Page 12 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he first thing I feel is warmth.

Soft sheets. The faint weight of a blanket. The hum of a storm faded to a distant whisper beyond old glass.

For a moment, I do not move.

For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then memory stirs—sharp and clear. Rain. Blood. Her hands, steady against my skin. The weight of gratitude and something else thickening the air between us.

My eyes snap open.

Wood beams arch above me, worn with age. The scent of old paper and lavender clings to the air.

The bookstore.

I shift slightly.

A small form is curled at the foot of the bed—Jamie.

He’s sprawled sideways, limbs loose in sleep, one hand clutching a worn plush shark like a lifeline. His breath rasps softly through parted lips.

I watch him for a long moment.

Unwise. Unsafe.

Yet I cannot look away.

I had a brother once.

Older by two years. Fiercer than any blade. He taught me to fight. To read the stars. To question the orders that cost us more than blood.

He fell before the treaties were signed.

A sacrifice no ledger can balance.

The ache coils sharp beneath my ribs.

I inhale, slow and shallow.

Not here. Not now.

Carefully, I ease upright. My shoulder protests—a dull throb—but manageable.

Jamie stirs, mumbling something beneath his breath. I freeze until his breathing evens again.

Then I rise.

The room sways for a beat—blood loss catching up—but I steady against the frame.

The shop below is silent.

I descend the stairs barefoot, each creak beneath me a small betrayal. The air shifts—cooler here, wrapped in shadows and the faint scent of ink.

Rows upon rows of books greet me. Tall, narrow, some leaning like old men too tired to stand straight. The shelves hum with presence, with memory.

I walk the narrow aisles, fingers trailing along spines faded by time.

Salt and Story. The Boardwalk Companion. Forgotten Ports.

I do not know why I touch them.

Perhaps because they remind me of what cannot be measured. What cannot be bought.

"Memory matters," Cass’s voice echoes.

I pause before a battered volume titled Tides and War. The title tugs harder than it should.

I pull it free.

The binding cracks softly as I open to a random page. The words swim briefly before settling.

"In the quiet after battle, it is not the blood that haunts us, but the voices we can no longer hear."

I close the book, jaw tight.

"You should rest."

I turn at the voice.

Rowan stands in the archway between shelves, barefoot, hair tangled from sleep, an old sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder.

Her eyes are shadowed. Watchful.

“You should not be up,” she says again, softer.

I set the book down. “I needed… air.”

She steps closer. “Your shoulder?—”

“Will mend.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re impossible.”

“So I have been told.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts her mouth, then fades.

“Jamie’s still asleep,” she says quietly.

I nod. “I noticed.”

She hesitates. Then, voice rough: “You scared me.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

I meet her gaze. “I regret causing worry.”

“That’s not—” She cuts off. Exhales. “You shouldn’t have been out there alone.”

I tilt my head. “Neither should you.”

Silence hums between us.

The lines I drew—between enemy and something else—blur more with each passing day. Each passing look.

Dangerous.

Necessary.

I shift, the ache in my shoulder a grounding tether.

“I will return upstairs,” I say quietly. “I do not wish to wake your son.”

Rowan watches me a moment longer. Something flickers in her eyes—fear, perhaps. Or understanding.

Then she nods. “Alright.”

I incline my head, then turn.

But as I climb the stairs again, her voice follows me—soft as the tide:

“Goodnight, Drokhaz.”

I pause.

“Goodnight, Rowan.”

The ache beneath my ribs is not from loss. It is from something dangerously close to hope.

Upstairs, the room hums with quiet.

Jamie stirs once, curls matted to his cheek, plush shark still clutched in small fingers. I ease down beside the low writing desk near the window, the storm now no more than a distant murmur across the rooftops.

My sketchbook lies where I left it in my bag.

I pull it free. Flip past pages of towers, facades, sterile lines meant to impress investors.

The pencil feels heavy tonight.

I should review site revisions. Rework the southeast lot.

I do not.

Instead, my hand moves—unbidden.

Not towers.

Not steel.

People.

Then the bench. The one we repaired. I draw it slowly, every worn slat, the shell hidden beneath it.

I add no embellishment.

Truth is enough.

The graphite moves softer now, pages filling with pieces of a world I once dismissed.

I pause.

Listen.

The silence is vast, warm. Not the cold void of empty offices or hotel suites.

Here, it breathes.

For years, I have filled my hours with noise—meetings, screens, the endless hum of pursuit.

Now, in this quiet space above a stubborn bookstore, I do not hate it.

I welcome it.

A truth I do not know what to do with.

I set the pencil down, fingers lingering on the page.

Across the room, Jamie sighs in his sleep.

I glance toward the stairwell, where faint light still seeps beneath the door.

And I wonder if the things I have built are worth more than what I am finding here.