Page 1 of Her Orc Protector

Prologue

There were days when he could almost forget there had ever been a war. Days when the sky was quiet, when the road stretched out empty beneath his boots, and the only thing ahead was another town that didn’t know his name.

But peace never sat right in his bones.

It itched. It ached. It made him aware of the places where scars had settled—his shoulder, his ribs, the twist at his left knee where a blade had gone too deep too fast. He had survived worse than most. He hadn’t figured out yet if that made him lucky or just cursed to linger.

He’d tried the healer’s caravan for a while. Guarded their supplies, sat with dying men, pulled steel from flesh. They were kind people. Gentle in that way that made his skin crawl after too long. Always offering food he didn’t ask for. Always smiling like they didn’t see the weight he carried.

He didn’t belong there. Or anywhere, really.

The war had taken many things and given him solitude in return. At first, that felt like freedom. But solitude turned sour when it lasted too long. Became hunger. Not for blood. Not anymore. Just for something solid. Something real.

He came to Everwood because the caravan stopped here and he didn’t feel like leaving. That was the whole of it. No plan. No fresh start. Just a tired man with a pack on his back and a name no one called unless they needed him to bleed for them.

Uldrek leaned against the wooden post outside the old market square, arms crossed, eyes scanning the quiet street. The scent of yeast and morning fog curled in the air. Behind him, the world moved on—bright banners, cobbled stones, laughter that didn’t belong to him.

Maybe he’d leave tomorrow.

Maybe not.

Chapter 1

The baby hiccupped once against my chest, then went still. I tightened the wrap over my shoulder and stepped into the Hearth Office.

Inside, the quiet was its own kind of heavy. Not silence exactly—just the scratch of a quill, a chair creaking, the faint clink of a teapot.

The clerk looked up from a pile of half-sorted forms. She was younger than I’d expected, maybe twenty-five. Human. Ink smudged on the edge of her hand, and there was a berry-colored stain on the collar of her tunic.

"Name?" she asked.

"Issy Fairbairn." The name fit awkwardly around my mouth, one I hadn’t used since before my marriage.

The clerk nodded and slid a parchment toward me. “Sovereign Separation Intent?”

I gave a single nod, tight and mechanical. It felt surreal—after years of enduring a life that was all wrong, I was finally doingsomething about it. Something official. On paper. Like that made it real. Like a piece of paper could keep him away.

She retrieved a clean quill from the rack. No flourish. No ceremony. The motion had the weight of practice. She’d done this a hundred times. A thousand, maybe.

My hand shook when I reached for it. I hated that. Resented the tremor as if it betrayed me.

Ellie stirred as I dipped the quill, then stilled again when I adjusted my hold, careful not to jar her. The paper bore six lines to fill—Name, Arrival Date, Declared Occupation, Dependents, Magical Affiliation (if any), Reason. That last field was optional. I left it blank.

The final act came with no warning. The clerk turned the page over, revealing the soulbinding plate—no larger than my palm, etched with circular sigils that glinted faintly in the lamplight.

“You’ll need to press your thumb here,” the clerk said.

But I hesitated; Gavriel might be able to trace me. But the protections here were supposed to be different. Cleaner. Older, maybe. Soulbound magic didn’t bow to titles or houses. That was what I’d been told.

Still, my stomach knotted as I looked down at the plate. That was the danger of surviving too long: you stopped trusting even the things built to protect you.

The surface shimmered faintly. I shifted Ellie higher on my chest and pressed my right thumb to the circle's center. The metal was warm, and a pulse thrummed once beneath my skin. Pressure, then release. A quiet click, like a door shutting somewhere far away.

“All set,” the clerk said, placing the parchment into an envelope and sealing it with a quick sigil stamp. “You’re authorized for a transitional board and placement. One dependent registered.”

Her eyes flicked toward a ledger off to the side. “You’ll be assigned to Tinderpost House, Oakroot Quarter. Meals are communal. Curfew's at dusk. You’ll get placement notice by tomorrow—usually start with cleaning or inventory.”

I nodded, lips pressed tight. I used to have a cook, a laundress, a woman who pressed my gloves flat and folded my letters by hand. Now, I was waiting to hear which broom closet I'd be assigned to. It wasn’t shameful, exactly. Just a long way to fall for the sake of freedom.

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