Page 2 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

I ’ve reviewed these damn blueprints three times, but the lines still won’t settle.

The plans are sound. Efficient. Profitable. Glass towers rising clean from old rot. Steel beams replacing soft, splintered wood. Boardwalk turned beacon for coastal elite. A legacy worth my name.

Damn, I keep seeing her face.

That human woman. Fire in her voice, fury in her eyes. Brave enough to insult me in a public forum. Foolish enough to think it mattered.

"Wrecking ball in a bespoke jacket."

A faint curl pulls at the corner of my mouth. She’s wrong, of course. I prefer my metaphors cleaner.

But not her words. Not her presence. Something about it hums beneath my skin, uninvited.

I scowl and shove the blueprint aside.

A knock rattles the thin aluminum door of my trailer.

“Busy,” I call out.

Another knock. Softer this time.

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. "Come."

The door creaks open. A small figure steps inside—barefoot, curls wild, clutching a blue fabric-covered notebook to his chest.

The boy.

Rowan’s boy.

He stares up at me with wide, sea-glass eyes. Unafraid. Curious.

“Thought you might want this,” he says, holding out the notebook. “You dropped it.”

I blink, masking my surprise beneath practiced stillness. The notebook is mine—notes from today’s meetings, rough sketches, half a dozen legal threats I intend to ignore.

I rise from my chair, towering over him. “You followed me?”

“No,” he says. “Saw you leave it by the chair. I’m good at finding things.”

I study him. The resemblance is obvious—same stubborn chin, same quiet intensity. No hint of fear, even here, alone in my space.

“What’s your name?” I ask, voice low.

“Jamie.”

He says it like it’s obvious. I remember now—Rowan’s boy. The heart she fights for.

I take the notebook. “Thank you.”

He shifts from foot to foot, gaze flicking to the scattered blueprints across my desk. “Are those… buildings?”

I arch a brow. “They are.”

“Do you… name them?”

I blink. “No.”

“You should. Mom says things with names last longer.”

A huff escapes me—half a breath of amusement, too soft to count as a laugh. “Does she?”

He nods solemnly, stepping closer. “You’re big. Are all orcs this big?”

“In my clan, yes.”

“Why are you green?”

A pause. No one’s asked me that in decades.

“Because that is how I was made,” I answer. “Just as you were made as you are.”

Jamie frowns, considering. “Okay.”

He circles the desk, studying the blueprints with an intensity that belies his size.

“This one looks sad,” he says, pointing to a sleek glass tower. “No one will want to play there.”

I stare at the page. The building is perfect—mathematically flawless. But under his gaze, it looks… cold.

“Not all buildings are made for play,” I say.

“They should be,” he says simply. “Or else they get lonely.”

Another laugh tries to escape. I swallow it. “Is that so?”

“Yep.” He peers up at me again. “Are you lonely?”

The question hits harder than I expect. I mask it with a slow breath.

“I am… occupied.”

Jamie nods, satisfied. He wanders to a side table and picks up a drafting pen. I watch, curious as he flips it in small fingers.

“What’s this?”

“A pen.”

“For drawing?”

“For building.”

He grins. “I want to build.”

I pause. “You wish to build towers?”

“No.” He tilts his head. “I want to build adventures.”

I stare at him. For a moment, the blueprints, the deadlines, the firm’s endless demands—all fade. There is only this small, barefoot boy and a truth I’d long forgotten:

Buildings without heart are just empty shells.

I gesture to an empty chair. “Sit.”

Jamie climbs up eagerly. I pull a spare sheet of vellum from a drawer and slide it before him.

“Show me,” I say.

He grips the pen and begins to draw—wobbly lines forming bridges, spiral staircases, hidden doors. No symmetry. No logic. Only joy.

“That’s a secret garden,” he says. “And that’s where the sea monsters live.”

I nod, watching him work. His world is bright where mine is gray.

“How did you get in here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “The door was open.”

“I see.” I lean back, folding my arms. “Your mother will worry.”

“Mom says I’m clever.”

“I do not doubt it.”

He draws another curve. “You’re not scary.”

“Most would disagree.”

He shrugs again. “They don’t know you.”

Something sharp and unfamiliar twists in my chest.

“You should go soon,” I say, voice softer than I intend.

Jamie looks up, unbothered. “Can I come back?”

I hesitate. Every instinct says no—this is not a place for children. But against reason, I find myself saying:

“If you ask your mother first.”

He beams. “Okay.”

Sliding from the chair, he gathers his notebook and turns to go. At the door, he pauses.

“You should name your buildings,” he says. “Then they won’t be lonely either.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

I sit there for a long time, staring at the half-finished tower on my screen.

"Name them."

I shake my head, exhaling slow.

Still, I reach for a sticky note. After a pause, I write one word:

Home.

Jamie taps the pen against his chin, head tilted.

“Do you name your buildings?” he asks suddenly.

I blink. “Pardon?”

“Like pets. Mom names everything. Our toaster’s called Burnie.” He grins, gap-toothed and bright. “Buildings are big. They should have names.”

I lean back, arms crossed. Name my buildings like pets. No one’s ever asked me that—not in my seventy-five years. Not board members, not architects, not the polished sycophants who line my halls.

It’s ridiculous. Childish. Pointless.

A low rumble escapes me. Not a sigh. Not a growl.

A laugh.

The sound surprises me more than him. It’s deep, rare, worn at the edges from disuse. Jamie beams like he’s won a prize.

“There it is,” he says. “Told Mom I could make you laugh.”

I shake my head, amused despite myself. “You are persistent.”

He shrugs, pleased. “I like when people laugh. Even big green ones.”

I push a fresh sheet of vellum toward him. “Here. Draw your map.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But stay here. Do not touch anything else.”

“Okay!” He scrambles back into the chair, feet swinging. I hand him one of my drafting pens—too large for his hand, but he holds it proudly.

He hums as he draws. A winding pier, lopsided boats, sea creatures smiling beneath waves.

I watch in silence, a strange warmth coiling through my ribs.

No meetings. No spreadsheets. No weighted stares.

Just a boy and his adventure.

“Do sea monsters have names too?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says without looking up. “They’re nicer when you know their names.”

I nod once, as if this is a truth I have always known.

Outside, the wind shifts. Somewhere, faint gull cries echo.

Inside, I sit across from Jamie Moore—enemy’s son, tiny architect—and let the moment breathe.