Page 18 of Her Orc Protector

But tonight, under the creaking eaves of Tinderpost House, Ellie safe beside me, and my calves still sore from pivoting wrong. I stirred a little beneath the blanket and allowed myself to believe—just a little—that I hadn’t lied in the market.

Not entirely.

Maybe I had chosen right.

And maybe, if I stayed, he would, too.

Chapter 6

Ileaned over a table of unfurled scrolls, carefully noting their titles in the ledger Edwin had entrusted to me. Though I'd been hired as a cleaner, he had quietly shifted me toward more scholarly work—cataloging, transcription, sorting the post-war backlog of donations. He never mentioned the change directly, just handed me new tasks with the quiet confidence that I could complete them.

Ellie dozed against my chest, wrapped in a sling that left my hands free to work. Her warm weight was a comfort I'd never take for granted. At nearly eight months old, she was becoming more alert, more curious, more herself with each passing day. I'd learned to work around her rhythms—cataloging during her naps, reading aloud when she was awake, as if she might absorb the histories of Alderwilde alongside the sound of my voice.

I winced as I reached for a particularly stubborn scroll, feeling the pull in my shoulder. My body ached in new ways since I'd begun training with Uldrek. Not the ache of tension or thesharp, hidden bruises I used to lie about. These were different. Clean. Earned. The satisfying soreness of muscles learning their purpose.

"Who reorganized the eastern chronologies?" Fira's voice cut through the quiet, her accent thickening with annoyance as it always did when she was flustered.

I looked up to find the dwarven woman standing in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, expression thunderous beneath her neatly trimmed beard. "Wasn't me," I replied. "I'm still on the cartography section."

Fira huffed, but the irritation felt more for show than true anger. "They were in perfect order—by moon cycle and scribal attribution! If Kestrel touched them again, I swear I’ll glue his fingers together.”

I fought a smile. "Maybe it's the Archives ghost."

"Don't even start with that." Fira narrowed her eyes. "This place has enough rumors without adding spirits to the mix."

She stomped across the alcove to examine my work, peering over my shoulder with the critical eye of someone who'd spent decades correcting apprentices. After a moment, she nodded sharply.

"Your notation's improving," she said grudgingly. "Not awful."

"High praise," I murmured.

To my surprise, Fira's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. She placed something beside my elbow—a small bundle wrapped in cloth—then turned to leave.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Spiced apple biscuit." She didn't look back. "You're too thin. Bad for the baby if you waste away."

Before I could thank her, she was gone, muttering about archives ghosts and disappearing scrolls. The small kindness warmed me more than the sunlight streaming through the high windows.

I unwrapped the biscuit, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. My stomach rumbled in response. Lately, I was hungry all the time—another change I hadn't anticipated. For months, food had been fuel, necessary but joyless. Now, I found myself looking forward to meals, savoring flavors, craving more than simple sustenance.

Chewing thoughtfully, I glanced at the old clock on the opposite wall—nearly midday. Four hours had passed since I arrived, yet the morning had flown by in a haze of focused work, the rhythm of cataloging punctuated only by Ellie's occasional stirring. I'd need to feed her soon, find something for myself as well, and then return for the afternoon shift.

I carefully rolled the scrolls I'd been working with and secured them with their ribbons. The ledger I closed with equal care, marking my place with a thin strip of leather. Order and method—these were the constants that had kept me grounded throughout everything. Even when the rest of my life had spun out of control, I could always rely on the quiet satisfaction of a task properly completed.

Gathering my personal items into the small satchel I carried everywhere—a clean cloth for Ellie, a spare wrap, the small wooden rattle from Fira—I made my way toward the front of the building, intending to find a quiet corner in the garden behind the Archives to feed Ellie.

As I approached the main hall, I heard voices—one familiar in its measured cadence, the other a lower rumble that sent an unexpected ripple of warmth through my chest.

"—third shelf from the right, past the reference section," Edwin was saying. "Though why anyone would want those particular texts is beyond me. Dreadfully dull history of provincial tax collection, if I recall correctly."

"Not for reading," came the dry reply. "For balancing. The binding's thick enough."

Uldrek. Here, in the Archives. The realization quickened my steps before I could question why.

I rounded the corner to find them standing near Edwin's desk—the elderly archivist leaning on his cane, looking up at Uldrek with undisguised curiosity. Uldrek, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease, his large frame somehow not imposing in the scholarly space. He wore a dark tunic, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing tattoos on his forearms. The wolf's fang necklace glinted against his throat.

Edwin noticed me first, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ah, Miss Fairbairn. Your, ah, companion was just asking after you."

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