Page 28 of Her Orc Healer

The sharp scent of ink hit me first. Then the mess. Shelves overturned. Papers scattered. And there—across the far wall—was a smear of red. An ink jar had shattered, its contents dripping downward in uneven trails, as if someone had flung it in a violent arc.

And in the center of the crimson stain, a single word—carved into the ink, smeared by unsteady fingers, dragged across the wall like a wound.

TAKEN.

The word seemed to pulse against the wall, stark and glaring in the dim light. My breath locked in my throat.

Maeve shifted at my side. "Ro?"

I forced my voice to stay steady. "Go upstairs, Maeve."

She hesitated. "But—"

"Now." I turned to her, crouching so I was at her level. I smoothed my hands over her shoulders, trying to keep my grip light, even as my pulse pounded in my ears. "I need you to go to our room and stay there, alright? Don't come down until I say."

Maeve frowned, her small hands twisting in my tunic. "But the shop—"

"Maeve." I exhaled slowly, pressing my forehead to hers for just a moment. "Please."

Something in my voice must have reached her because after a long, searching look, she nodded.

"Okay."

She turned and ran toward the stairs, her small feet light on the wood. I waited until I heard the bedroom door close before I turned back to the wall.

TAKEN.

The war had made the word infamous. Taken meant lost to the darkness. It meant beyond saving. People whispered it in the wake of battle when a soldier fell not to steel but to something deeper—something twisted.

Drev had seen what happened yesterday. She had seen the shadows that curled at Maeve’s fingertips. And now, she’d left that word behind. Who else could this have been?

I didn’t know what she meant by it. Not exactly. But I knew what it felt like. A warning. Or a threat. Maybe both.

My hands curled into fists. A sick, twisting feeling spread through my ribs.

I grabbed a rag from behind the counter, shaking so hard the fabric nearly slipped from my fingers.

I needed to get rid of it.

I dipped the rag into the water basin and scrubbed. Hard.

The ink didn’t smear at first—it resisted, seeping into the wood and grain. I scrubbed harder. The wet rag turned red. Ink stained my fingertips, my palms, my wrists, trailing up my forearms.

Still, the word remained.

TAKEN.

I kept scrubbing.

The rag sloshed water over the floor. My breath came fast and uneven, my vision tunneling. The word blurred, streaked, but it wouldn’t go away.

It was everywhere. On the wall. On my hands. Beneath my nails.

My arms ached. My throat burned. I wanted to scream.

The floor creaked behind me.

I froze.

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