Page 28 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he boardwalk hums beneath my feet.

It breathes.

A thousand voices rise and fall like the sea itself—laughter, shouts, the soft ring of steel on glass from vendor stalls. The air is thick with scent: fried fish, sweet kettle corn, fresh bread, charred spice that makes my mouth water despite the knot in my throat.

Lanterns hang like low stars, strung from timber poles newly planted into the boardwalk’s bones. Their light flickers warm across the crowd, painting every weathered face, every wide-eyed child, in gold.

Above it all, the sky stretches deep and clean—sable blue darkening to indigo at the edges, the first stars pricking through.

It is more than I imagined.

More than I thought I deserved.

I stand near the western edge beneath the old lighthouse beam—now restored, shining steady against the night. My arms cross instinctively, the faded wood cool against my back.

No suit. No shield.

Just dark denim, worn boots, a black henley rolled to the elbows. The pin Jamie gave me rests over my heart.

I feel its weight more keenly tonight than steel ever could.

Locals pass me in eddies of movement—vendors hawking final wares, families weaving beneath the banners, couples leaning close against the breeze.

Some glance my way.

A few nod. Cautious respect.

One elderly woman presses a small sprig of lavender into my hand as she passes. “For luck,” she says, eyes bright with salt and memory.

I nod, throat thick. “Thank you.”

But not all looks are kind.

An older man near the railing mutters beneath his breath: “Strange times, when orcs build what men could not.”

I let the words pass like wind through reeds.

I will earn my place here with deeds, not arguments.

The rooftop exhibit waits above the central hall.

Liara’s vision.

My execution.

A gallery of her murals—new and old—woven with the framed pages of Jamie’s story. The tale that captured this town’s stubborn, scarred heart.

I should be there, unveiling it.

Instead, I stand below, tethered by something heavier than pride.

By doubt.

Ilyaana’s voice echoes from another life: “You will stand alone for this choice.”

I do not mind solitude.

But tonight... I feel it.

Liara catches my eye across the square—arms streaked with paint, dress wild with color. She lifts a brow, mouth quirking.

You coming?

I offer no answer.

Above me, children’s voices spill through the open windows—gasps of wonder, bright laughter.

Jamie’s voice rises clear:

"And this page shows where the Green Giant fixes the sea—see? And then Mama says it’s brave to try, even when you’re scared!"

The words land sharp beneath my ribs.

I step deeper into shadow.

And then—she arrives.

Rowan.

Her hair catches the lantern glow—loose and wild as the tide. She wears a dress the color of sea-foam shadow, fabric clinging soft to her skin. Her eyes, wide beneath the lights, gleam with something fierce and new.

Jamie tugs at her hand, laughing, half-dragging her through the crowd.

She lets him.

And her smile makes the stars seem dim.

I cannot look away.

They reach the fish shack first—reborn now in lantern light and fresh-sanded wood. Children swarm the space, voices overlapping. Jamie darts to his framed drawings, pointing with boundless pride.

"This one’s the lighthouse. And this is Mama and me. And Mr. Drokhaz helped hang them!"

Rowan crouches to listen, her gaze soft, her mouth trembling at the corners.

I shift deeper into the shadowed arch of the nearest stall.

I do not know if I belong among them.

I fought for this.

Bled for it—in ways no boardroom would ever grasp.

But belonging... is another battle entirely.

I watch her.

Watch them.

Jamie’s curls bob as he points out each page. Rowan’s hand brushes his shoulder, lingering just a breath too long.

A woman who fought with her whole heart, who stood when others fled.

A boy who trusted without question.

And me.

A builder of towers.

A breaker of things meant to endure.

I stand apart.

Not because they would push me away.

But because I do not yet know if I can step forward.

My fingers curl loose at my sides.

Above me, the rooftop exhibit glows—a testament to stories and scars alike.

I should be there.

But my eyes find Rowan again—her face tilted toward Jamie’s joy, her body framed in lantern fire and shadow.

And in the hush of my heart, beneath the sea’s steady song, one truth roots deeper than all the rest:

I want to belong.

But wanting is not the same as knowing.

So I stay in shadow.

And I watch.

I remain beneath the eaves, watching as shadows deepen and stars sharpen overhead.

The crowd swirls around me—a tide of faces bright with triumph, old wounds knit by new hope.

And still, I stay back.

I tell myself it is enough.

To see it standing.

To know it breathes.

But then—soft footsteps near my side.

I glance down.

Jamie stands there—barefoot on the worn boards, curls tangled, cheeks flushed from running. His small hand clutches a half-eaten caramel apple, stick sticky with sugar.

“Mr. Drokhaz!” he says, wide-eyed.

I incline my head. “Jamie.”

He looks up at the lanterns strung across the boardwalk, then at the fish shack glowing warm behind him. His gaze flicks between them—between me.

“You built this, right?” he asks softly.

I feel the words settle beneath my ribs.

I crouch so my gaze meets his.

“No,” I answer, voice low and steady. “ We did.”

He beams—bright as the lanterns.

And without hesitation, he reaches for my hand.

“Come on,” he says. “Mama’s over there. We saved you a spot.”

The knot in my chest pulls tight, then loosens in a single breath.

I let him lead me. One step. Another.

Into the light.

I don’t look back.