Page 26 of Her Orc Healer

Thin. Neatly kept. Spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He wore the same dark green robes as the first man, but his were lined with silver. A mark of rank, probably.

His gaze flicked over me first, then Maeve, before he finally set his quill down. “You’re not a registered practitioner.”

I kept my expression neutral. “No.”

“Then what brings you to the Guild?”

I resisted the urge to glance at Maeve, keeping my posture measured. "My—" I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "My niece has shown signs of magic."

The man barely reacted. He simply adjusted his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. "And?"

I frowned. "I’d like guidance. Resources. Something to help her control it."

"Control what?" he asked.

Before I could answer, Maeve spoke up. "I glow sometimes," she said brightly.

The man barely blinked. “That’s not unusual,” he said dismissively, reaching for his quill again. “Many children exhibit minor magical anomalies at a young age. Most fade with time.”

Maeve’s shoulders slumped.

A flicker of something sharp curled in my stomach. I had expected judgment, wariness—even fear. But this? This was worse.

He wasn’t afraid of Maeve’s magic.

He didn’t think it mattered at all.

“She’s not fading,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s getting stronger.”

“Stronger in what way?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t about to tell him everything. “She doesn’t just glow,” I said carefully. “It reacts when she’s upset. It flares. I need to know how to guide her.”

The man made another vague, uninterested sound. “Emotional responses are common at this age.”

My patience thinned. “And what if it doesn’t regulate?”

“Then it doesn’t.” He set his quill down again, folding his hands atop the desk. “You said you wanted guidance. My guidance is this: wait. If the child’s magic is truly significant, it will manifest properly in time. Until then, I see no reason to be concerned.”

No reason to be concerned.

Maeve, small and uncertain beside me.

Maeve, who had called shadows without knowing how, who had knocked a solid oak shelf to the floor in a single burst of emotion.

I clenched my jaw. “You’re supposed to be a resource. Are you telling me there’s nothing available? No books, no teachers—?”

The man exhaled, the faintest hint of exasperation slipping into his features. “If she develops magic beyond a parlor trick, there are institutions that can assess her when she’s older.”

“Institutions,” I repeated flatly.

“For formal training,” he clarified, as if I were dense. “Children withrealgifts are sometimes sent to academies where their abilities can be properly cultivated.”

Something cold pressed against my ribs. “That won’t be necessary.”

The man lifted his hands in an almost indifferent shrug. “Then my advice stands. If her abilities pose arealproblem, return with a formal petition.”

I stared at him. For a moment, I couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—because I had truly, foolishly allowed myself to hope. To believe that I might walk into this place and find answers. Instead, I was being brushed aside.

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