Page 60 of Her Orc Healer

"No," he said. "But…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening slightly, as if something about the sight unsettled him.

More wagons filed through the gates, each unique but bearing that same circular mark. Some had gardens growing from their roofs, trailing vines thick with night-blooming flowers. Others were wrapped in layers of gauzy fabric that rippled like water in the breeze. The people driving them were just as varied—elves with silver-marked skin, humans wearing robes that seemed woven from starlight, even what looked like a young giant, carefully leading a wagon twice the size of the others.

Maeve stirred against Kazrek's chest, lifting her head to watch. "Pretty," she whispered, reaching toward one of the crystal lanterns as it passed.

The light seemed to reach back, stretching toward her like curious fingers before snapping back into its glass confines. A figure in the nearest wagon turned sharply, their silver-marked face catching the moonlight as they stared directly at us. At Maeve.

I stepped closer to Kazrek, my hand tightening around his. Without a word, he shifted Maeve higher against his chest, tucking her face into his shoulder to block her view. The movement was protective, instinctive—and something in my chest ached at how naturally he shielded her.

The silver-marked figure continued to watch us as their wagon passed, their eyes reflecting the crystal light like mirrors. There was something knowing in their gaze that made my skin prickle with unease.

"We should go," Kazrek murmured, his voice low and tight.

I nodded, but before we could turn away, the last wagon rolled through the gates. Its frame was carved with spiraling designs that looked like the tattoos etched into Kazrek's skin. Unlike the ethereal beauty of the other wagons, this one carried a different kind of power. Built from dark ironwood and reinforced with steel bands, it seemed made for war rather than wonder. Bone charms hung from its eaves, clicking together like whispered secrets.

Kazrek went completely still beside me. His grip on Maeve tightened fractionally, but there was something else in his posture now—recognition, maybe.

A massive beast emerged from the shadows beside the wagon, its rider barely visible in the darkness. As they stepped into the lamplight, I realized it wasn't a horse at all, but some kind of mountain ram with curved horns and a coat like starlight on snow.

"Well, shit," a rough voice called out, warm with familiarity. "Didn't expect to see your ugly face ever again, Bloodfang."

Kazrek let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re a long way from the front lines, Wolfsbane.”

The other orc’s gaze flicked over him, then to me, lingering just long enough to make my spine stiffen. Then his eyes dropped to Maeve, still tucked securely against Kazrek’s chest. Finally, his attention landed on our hands, still loosely clasped between us.

His grin widened, sharp and knowing. “So are you, old friend.”

Chapter 17

Themorninglightfilteredthrough the shop windows, catching motes of dust that danced like scattered stars. I watched them absently, my hands moving through the familiar motions of grinding pigment while my thoughts drifted elsewhere. To last night. To Kazrek.

Behind me, Maeve's laughter rang out, followed by Auntie Brindle's quiet clucking. They sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an array of river stones and dried flowers. Another magic lesson—though Auntie Brindle insisted on calling them "conversations with the world."

"Gentle now, little one," the brownie murmured. "Let the stone tell you what it remembers."

I turned just in time to see Maeve's small hands cupped around a smooth gray pebble, her face scrunched in concentration. A faint glow emanated from between her fingers, soft and pearl-like—nothing like the darkness that had sparked from that pendant at the market.

My chest tightened. I forced myself back to the mortar and pestle, to the steady rhythm of grinding indigo into submission. It was easier than thinking about last night—about how Kazrek had grown distant after his friend's arrival, how his usual warmth had cooled to something almost formal as he walked us home.

He hadn't lingered at my door. Hadn't pulled me close or pressed his lips to my temple like he usually did. Just a quiet "see you tomorrow" and then he was gone, leaving me with an ache I hadn't expected. An ache I hated myself for feeling.

"The stone remembers water," Maeve announced proudly. "Cold water, deep under ice."

"Very good," Auntie Brindle praised. "What else?"

I pressed harder with the pestle, the scraping sound almost loud enough to drown out my thoughts. Almost.

Behind me, the bell above the shop door chimed. I didn't look up.

"Did you hear the Silverroot Circle has arrived?" someone asked—one of the Riverside regulars, I thought, judging by the perfume and her voice like honey steeped in gossip. "They came through the gates last night—mages, fortune-tellers, a whole damn fleet of wandering scholars. Some say they’ve got seers who can read fate in a puddle."

"And war-bards from the borderlands," another voice chimed in. "One of them’s supposed to have sung the storm down over Moonshadow Pass during the siege."

It had been like this all morning. The whole town seemed enchanted by the caravan’s arrival. Everyone had something to say.

And I couldn’t stop wondering what they meant to Kazrek.

When had I become so used to him? When had his presence become something I expected, something I missed when it was gone?

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