Page 49 of Her Orc Healer

I pretended not to notice.

With a final glance at the stall, I let Maeve pull me into the market’s depths, her laughter curling through the cool night air like a ribbon.

Behind me, Kazrek settled into place, already watching over our little corner of the world like it was something worth guarding.

We moved through the market’s winding paths, Maeve tugging me forward with boundless enthusiasm. Her excitement was contagious enough that I let myself relax, just a little. Lanterns hung overhead like captured stars, their golden glow reflecting off swirling fabrics and flickering through the iridescent blown-glass figurines lined up at one stall.

“Look!” Maeve gasped, pulling me toward the glassblower’s stand. A great furnace roared behind the counter, where a woman wielded a long pipe, turning molten glass in the flames. Before our eyes, she shaped it into the delicate form of a bird, its wings outstretched mid-flight.

Maeve pressed close to the edge of the stall, eyes wide. “She’s making a sparrow,” she whispered, awed.

I found myself watching Maeve more than the craft itself, taking in the way the firelight danced across her features—the way wonder softened her usually sharp curiosity into something utterly childlike. That was the thing about Maeve. She wasn’t just magic in power—she was magic in the way she saw the world, in the way she could find enchantment in the simplest things.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

We wandered farther into the festival, past a stall where enchanted ribbons wove themselves into braids, past a shadow-puppeteer whose creatures seemed to move with minds of their own.

Maeve squealed as she caught sight of the fire dancers, their torches spinning in perfect arcs, the flames reflecting in her wide eyes. She pulled me forward without hesitation, weaving through the gathered crowd until we were close enough to feel the heat of the performance.

For a moment, I let everything else fall away—the responsibilities, the worries, the ever-present weight of the past. I let myself exist in this space, at Maeve’s side, feeling the pulse of the market around us. The flames painted shifting patterns of gold and orange across the cobblestones, their crackling warmth wrapping around us like an embrace.

Maeve clapped her hands together, bouncing on her toes. “I want to do that when I’m older,” she whispered, her voice full of awe.

I arched a brow. “You, tossing fire into the air? Seems a bit reckless.”

She grinned. “I’d be careful! Mostly.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s what worries me.”

The laughter between us lingered as the fire dancers spun through their final flourish, flames arching into the night like golden ribbons. The crowd erupted in applause, Maeve among them, her hands clapping with unfiltered delight.

“Alright, little spark,” I murmured, ruffling her hair. “We should head back before Kazrek starts thinking we’ve run off and left him with the stall forever.”

Maeve huffed a dramatic sigh, but she took my hand willingly enough as we wove back through the festival paths. The market was still alive with color and movement, though the crowd had thinned just enough to make walking easier.

I was already tallying the night’s earnings, thinking about what still needed packing, when Maeve tugged hard on my sleeve.

“Oooh, look at that one!” she gasped, pointing toward a stall crammed with magical trinkets and relics.

The vendor was an older man, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his cloak a little too fine for a simple merchant. A salesman, through and through. He was in the middle of regaling a small crowd with some fantastical tale, gesturing grandly to a set of crystal pendants laid out before him.

“This fine amethyst,” he declared, holding up a glimmering purple stone wrapped in delicate gold filigree, “was enchanted by the lost Fae Lords of the western isles. It will grant you visions of your truest love—”

“Oh, that’s not true,” a woman in the crowd scoffed, shaking her head. “That’s just quartz dipped in dye.”

The merchant didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, but perhaps that’s just what the Fae want you to believe!”

Maeve giggled. I couldn’t help but smirk myself. The man was utterly full of it, but at least he was entertaining.

As I turned back to the table, my eyes landed on a delicate silver chain with a small emerald pendant—pretty, nothing remarkable, but I considered it for a moment. Maeve had been eyeing the jewelry stands all night, and it might make a good little keepsake.

The vendor noticed my interest instantly, leaning in with a knowing smile. “Ah, a fine choice, madam! That stone is said to ward off ill omens and protect one’s home.”

While the merchant prattled on, Maeve’s gaze had settled elsewhere—on a small, unremarkable bauble nestled among the other trinkets. A polished pendant of dark, glassy stone, its surface barely reflecting the lantern light. At first glance, it looked like onyx, maybe obsidian. But as I followed Maeve’s stare, something about it made my breath hitch.

The shadows inside it moved.

Not the way light might shift across a smooth surface. They writhed—coiling and twisting like ink dropped in water, stretching toward the edges of the stone before pulling inward again. A slow, pulsing rhythm, as if the thing inside it breathed.

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