Page 25 of Her Orc Healer

I smoothed a hand over her tangled curls. “I know.”

Her little fingers twisted in my sleeve. “Are you scared of me now?”

A sharp pain twisted in my ribs. She had seen that flicker of hesitation, the way I’d frozen when I looked at her. No matter how much I wanted to protect her from the weight of things, I couldn’t shield her from what she had already felt.

I tightened my arm around her. “No.” The words were steady, certain. “I’m not scared of you.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers plucking at the hem of her tunic. Then she whispered, “But I am.”

“Magic doesn’t make you dangerous, May.” I nudged her gently. “Not knowing how to control it does. And that’s something we’re going to figure out.”

Maeve didn’t answer. Her hands stayed curled around the compass, her breath slowing against my shoulder. Outside, Everwood carried on as if the world hadn't shifted beneath my feet. Inside, below us, I could still hear Kazrek moving through the shop—wood scraping against wood, the soft sound of broken glass being swept away.

I started to move, half-rising from the bed, but Maeve’s fingers caught my sleeve. Not tight. Not desperate. Just a sleepy, quiet plea.

Stay.

I settled back against the wall, tucking her closer.

Kazrek would handle it.

And just this once, I would let him.

Chapter 7

TheGuildhallofArcanePractitioners was nestled within the Healer’s Circle, which made sense in theory. Magic and healing often overlapped, and this building—tucked at the farthest edge of the district, past the apothecaries and herb stalls—was meant to be a place of guidance. A resource for those with magic.

Except I already had a bad feeling about it.

The building was plain and practical, with none of the warmth that made the surrounding cottages feel lived-in. Its walls were stone, its windows narrow, and its only marker was a faded sigil of a scale resting on an open book.

Maeve squeezed my hand. “Is this a school?”

“Something like that.”

She tilted her head, considering the door. “Are we going inside?”

Before I could answer, the door swung open.

A young man in a dark green robe stood there, looking vaguely irritated. He wasn’t old, maybe a few years younger than me, but there was already something worn-out about him. His fingers were ink-stained, his posture stiff, and when his gaze flicked over me, then Maeve, there was no warmth in it.

"Can I help you?" His voice was clipped and efficient.

I tightened my grip on Maeve's hand and lifted my chin. "I need to speak to someone about my niece."

His eyes lingered on Maeve for a moment longer, as if already making his own conclusions, and then he stepped aside. “Come in.”

The guildhall smelled of parchment and burnt herbs. Shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty tomes and neatly labeled vials, but nothing about the space felt particularly welcoming. It was all too orderly, too stiff—like a place more concerned with rules than people.

Our footsteps echoed as we followed the man deeper inside. He stopped at a door, rapped his knuckles against it once, then slipped inside without a word.

A quiet murmur of voices. The rustle of parchment. Then—

“You may enter.”

I stepped forward, keeping Maeve close at my side.

The office was as stark as the rest of the building. A desk, a single window, bookshelves arranged with too much precision. The man behind the desk looked up as we entered, his quill pausing mid-stroke.

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