Page 99 of Her Orc Healer

Her heartbeat. Every flicker of it echoed through the ground. Every slowing thud. The forest was listening.

I braced both palms to the barrier ward, forehead pressed hard to the shimmer. “Please,” I whispered. “Please, come back. I’m right here.”

But she didn’t hear me.

Or if she did—she was too far away to answer.

Drev rose from her position and turned to the Woman in Blue, who held something cupped between her palms—a small glass vial, stoppered with wax. My stomach dropped.

It was mine. The ink I’d sold her at the Night Market.

Deep plum, arcane-binding. Chosen for permanence. For holding power in place.

She broke the seal with a flick of her nail and tipped the ink into a shallow silver bowl. Drev dipped two fingers into the ink and turned back to Maeve.

Then, with careful precision, she reached out and began to paint.

The first glyph blazed across Maeve's forehead—a curve like a crescent moon, but twisted inward. Wrong. The second followed at her throat. The third over her heart. Each one burned brighter than the last, until I couldn't look directly at them without my eyes watering.

Maeve's body jerked.

Her back arched off the stone, spine bowing impossible and sharp. A sound caught in her throat—not quite a scream, but something worse. Something small and broken and lost.

"Stop!" I slammed against the ward again, harder this time. My shoulder cracked against it. Pain shot down my arm. "You're hurting her—"

But Drev didn't pause. Didn't even flinch. Her hands were steady as she drew the final mark. It unfurled at Maeve’s sternum—dark ink spilling into a spiral, its lines looping inward like a net being pulled tight. Not a ward, not truly. A cage, stitched into her skin with strokes meant to hold something in.

It almost looked like a protection sigil. Almost. But the more I looked, the more wrong it felt. Each curve drew the eye inward, spiraling toward a center that wasn’t there.

The Mark of the Taken.

A symbol meant to bind what shouldn’t be bound. A cage shaped like a child.

Maeve's fingers twitched. Just slightly. Almost nothing. But in her palm, clutched tight against her side—something stirred. A warmth. A pulse. Faint at first, then stronger.

The compass.

I'd forgotten she was holding it. She’d still had it when the woman took us, must have kept it close even as she slept. The metal caught the ritual light and bent it—not reflecting, but gathering, like it was drawing something in.

Drev's hand stilled mid-stroke. Her eyes narrowed. "What—"

The compass flared.

Not with magic. Not with shadow. With something older. Something that remembered the way home.

The needle spun once, sharp and decisive. Then again. Faster. The glow built beneath Maeve's fingers until I could see the bones through her skin, lit from within by something warm and golden and alive.

Drev reached for it.

The moment her fingers touched Maeve’s hand, the compass exploded with light. The ward shuddered—rippled like heat off stone. For one heartbeat, it went thin. Fragile.

I didn't think. I threw myself forward.

This time, instead of solid resistance, I felt give. Then tear. Then—

I hit the ground hard, shoulder first, stones biting into my palms as I scrambled up. My legs weren't steady, but I didn't care. I lunged for the altar, for Maeve, for anything I could reach—

The woman’s magic caught me mid-stride. Held me. My muscles locked. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

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