Page 66 of Her Orc Healer

Then, an elven woman with a braid like woven silver sidled up and tucked something warm into my hands—a honeyed roll, fresh from the oven. “You look underfed,” she said simply.

I let out something between a breath and a laugh, genuine and startled all at once. And it surprised me how easy it was to soften into this. To let the sharp edges of myself dull for a moment.

Iris, distracted by a figure draped in shimmering dusk-blue, sent me one last grin before disappearing into the press of bodies, leaving me alone with Kazrek, who extended his hand, palm up, calloused and steady. I hesitated just a moment before slipping my hand into his. His fingers curled around mine, warm and sure, anchoring me amidst the unfamiliar.

He guided me to where Vorgrim and Uldrek sat, the two orcs leaning back into their seats like men who knew they belonged wherever they decided to be. A few other caravan folk clustered nearby, passing around platters of roasted meat and spiced vegetables, their conversation interwoven with laughter and the occasional flash of magic flickering between fingers.

As Kazrek and I sat, Uldrek’s smirk widened. “Well, now,” he drawled, raising his tankard. “Didn’t think we’d see the day our Kazrek brought a woman to the fire.”

Kazrek rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. Vorgrim watched from behind his mug, gaze flicking between us, unreadable as ever.

I stiffened, out of habit more than anything. But when I glanced at Kazrek, he looked… patient. A little resigned. Like he’d heard this all before.

So I met Uldrek’s smirk with one of my own. “Oh? And what exactly does that mean?”

Uldrek rubbed his chin, mock thoughtful. “Let’s just say Kazrek’s not one to linger,” he said, shooting Kazrek a look. “Not in battle, not in caravans, and sure as hell not where people might start relying on him.”

Kazrek’s mouth twitched, but his eyes didn’t match the humor.

I decided it was time to nudge the mood back toward safer ground. “So... he usually has poor taste?”

Uldrek choked on his drink. Vorgrim made a low sound—maybe a laugh, maybe approval. Hard to tell.

Kazrek shook his head, half amused, half suffering. “Eat,” he said, nudging a plate toward me. “And stop encouraging him.”

The conversation stretched into something easy after that. They spoke of small things—of places they’d been on their travels, of strange superstitions they’d come across in distant towns, of a hedge-mage with a talent for charms gone humorously wrong. It was a side of Kazrek I hadn’t seen before—one surrounded by history and laughter, built on years of trust rather than the weight of responsibility. He was still Kazrek—quiet and steady—but there was a looseness to him here, a rare ease in his posture.

I found myself watching him more than was proper.

Uldrek, catching my gaze, smirked. "Not what you expected?" he asked, leaning in with theatrically conspiratorial interest.

I raised an eyebrow, pretending nonchalance. "Kazrek's capable of conversation. It's not exactly shocking."

"Mm." Uldrek gestured lazily at his friend, setting his tankard down with a dull thunk. "He always was the serious one. Even as a pup, he was the kind to sharpen his blade twice before using it. But we used to get him to laugh, now and then.”

Kazrek made a low sound of disapproval. “And usually at my expense.”

I couldn’t help the way my lips twitched. "Must have been a patient child, then."

"Oh, absolutely not." Uldrek grinned, leaning back into his chair. "Kazrek was the kind who wouldn't let a mistake go until he fixed it himself. Stubborn as a mountain."

Vorgrim hummed his agreement, resting his elbows on the table. "It suited him for warfare. But for healing…" He paused, considering his words. "He had to learn how to let go."

I turned to Kazrek, curious. "And did you?"

Kazrek’s gaze flicked to mine, steady. “I’m still learning,” he said. No self-deprecation. No bravado. Just truth.

I held his gaze a moment too long, something uneasy shifting in my chest. I looked away before I gave too much away.

The night stretched on in warmth and conversation. It was different from the controlled, structured life I'd built for myself—the unwavering discipline of routine, of filling my hours until exhaustion kept the fears at bay. This was… loosened. A life that moved in the small spaces between duty. For once, I let myself sit in it.

Eventually, the feast began to slow. The air had taken on a lazier quality, softened by full bellies and too much mead. Laughter gave way to quieter conversations, murmured songs, and the occasional burst of low, contented humming.

Vorgrim had been drawn into a circle of traveling healers near the firepit. I caught fragments of their conversation—some old field technique for breaking fevers, talk of a rare root that could numb bone pain. He seemed more animated than I’d seen him all evening, his gravel-deep voice lifting as he gestured with a clay cup.

Uldrek had disappeared with little ceremony, last seen slipping between two velvet-draped curtains with one of the tavern girls. Kazrek only shook his head when I asked. “He’ll reappear with a new story. Or two.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quite reach all the way through. My body was warm from drink, my limbs loose and comfortable—but something in my chest had begun to tighten again, coiling with the knowledge that Selior still hadn’t arrived. The rune. Maeve. Everything I was trying not to think about.

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