stone.

Rowan kneels beside me, brows drawn in concentration, lower lip caught between her teeth. Her fingers ghost over my skin—wiping away blood, smoothing salve into torn muscle.

She doesn’t look at my face.

I do not look away.

The room is too quiet. Only the storm’s distant roar and the soft brush of gauze between us.

Each touch burns hotter than the wound itself.

“You should’ve waited for help,” she murmurs, voice rough.

“I do not wait.”

“I noticed.”

A faint tremor rides through her next breath. She presses a fresh pad of gauze to the gash, fingers lingering a beat too long.

“You think you’re invincible,” she says softly.

“No.”

Her eyes flick up, meeting mine—storm-bright and furious.

“Then why?”

I hold her gaze. “Because some things are worth bleeding for.”

She swallows hard.

The air between us hums—thick with everything we aren’t saying. Every word caught on the edge of our tongues.

She pulls the bandage tighter than necessary.

I do not flinch.

Her breath shudders. “You make this impossible.”

“I am not the only one.”

A beat of silence. Two.

Then she pulls back, rising swiftly to her feet. “Rest.”

I catch her wrist before she can retreat.

Her pulse races beneath my fingers.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

Her eyes soften—just for a moment.

Then the mask slips back into place.

“Sleep, Drokhaz.”

I let her go.

But long after the door clicks shut, her warmth lingers in my palm.

And the storm outside is nothing compared to the one she leaves behind in me.