Page 15 of The Orc and the Innkeeper

Now, I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. “It was fine. Just gathering intel.”

Ecco purses her lips. “Just don’t let your guard down.”

I sigh, sinking down onto one of the plush couches. “I don’t know, Ecco. I thought I had Thorak all figured out, but seeing him today...he’s different. More mature, more driven. And the way he looks at me sometimes...”

Ecco settles down beside me, her expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay to be confused. But just be careful, okay? I would hate for you to get hurt by him again.”

I nod, grateful for her concern. “I know. And I promise, I’m being cautious. Now, enough about my drama. Let’s get this place ready for your big night!”

Together, Ecco and I set about transforming the lounge into a cozy, intimate performance space. We arrange the tables and chairs to create a clear line of sight to the small stage, where Ecco’s microphone and keyboard await. I string up twinkling fairy lights along the walls, casting a warm, inviting glow over the room.

The sun begins to set as the guests arrive for Ecco’s performance. I watch from the back of the room as they filter in, a diverse mix of humans and magical creatures, all drawn by the promise of Ecco’s enchanting voice.

Ecco takes the stage, looking radiant in a flowing, shimmering dress that seems to catch the light with every movement. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing.

Instantly, the room is transformed. Ecco’s voice weaves through the air like a gentle breeze, carrying with it a sense of peace and tranquility. The audience’s shoulders relax and their faces soften, as if all their worries and cares have melted away.

Watching Ecco perform confidently in her element, I think back to all the times I’ve seen her struggle. Like the day when her powers first manifested, and she accidentally enchanted half our school’s student body into following her around like lovestruck puppies. Or the time she got kicked out of the school choir because the director was afraid she’d steal the spotlight.

Through it all, Ecco never gave up on her music. She worked tirelessly to master her powers, to find a way to share her gift with the world without losing control.

And now, seeing her up on that stage, captivating the audience with every note, my chest swells of pride on her behalf.

Suddenly, a familiar figure catches my eye from across the room. Robert Kingsley stands near the entrance to the lounge, his usually stoic face softened by a hint of a smile.

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. The man actually seems like he’s enjoying himself, and at a magical performance, no less. He’s tapping his foot along with the music, his eyes bright.

For a moment, I allow myself to hope. Thorak and my ruse could be easier to pull off than we’d anticipated. Maybe Kingsley is less of a bigot than we thought.

But then, as if sensing my gaze, Kingsley’s eyes lock with mine from across the room. In an instant, his demeanor shifts. His smile fades, replaced by a look of flustered embarrassment. He straightens his tie, clears his throat, and quickly turns to exit the lounge, disappearing into the hallway beyond.

I sigh. Or not.

The sooner we get this business with Kingsley done, the better. I want to stop thinking about this.

And about a certain green monster who just happens to be built like a brick house.

7

THORAK

On Monday, I stride into the cavernous entrance of my family’s dwelling. Rough-hewn stone walls are adorned with intricate antique tapestries depicting famous orc battles and hunts. Glowing moss lamps cast a cozy light, illuminating the well-worn but lovingly polished wooden furniture.

The excited shrieks of my younger siblings echo from deeper in the cave as they chase each other in a game of tag. I’m the eldest of seven—large families are the orc way.

Ma’s raucous humming rings out from the kitchen, accompanied by the savory aroma of slow-roasted elk and root vegetables. She’s always happiest when cooking up a feast.

I heft the heavy oak barrel higher on my shoulder, the one I crafted specially for Da’s birthday brew, and make my way to the back of the cave where his workshop lies. As expected, I find him there hunched over his workbench, meticulously carving a new tap handle, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey, Da,” I greet him. “Brought that barrel for your celebration ale.”

He glances up, golden eyes—identical to mine—flashing with recognition, and gives a gruff nod. “Set it in the corner.”

I comply, then watch as he rises and circles the barrel, thick fingers trailing over the wood, inspecting my craftsmanship with a critical eye. A moment passes, then two. I shift my weight awkwardly.

Finally, he looks up, meeting my gaze. “Solid work,” he grunts, his approval coming out strained, as if it costs him.

“Thanks,” I mutter, but the praise seems hollow, obligatory. The unspoken hangs heavy between us—his disapproval over me starting my own brewery rather than taking over his.

---