Page 25 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he news hits faster than I can breathe.

One minute, I’m stocking a new shipment of battered hardcovers in the front window. The next, my phone buzzes with a dozen messages stacked on top of each other, a wildfire of texts, posts, and photos lighting up every feed in town.

Boardwalk saved.

Full demolition vetoed.

Preservation plan approved.

At first, I don’t believe it. I read the words twice, three times, heart hammering in my throat.

Then Liara bursts through the front door, wild-eyed, cheeks flushed.

“It’s real,” she says, breathless. “He did it.”

I stare. “He—what?”

“Drokhaz.” She laughs, practically bouncing. “He walked out of the board meeting like a damn legend. The board caved. They’re moving forward with his preservation plan.”

I drop the book in my hands.

The room tilts.

Liara grabs my shoulders, steadying me. “Ro. The boardwalk is safe.”

I press a shaking hand to my mouth.

Safe.

My knees nearly give, but I lock them. I will not fall apart. Not here. Not now.

Instead, I let out a breathless laugh that cracks in the middle.

Jamie bursts in a heartbeat later, curls bouncing, Liara’s cousin trailing behind him. “Mom! Did you see?! They said the Green Giant won!”

Liara snorts. “He sure did.”

Jamie barrels into my legs, eyes wide. “He’s like the story. He used a wish.”

I drop to my knees, hugging him tight, blinking back fresh tears.

“He did, baby,” I whisper. “He really did.”

The shop fills faster than a spring tide.

Word spreads—first a trickle, then a flood. Locals pour through the door, dripping rain and wide smiles. Mrs. Calhoun brings a basket of muffins. Nate hauls in a case of cider. Even Old Man Cass shuffles in, flask in hand, eyes twinkling.

“They’re sayin’ he told the board we don’t raze what raised us,” Cass says, voice rough. “Damn right.”

I can’t stop smiling. Can’t stop shaking.

People hug me. Clap my back. Press pastries and bottles into my hands. I lose count of how many times I hear thank you and you fought for us.

And through it all, Jamie beams like he built the damn boardwalk himself.

I let him. He’s earned it.

Of course, he also earns a mountain of candy he’s very much not supposed to have.

By the time the poetry night begins—impromptu, half-planned, but fiercely attended—the store hums like a live wire.

Lanterns sway above the stacks. The scent of lavender, rain, and warm cider curls through the air. Every chair is full, every inch of floor packed with neighbors.

I stand at the mic, knees knocking beneath my skirt.

Liara squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve got this.”

I take a breath.

Look out across the crowd.

And there—near the back, half-shadowed beneath the arch of the old mystery shelves?—

Drokhaz.

He leans against the pillar, broad arms crossed, green skin gleaming beneath low lamplight. His eyes catch mine.

For the first time, I see it: a smile.

Real. Unmasked. Soft as tide foam.

My breath stutters. I grip the mic tighter.

And somehow, I speak.

I read an old poem—one I wrote years ago, when hope felt thin and fierce.

“We are more than brick and board.

We are voice and storm and story.

We are the stubborn light that stays.”

My voice wavers, but I finish.

And when I do, the applause rolls like a tide.

But I hear none of it.

Because my eyes are still locked with his.

And in that look, everything unspoken hums between us.

No promises or plans.

But a start.

I want it.

I don’t mean to read another, but the room is still, breathless, waiting. And the poem burns in my pocket like it’s been waiting, too.

I pull out the folded paper, edges worn soft from all the times I’ve touched it but didn’t dare speak it aloud.

Liara’s eyes catch mine from the front row. She nods, once.

I step back to the mic.

“I wasn’t going to read this,” I say softly. “It’s… not new. And it’s not polished. But it’s honest.”

The crowd leans in, curious.

I unfold the page with slow fingers. My throat tightens as I scan the first line.

Then I breathe, and I begin.

“Where the Salt Settles.”

Where the salt settles

is not always where you want to stay.

Sometimes the tide leaves you raw,

crusted over with things you didn't ask for.

But even then, you find your way to standing.

You find driftwood and old nails.

You build something with shaking hands.

Not a fortress.

Not a finish line.

Just a space where breath can land and not break.

I used to think survival was strength.

That quiet meant safety.

That alone meant control.

But it doesn’t.

It just means no one knows where to catch you when you fall.

I’ve learned to let the storm in.

To stand anyway.

To bleed on the page and call it poetry.

To look someone in the eye and say ? —

yes. I’m scared. But I’m still here.

Still hoping.

Still fighting.

Still soft in all the places they told me to harden.

Where the salt settles ? —

that’s where the story begins.

Silence.

Complete.

Like the whole room has forgotten how to breathe.

I lower the page. My hand trembles.

For a moment, I wish I hadn’t read it.

And then I meet his eyes.

He hasn’t moved from the back of the room.

But his eyes—gods—they haven’t left me once.

The applause starts slow. Soft.

Then it builds, crashing over me like the sea itself.

But he doesn’t clap.

He steps forward instead.

Through the crowd.

Through the noise.

Like the rest of the world has gone still again.

He reaches me slowly, stopping just shy of the mic.

And he doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t try to explain.

He just holds out his hand.

Open.

Steady.

I stare at it for half a breath.

Then I take it.

And the noise around us melts into something quieter, something real.

Because I know.

Whatever happens next, we begin here.