Page 8 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

L owtide Bluffs always smells the same in the morning—salt, fish, rotting wood, too much sun baked into every crevice. A scent that clings, no matter how far one tries to run from it.

I do not run.

But today… I need distance.

The news crews were waiting when I left the hotel. Word travels fast here—quicker than profit margins, quicker than concrete cures. I didn’t plan to be seen touring the boardwalk again so soon after that infernal poetry night flyer went up, but word slipped. They smelled blood.

"Are you softening your stance, Mr. Vellum?"

"Are you working with Ms. Moore now?"

"Can we get a comment about your 'dance'?"

Idiots.

I lengthen my stride, jaw clenched. Their cameras flash behind me, shutters snapping like distant gunfire. I duck beneath a low awning strung with tattered flags and make for a side path between two shuttered surf shops.

The boards here are warped, weathered slick by countless tides. Beneath them, the sea groans like some ancient thing waking from sleep. The farther I walk, the quieter the noise of the crowd behind me becomes, swallowed by the breath of the ocean and the creak of old wood.

Ahead, a shack leans into the wind, half-swallowed by nets and hanging buoys. The paint might have once been red, but now it’s the bleached pink of sun-scorched bone. A faded sign creaks overhead:

Casswell’s Chips & Curios.

I exhale, long and low. Sanctuary, of a sort.

I shoulder open the crooked door. The chime above it clangs once, harsh and off-key.

Inside, the world shifts.

It smells of brine, citrus, and something older—earthier—beneath it all.

A dryad’s touch, I suspect. The room is dim save for the glow of an old lantern hung from a net-strewn rafter.

Shelves sag beneath jars of kelp and sea glass, stacks of yellowed books, bits of rusted ship hardware, and coils of ancient rope.

Behind a battered counter, a man hunches over a steaming mug. Wiry, sharp-eyed, and utterly unimpressed by my presence.

“Ah,” he rasps without looking up. “The green-suited orc seeks refuge.”

I lift a brow. “Old Man Cass.”

He finally glances up, eyes like brackish water—deep, layered, faintly amused. “Malcolm Casswell,” he says. “Though most have forgotten the Malcolm.”

I close the door behind me with care. The noise outside fades to nothing.

“I do not seek conversation,” I say. “Only a moment of quiet.”

Cass snorts and gestures toward a stool. “Wrong place, boy. I ain’t known for my silence.”

"Boy." The word bristles in me, but I let it slide. He is older—perhaps older than I can guess. And I have no wish to make enemies among the town’s deeper roots.

I sit, the stool creaking beneath my weight.

Without another word, Cass slides a woven basket across the counter. The chips glisten dark green beneath a dusting of salt and spice.

“They’ll settle you,” he says simply.

I eye the offering, then take one. Crisp. Unexpectedly complex—seaweed, citrus, a slow burn of heat that lingers.

Cass watches, one brow arched. “You come from steel towers and polished marble. Ain’t much room for flavor in that world.”

I set the chip down. “I do not often indulge in idle snacks.”

He chuckles. “These ain’t idle. Food’s a tether, boy. Reminds you where you come from.”

I study him more closely. There’s wisdom here. Not the kind worn on gilded cufflinks or signed in bloodless boardrooms. Something older. Truer.

He catches my gaze and leans forward. “So. You and little Rowan, eh?”

I freeze. “There is no and. ”

Cass grins, teeth sharp as a gull’s beak. “Aye. And yet here you are. Slinking through shadows.”

I set the basket aside. “I seek only to understand.”

“Do you?” He steeples his fingers. “Or are you trying not to remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Cass shifts, gaze going distant. “I courted her grandmother once,” he says softly. “Summer nights on this very boardwalk. Danced her beneath lantern light till dawn.”

I say nothing. There is reverence in his voice. A thread of memory spun so fine it threatens to snap.

“She fought for this place,” he continues. “Fierce as any tide. Rowan’s got that same fire. Same stubborn streak.”

“I have noticed,” I say dryly.

Cass chuckles. “Aye. Thought you might.”

He pours himself a splash of amber liquid from a battered flask, sips. “You think this boardwalk needs saving.”

“It needs rebuilding,” I reply. “Its bones are broken.”

Cass leans back. “Bones can be mended. But you’re missing the marrow, boy.”

I frown. “Explain.”

He gestures around the cluttered shop. “These trinkets? Worthless, to the right eyes. Yet each one holds a tale. The boardwalk’s the same. You rip it bare, you strip the stories with it.”

“Sentiment does not fund restoration.”

“True,” he agrees. “But it does give it purpose.”

I lean forward. “Purpose without function is folly.”

His eyes gleam. “And function without soul is hollow.”

We stare at each other across the dim space, silence stretching taut.

He sighs and reaches beneath the counter. From some hidden drawer, he produces a battered brass compass. The glass is cracked, the needle spinning lazy circles.

He slides it toward me.

“North don’t always mean right,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta follow the tide.”

I lift it, weighing the worn metal in my palm. It hums faintly beneath my fingers—old magic, or perhaps only memory.

“Why give this to me?”

Cass smiles. “Because you ain’t beyond saving yet, boy. Not if you remember to listen.”

I stand, pocketing the compass. “I do not require saving.”

“Maybe not.” He leans back, eyes twinkling. “But you sure as hell need reminding.”

I incline my head—a rare gesture of respect.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Come back when you need more than numbers,” Cass says simply.

I leave without another word.

Outside, the gulls wheel silent against a bruised sky. The reporters still lurk at the main entrance, but I take a side path instead—walking alone beneath the whisper of salt-stained winds.

The compass is warm in my pocket.

And for reasons I cannot name, I do not let go.

Back at the trailer, the air feels too still.

The official blueprints lie where I left them—neat, perfect, untouched. The spreadsheets glare from the laptop screen, columns of profit margins and stakeholder reports.

Yet my gaze drifts past all of it… to the wall.

To Jamie’s map.

Still pinned beside my desk—childish lines, bright colors, names for places no architect would dream of. Sea Monster Cove. Hidden Bench of Smiles. Professor Chomp’s Lookout.

I reach into my pocket, fingers closing around cold brass.

The compass.

I turn it over in my palm. The cracked glass catches the light. Etched faintly along the rim:

North doesn’t always mean right.

A foolish sentiment. Yet one that will not leave me.

I glance at Jamie’s map again.

Slowly, deliberately, I reach for a pin. Press the compass to the wall—just beside the edge of the map where the boy’s careful scrawl reads The Places We Save.

It holds there, gleaming dully against the paper.

I sit heavily in my chair.

And I wonder—when did this happen?

When did a boy’s drawing, a human woman’s stubborn fire, an old dryad’s riddle… matter more than glass towers and profit sheets?

I do not have the answer.

But I think I may want to find it.