Page 94 of Her Orc Healer

Brindle's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, strained and edged with something I’d never heard from her before—fear.

“You don’t know what you’re giving her to,” she said, her magic flaring weakly against the shadowed bindings. “Rowena, don’t do this.”

The Woman in Blue said nothing, merely watched me, patient, waiting.

Maeve stirred in my arms, a small, broken whimper slipping from her lips. Her fingers twitched around the compass, the needle still spinning wildly.

I pressed my forehead to hers, swallowing the thick, aching lump in my throat. I had tried everything. Every path, every hope, and it still led us here. Maeve was slipping, and no one could stop it. Except, maybe, the woman standing before me.

“We’re going to be okay,” I whispered. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea.

It was a promise.

I straightened, my grip tightening around Maeve as I faced the woman again.

“Take us,” I said. "If you can help her, take us."

Her smile shifted, just slightly. Not triumphant. But close.

Brindle’s cry was sharp and desperate. The room lurched—not physically, but in a way that sent my stomach twisting, reality itself tilting as the edges of the world blurred.

The floor beneath my feet dissolved into light and shadow, a slow unraveling. My pulse pounded as the sensation of falling overtook me, but I held Maeve close, grounding myself in the weight of her in my arms. The last thing I saw was Brindle still thrashing against the shadows, her wings fighting against the binding with all the fury she had.

And then, just before the world went completely dark, the compass in Maeve’s hand stilled.

The needle, for the first time since she’d touched it, pointed sharply north.

Then, the light swallowed us whole.

Chapter 26

ThefirstthingIfelt was the cold.

Not the sharp bite of winter air but something deeper. Stone-cold. Damp. The kind of chill that had sunk into the ground a long time ago and never left. It pressed up through my spine as I stirred, stiff-limbed and slow, and tried to make sense of where I was.

The second thing I noticed was the silence.

Not the quiet of early morning or deep forest stillness. This was different. Heavier. Like the air was holding its breath.

I opened my eyes.

The light was wrong. Pale and diffused, but not from the sun. It didn’t flicker. Didn’t shift. It just… hung there. Cold and constant, spilling across smooth stone like it had been cast from some distant, buried lantern.

I pushed myself upright. My palm scraped moss—slick and cold and clinging to the curve of carved flagstone. Beneath it, the ground was uneven. Cracked in places. Roots snaked between the seams, thick alder roots, grown through the floor like veins through flesh. The patterns carved into the stone were old. Older than the war. Older than Everwood. I didn’t recognize them.

The trees arched high above us, their branches leaning inward, thick with leaves that didn’t rustle. No wind. No birdsong. Just stillness. I couldn’t see the edge of the clearing—just the faint shimmer of air bending wrong where the light reached too far.

Panic didn’t hit all at once. It came slowly—a crawling thing, like water seeping under a door.

My hands braced against the stone. The ground was cold but not dead. It thrummed beneath me—low and steady, like a heartbeat buried in the earth.

Then I realized what was missing.

“Maeve.” The name broke out of me like a bruise. Raw. Hoarse.

My arms were empty.

I scrambled to my feet too fast. The world tilted sideways. I caught myself on one of the standing stones—rough with age, damp with mist—and turned.

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