Page 4 of Her Orc Protector

“Not yet.”

“I’ve got a delivery down that way. Could walk you.”

I shook my head. “I’ll manage.”

She didn’t argue. Just nodded once. “Crescent Lane. Third turn. Look for the tree carved over the door.”

I tucked the note into my coat and adjusted the sling's strap across my shoulder before stepping toward the door, where Mrs. Gruha stood waiting, holding a clean rag in one hand and a spare crust in the other. She didn’t offer the bread aloud, just raised an eyebrow until I took it. The rag she handed directly to Ellie, dabbing her mouth.

“Back before dark,” Gruha said.

“Of course.”

The fog met me at the stoop—soft at first, then dense, curling around my ankles and slipping cold fingers beneath the cuffs of my coat. Ellie stirred once at the shift in temperature, turning her cheek further into my collarbone. I adjusted the sling with one hand and stepped out, boots ticking slowly down the stone steps.

The buildings changed as I moved east. Narrower footprints, earthier stone. Ivy clung across lattices with little regard for trimming or polish. Carved thresholds bore layers of soot from long seasons of hearth smoke. Doorposts gleamed faintly where charms had been tied—rituals to keep crooks or curses from taking root in a household. I passed storefronts just opening for the morning: chalkboard menus being set out, shutters lifted, the spicy tang of root pies warming in ovens.

And then I saw it.

I knew it was the archives before I even saw the sign. The building sat low and wide at the end of the lane, settled into the moss-veined cobble like it had been poured into the city rather than built atop it. Ivy curled up the stone exterior, leaves kissedwith frost. Over the door, a carved panel stretched nearly the full length of the lintel: a vast alder tree, its roots intertwining with script in three distinct tongues—Verdan glyphs, Old Tharn runes, and the flowing script of Western Common.

Memory landed heavily in my chest.

Years ago, I’d spent a winter copying glyph variants for a language index no one read. The archivist I worked for had ink-stained fingers and a stammer he lost only when talking about roots—linguistic or botanical. He used to say that words were like trees. The older the root, the harder it was to kill.

I hadn’t thought about him in years. Or the girl I’d been then—quiet, stubborn, proud of her callouses. Before Gavriel. Before everything turned ornamental and sharp.

My fingers brushed the doorframe as I passed beneath the carving. The wood was worn smooth where hands had touched it over the years. Decades, maybe. Ellie murmured in her wrap as I pushed the door open.

The interior greeted me with warmth and shadow. Not shadow in the menacing sense—more like a dusky hush clinging close to the high beams and deep stacks. Light filtered through tall windows set with colored panes, dappling the wide floor in soft gold and violet. Dust hung in sunbeams, and somewhere overhead, a catalog scroll snapped shut.

A pair of young aides whispered in an alcove, passing parchment between them. Someone laughed softly behind a row of tall shelves—quickly hushed. I kept my head down. Too many rooms in my life had taught me to stay invisible.

A wide central desk dominated the front hall, piled with scrolls, parchment stacks, loose quills, three inkwells, a teacup with an old ring of dried brown at the bottom, and a single boot, worn smooth at the toe, propped beside the whole mess.

“Be right with you!” someone called from behind a shelf.

A moment later, a man limped into view, balancing a stack of boxed folios against his chest. His graying hair was tied back, and his robes were ink-splotched and uneven at the hem. The peg where his left leg should’ve been made a softtap-tap-scrapeon the floor as he moved.

He set the boxes down with a thump that jostled the scrolls. Looked up. Blinked. Then grinned.

“You’re our new cleaner, I take it? Issy, yes?”

At my nod, he limped around the desk to extend a hand. His grip was dry, calloused, and offered without hesitation.

“Edwin Fairweather. Senior scribe. Unofficial expert in bad tea and better margins.”

That startled a soft breath from me. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to make Ellie shift in the sling. She hummed, half-waking, then settled again against my chest.

He glanced down, eyebrows lifting at the bundle of baby and blanket. Not with the tight-lipped disapproval I’d grown too used to, nor the wide-eyed pity that made my teeth grit. Just a nod. Like an adjustment to a mental list.

“And who’s this small scholar?”

“Ellie,” I said, adjusting the sling. “She’s quiet if she’s fed. Usually.”

He gave a sage nod. “A good rule for most creatures in this building, honestly.” Then, glancing toward the desk, “You can set your things there if you’d like.”

I didn’t move toward the desk. Just nodded once.

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