Page 83 of Her Orc Protector

I nodded. "For now. The Council upheld the claim of magical coercion. They took the Seal into custody."

"Good." She didn’t smile, but her shoulders eased slightly. “Always nice when the bastards listen.”

“They were fair,” I said, surprising myself. “Once they saw the evidence… they didn’t hesitate.”

Gruha gave a short grunt, not quite disbelief, more like experience. “Takes a pile of paper to prove what a bruise already knows.”

I met her gaze, and there was no challenge in it—just understanding. She hadn’t known Gavriel. She hadn’t needed to. She ran Tinderpost House, after all, where women like me washed ashore after storms.

“To Issy!” Dora’s voice rang out, bright and bold, her tankard raised high. "Who kicked that bastard right where it counts!"

A cheer went up around the table, and my face flushed deeper. I raised my own drink in acknowledgment, though the victory didn't feel as clean or simple as their celebrations suggested.

As the night progressed, more people arrived. Some I recognized from the Archives—junior scribes who usually wouldn’t give me a second glance, now watching me with a mix of curiosity and respect. Others drifted in from Thok’s barracks, drawn by the promise of ale and celebration.

I found myself repeating the story in pieces—yes, the Seal was real; no, I wasn't afraid (a lie, but one that seemed to satisfy); yes, the Council had been thorough. Each time, the details grew a little thinner, a little more polished, until I was reciting something that felt almost like someone else's tale.

Through it all, I kept track of Uldrek from the corner of my eye. He moved through the crowd with easy confidence, sharing jokes with guardsmen and accepting congratulatory claps on the back. He looked comfortable, at home in a way I never quite managed in crowded spaces.

But I noticed that he stayed at a distance from me. Not obviously—he wasn't avoiding me. But where before he might have been at my side, his hand at the small of my back or his shoulder pressed against mine, now he circulated separately. As if we were two guests at the same party, not two halves of the same home.

Once, our eyes met across the room. He smiled—the same warm smile that had become as necessary to me as air—but something in it felt slightly off. Too quick, perhaps. Or not quitereaching his eyes. He raised his tankard in a small salute before turning back to his conversation.

I rubbed absently at my collarbone, where the claiming mark lay hidden beneath my dress. It felt... cool. Not cold, not gone—I could still sense the link between us, the tether that bound us. But the hum that had become so familiar, the gentle warmth that flared whenever he was near, had subsided.

"You all right?" Fira asked, dropping onto the bench beside me. "You've got that look."

"What look?" I asked.

"The one where you're thinking too much." She nudged my shoulder. "Relax. You won, remember?"

Kestrel—one of the Archives interns—staggered past, loudly declaring his eternal admiration for "formidable women and proper shelving systems.” Fira rolled her eyes.

I forced a smile. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

Fira studied me, her shrewd eyes missing nothing. "And your big lug is over there instead of here. That's odd."

I started to protest, but Fira waved it away. "Don't bother. I've seen you two together enough to know when something's off."

I sighed, taking another sip of my cider. "I don't know if anything's off. We're just... giving each other space."

"Mmm." Fira's noncommittal hum spoke volumes. "Well, maybe that's good. He's been hovering like a mother hen since you two met. Bound to need some air eventually."

The words stung more than they should have. "He hasn't been hovering," I said, more defensively than I intended. "He's been protecting me."

Fira's expression softened. "I know. And he did a damn good job of it. But now the threat's gone. Maybe you both need to figure out what comes next."

Before I could respond, a new voice broke into our conversation.

"Mind if I join you ladies?"

I looked up to see Daric, the guardsman I'd sparred with—the cocky one I'd thrown to the ground.

Fira rolled her eyes but slid over to make room. "If you must," she muttered.

Daric grinned and set three fresh tankards on the table. "Thought you might need a refill," he said, sliding one toward me. "A tribute to the woman of the hour."

"Hardly that," I demurred, but accepted the drink with a nod of thanks.

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