Page 17 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I f adrenaline were a drug, I’d be high as the moon right now.

I pace the length of the boardwalk, clipboard clutched in one hand, the other tugging at the hem of my battered “Save Our Stories” tee. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, but the air’s thick with warmth and the faint metallic tang of salt.

Lanterns strung from one end of the boardwalk to the other glow like low-hanging stars. Paper ones—soft yellow and pale blue. Some flicker with actual flame, others with magelight charms Liara and a few other local witches whispered over this morning. The whole place hums beneath them—alive.

It’s working.

They showed up.

I can hardly believe it.

I glance around—dozens of locals already filling the folding chairs we begged, borrowed, and stole from every business in town. Vera’s bakery donated pastries. Nate rigged the sound system. Liara charmed the mic so even the shyest voices would carry.

And gods—it’s beautiful.

Old Man Cass sits in the front row, sipping something suspiciously dark from a battered flask.

Mrs. Calhoun has a fresh bouquet of sea lavender in her lap.

Teens in vintage jackets lean against the railings, wide-eyed.

Parents bounce kids on their knees. A few tourists have wandered in, phones forgotten as they take it all in.

For one night, the boardwalk is what it should be—open, warm, woven with stories.

And I’m holding it all together with duct tape and stubbornness.

“You ready?” Liara sidles up beside me, iced coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other.

I take a steadying breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

She grins. “They’re already in love. Just don’t trip over your tongue.”

“I hate you.”

She winks. “You adore me.”

I roll my eyes but smile.

The mic hums to life as I step up to it, pulse hammering in my throat. The lanterns sway gently overhead, casting soft shadows across familiar faces.

I grip the mic tighter. “Good evening.”

The murmurs fade.

I clear my throat. “Thank you all for coming tonight—for showing up, for bringing your voices, for keeping this place alive. The boardwalk is more than wood and nails. It’s us. Every story, every memory. And tonight, we get to share them.”

Applause ripples through the crowd—soft, warm.

I glance down at my list. First reader—Mrs. Patel, with a poem about the sea at dawn.

I step aside as she approaches, voice trembling but clear.

And just like that, we begin.

The night unfolds like magic.

One by one, neighbors and strangers step up—some with poems scrawled on napkins, others from memory, some just stories spun in rich, rolling voices.

A fisherman reads a love letter to his late wife.

A high school girl raps about salt air and first kisses.

Old Man Cass recites a bawdy limerick that has half the crowd in stitches.

I laugh. I cry. I clap till my palms ache.

It’s more than I dreamed.

I’m flipping through the next names when I hear it.

The shift.

The hush.

The way conversation stutters, heads turning toward the back of the crowd.

And when I glance up, clipboard halfway down, my breath catches.

Drokhaz.

Moving through the lantern-dappled dark like some ancient tide. Dressed down—no suit tonight. Just dark slacks, a rolled-sleeve shirt that pulls taut across his shoulders. The scar on his forearm visible beneath the bandage. No armor now. No mask.

His eyes find mine.

And gods—my heart stumbles.

He gives the faintest nod, then folds into a seat near the back, posture loose but watchful.

I nearly drop the damn clipboard.

“Careful,” Liara whispers beside me, smirking.

“I’m fine,” I grit out.

“You’re a liar.”

I shoot her a look. Focus, Rowan.

Jamie’s next.

I call him up, voice steadier than I feel.

He beams as he bounces to the mic, curls wild, cheeks flushed.

“My poem is called ‘Lighthouse Love,’” he says, loud and proud.

The crowd melts.

He reads—short lines about light and hope and monsters being good sometimes.

When he finishes, applause rolls like thunder.

I blink fast.

He runs back, plops into Drokhaz’s lap like he’s done it a hundred times.

And Drokhaz… doesn’t move.

Just rests a broad hand carefully on Jamie’s shoulder, gaze steady on the stage.

The ache in my chest spreads.

A dozen more readers pass.

Then Liara nudges me. “Final slot’s open.”

I glance at the list—blank.

“Want me to close it?” I ask.

“No need,” a low voice says from behind me.

I turn.

Drokhaz rises, slow and deliberate. Jamie beams beside him.

“I would speak,” he says simply.

The mic feels too small when he takes it—fingers steady, gaze sweeping the crowd like he’s built for this.

“My words are not verse,” he begins. Voice low, gravel-rich. “But they were given to me by a voice that matters.”

He unfolds a small scrap of paper.

And I know what it is.

Jamie’s story.

Drokhaz reads, slow and clear.

“The Green Giant had strong hands but a kind heart…”

Each line lands soft but deep.

By the end— “He used a wrench and a wish. And he fixed it. And then he smiled.” —the crowd is still.

Then applause.

Loud and full and real.

Jamie bounces, clapping hardest of all.

I swallow hard.

Because the man standing beneath those lanterns is not the Drokhaz I met in that town hall.

He’s something more. Something dangerous and fragile and too damn close to my heart.

When he steps down, our eyes lock.

And I’m not sure if I want to strangle him.

Or kiss him again.

Or both.

The poetry night lingers long after the final applause fades.

Lanterns sway in the warm salt breeze. Conversations hum in pockets along the boardwalk—low and bright, thick with memory.

I move through it all like a tide-worn ghost—gathering stray flyers, folding chairs, half-empty pastry boxes—anything to keep my hands busy, my mind quiet.

But there’s no quiet left in me.

Not after watching him read that.

Not after the way Jamie looked up at him like a lighthouse had grown legs and walked straight into his life.

Not after the way my heart… well. No use lying to myself anymore.

I catch sight of Drokhaz near the end of the boardwalk, standing half in shadow. He’s helping Jamie tug a stubborn folding chair back into its stack.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and cross to them.

“Hey,” I say softly.

Jamie grins. “Did you hear him read my story, Mom? He made it sound cool! ”

“I heard,” I say, voice catching.

Jamie darts off toward Liara’s glowing magelight jar with a final bounce.

And then it’s just me and him.

For a beat, neither of us speaks.

I find my voice. “Thank you.”

His gaze is steady beneath the lamplight. “For what?”

“For showing up,” I say. “For reading. For…” My throat tightens. “For seeing what this place really is.”

A faint smile tugs one corner of his mouth.

“I’m just the delivery orc,” he says quietly.

The words land deeper than they should—soft, self-mocking, and full of everything we aren’t saying.

I huff a laugh, shaky. “That so?”

He meets my gaze. “I delivered what mattered. The words were never mine.”

“No,” I say softly. “But you gave them weight.”

Another beat of silence.

Then I clear my throat. “I should… finish up.”

He inclines his head, slow and deliberate. “I’ll see you soon.”

It’s not a question.

And some small part of me hopes he’s right.