Page 5 of The Orc and the Innkeeper

“Can you get rid of them?” I press, eyeing the wall with a mix of dread and fascination.

“Of course,” he huffs, as if offended by the question. “But it won’t be pretty.”

“Nothing about today has been pretty,” I retort, trying for a laugh and failing. Instead, I follow Brorik with my eyes as he examines the extent of the damage.

Eventually, he pulls back and jots something down on a scroll, then hands it to me.

“You’ve got yourself a right mess,” Brorik grumbles as I take the paper from him.

I scan the document, and my stomach drops like a lead weight into the pit of my despair.

“Twenty thousand dollars?” My voice is barely above a whisper, the number echoing ominously through the room.

“Wall’s infested good and proper,” the dwarf continues, oblivious to the cold sweat breaking out on my brow. “Got to open her up, clear them out, then patch her back together. Pixie dust mites are no laughing matter.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, sarcasm my flimsy shield against the tidal wave of panic.

The inn cannot take this hit—financially or structurally. But I can’t let this infestation spread. Each sparkling mite is a potential catastrophe.

“Start the work,” I say, injecting false confidence into my voice. “Immediately.”

My hand trembles as I pass the scroll back to him, but I steady it quickly. Can’t show weakness, not now. Brorik needs to believe I have these funds available, or he won’t do the work.

“Right away, Miss Parker.” Brorik tucks the scroll into his belt. “I’ll go get the rest of my supplies and a crew to help.” His boots thud heavily as he leaves the room and makes his way down the stairs.

I lean against the cool wall, letting its solid presence anchor me for a moment. This place has survived much. We’ll survive this too, somehow.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” I repeat to myself, the words a mantra as I push off the wall.

Time to get creative. Fundraisers, loans, possibly even selling one of the enchanted paintings. There has to be a way.

As I descend the stairs, the comforting scent of coffee and baked goods wafts up from the cafe. Chef Glim’s famousscones...yes, that’s what I need right now. Eating my feelings with some buttery goodness.

I push through the swinging doors into the cafe, the familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla wrapping around me.

The hum of conversation buzzes in the air, mingling with the soft tinkle of enchanted wind chimes that hang by the windows. It’s supposed to be calming, but right now, every sound seems amplified, every color too bright. I’m desperate for something, anything, to distract me from the twenty thousand dollar disaster looming over the inn.

Turning to the display case, my gaze settles on the golden-brown mounds of baked goodness. But before I can make my selection, a deep, gruff voice captures my attention. I glance over my shoulder, spotting Thorak Ironfist seated at a nearby table with Robert Kingsley, who looks stiff and supremely uncomfortable in the orc’s presence.

“Mariah?” Glim’s voice pulls me back to the present and I turn back to look at them standing behind the display case. Glim’s hair is a light pastel green today; they change it daily. “Scone like usual? They’re pickled raisin ones today.” They hand me a plate with a baked good that looks like it could win awards.

“Thanks,” I reply, trying to sound cheerier than I am.

Cradling the plate like a lifeline, I find a secluded table near the back and try not to eavesdrop too obviously on Thorak and Mr. Kingsley. Despite my desire to see Thorak’s dreams crushed, I don’t like the idea of anyone being discriminated against.

Not even the orc who once thought tying my shoelaces together was peak comedy.

I take a bite of the scone, letting its buttery warmth spread through me—a small comfort amid the chaos.

Bits and pieces of Thorak and Mr. Kingsley’s talk float over; Thorak’s smooth baritone is hard to ignore.

“Business...human realm...distributing...”

The one thing I’ve heard about Thorak over the past decade is that he’s started his own craft brewery, breaking away from his parents’ extremely successful brewing conglomerate. Thorak’s taproom is popular but I’ve avoided it like the plague.

I frown. Who would’ve thought? Thorak, hawking his brews to humans. Isn’t he the same guy who used to rant about purity and staying true to his roots?

“Quality,” Thorak says confidently, leaning forward, “that’s what sets us apart.”

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