Page 110 of Her Orc Healer

Kazrek huffed a low sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Swore at him in three languages.”

“Let me guess—something about never doing this again?”

“And about the size of orc babies,” he added dryly.

I snorted. “She knew what she was signing up for.”

“She says no one warned her properly.” He tilted his head, that rare ghost of a smile flickering across his mouth. “Wants to write a pamphlet.”

I laughed. “I’d read it.”

Kazrek stepped away just long enough to pull a small jar from the satchel he'd set down—a thick, dark salve that smelled faintly of pine and something peppery. He handed it to me with a nod.

“For Mister Edwin,” he said simply.

I crossed back to the front and passed both the salve and the freshly prepared ink to the old man, who’d risen slowly from the bench.

“Apply it morning and night,” I said, placing the jar gently in his hand. “Don’t skip, or you’ll start creaking again.”

“And use the ink before it dries,” Kazrek added from behind me, voice dry.

Edwin’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve lived this long creaky and dry, but I’ll do my best.” He tucked both into the worn satchel slung over his shoulder, adjusted his cane, and gave us each a nod. “You two make a good pair. Glad you figured it out.”

Kazrek only grunted, but there was a faint warmth in it.

The door swung shut behind Edwin with a quiet click. I had just turned back toward the counter when it opened again, and an elderly gnome shuffled in, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. Her white hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore at least three shawls despite the warming spring air.

"Young man!" she called, squinting up at Kazrek. "My knees are speaking to me again, and they're not being polite about it!"

Kazrek straightened, turning toward her with practiced patience. "Morning, Mistress Twigg. Sit down, and I'll see what I can do."

The gnome ignored him completely and hobbled over to my workbench instead, peering at the blue pigment I'd been grinding with sharp, critical eyes. "Hm. Ultramarine? No, no. You want lapis for that. Deeper blue. Lasts longer on parchment."

I bit back a smile. "Thank you, Mistress Twigg. I'll keep that in mind."

She jabbed a finger toward the wall of ink pots. "And you're storing them all wrong. The west-facing shelf gets too much sun. Fades the colors."

"I've told her the same thing," Kazrek said mildly, guiding the gnome toward the small examination area we'd set up in the corner. It wasn't much—just a cushioned chair, a footstool, and a rolling cart of bandages and salves. But it served its purpose.

"See!" Mistress Twigg exclaimed. "Even the orc knows better, and he's only been in the ink business—what, two years?"

"Three," I corrected automatically.

Kazrek knelt before the gnome, gently examining her swollen knees with careful hands. I turned back to my workbench, trying to focus on the ink I was mixing. But my eyes kept wandering to him—to the steady movements of his fingers, the gentle way he spoke to his patient, the quiet confidence that came from knowing exactly what he was doing.

Auntie Brindle appeared in the doorway next, her tiny form practically vibrating with energy despite her advanced years. She carried a leather-bound notebook nearly as large as herself, the pages spilling over with pressed herbs and scribbled notations.

"Rowena, dear, you're out of feverfew again. And moonroot. And—"

"Is that Brindle?" Mistress Twigg interrupted. "Brindle, you old troublemaker! You still running that book club that's just an excuse to drink elderberry wine and gossip?"

"Of course I am," Brindle replied with dignity. "Though we do occasionally discuss books. Last week it was 'Proper Techniques for Herb Preservation,' which I found lacking in both practical advice and narrative tension."

I looked around at the chaos filling my once-quiet shop. Maeve was giggling quietly as motes of golden magic orbited her like dust in sunlight. Brindle and Mistress Twigg were engaged in a spirited debate about the merits of various tinctures for joint pain, their voices rising in competitive volume. Kazrek had moved on to fix the squeaky cabinet hinge, pausing occasionally to interject a calm fact into the brewing argument.

And hanging on the wall behind the counter was a map—marks placed in ink across the expanse of Alderwilde. Not plans for leaving, but dreams for someday. Places we might see, things we might do. Together.

The shop was too small for all of this life. Too cramped for these voices, these bodies, these dreams that kept expanding beyond the walls.

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