Page 62 of Her Orc Blacksmith

I stared at the pouch, dumbfounded. An advance. Anadvance? From Lady Hargrave? She of theI'm-not-paying-full-price-for-anythingilk, handing me cold, hard coin like it was nothing.

“I—thank you,” I stammered, reaching out to take it. The weight of it dropped with a satisfying thunk into my palm, my heartbeat quickening. Was this really happening? The pouch felt heavy with possibilities.

She waved a graceful hand as if it were no big thing—a casual Tuesday for her, probably.

“You’re brave, Soraya. I might not fully understand your world, but I see your courage. So, no more of this nonsense about ‘not being sure.’ Rebuild your forge. The world will move on with or without you, but if I’m going to keep up with the Wildclaws,” she sighed dramatically, “I'll need you to get back to work.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but eventually, I managed a smile. Nodding with more confidence than I felt, I said, “I’ll start planning today.”

Lady Hargrave gave a regal nod, but just before she could slip back into that graceful indifference of hers, she hesitated.

“I do mean it, you know,” she added softly. “You’ve lost much, but you still built something. And you’ll rebuild it again, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” I said, the words feeling heavier than they should, laden with the weight of all the things I couldn’t quite put into words.

Lady Hargrave gave a final nod, her usual facade sliding back into place as if the moment had never happened. She turned to call Isla and Edward to come for their fittings, slipping effortlessly back into her role as the flawless aristocratic mother.

Hours later, the work done, I gathered my things in silence, the weight of Lady Hargrave’s words—and the hefty pouch in my pocket—settling somewhere deep in my chest. She had called me brave. Me. Soraya Ashford, the woman who just days ago had been hiding inside the charred shell of her own forge, too terrified to face the wreckage of her life.

And yet… somehow, hearing it from her, of all people, had stirred something in me. It was like she’d planted a little seed of hope in the cracked soil of my heart, and now it was up to me to see if it would bloom.

As I waved goodbye to the Hargraves, I tugged the coin pouch out again, feeling its comforting weight in my hand. Rebuild. Was I really going to do it? Could I?

The streets of Everwood buzzed with the usual end-of-day bustle. Creatures of all kinds hurried around me—elves, dwarves, humans, and the occasional imp, darting in and out of alleyways—but I hardly noticed. My thoughts were too tangledup with the possibility of starting over, of picking up the hammer and trying again. The idea scared me more than I cared to admit.

But it also... excited me.

I decided to take the long way home, and before I knew it, my feet had led me to Everwood’s market square. The air here was thick with the scent of baking bread, fresh herbs, and the sharp tang of magic-infused potions. Fairy lights twinkled from the stalls overhead, and the murmur of laughter and bartering filled the space like a warm blanket. It was alive. Vibrant.

I paused in front of a flower cart, brightly colored petals spilling over the display in a riot of hues. Vibrant fuchsias, blues, and oranges created a striking contrast against the more muted grays of stone streets and wooden stalls around me.

And there, nestled amidst those blossoms like a living part of the display, was the stall’s keeper—a dryad, unmistakable in her beauty.

She had skin the color of birch bark, delicate and pale but with lines that resembled the silver veins of a tree’s roots. Her hair—long, flowing vines speckled with tiny blossoms—shifted softly in the breeze.

“Admiring the blooms?” she asked in a soft, lilting voice, her lips curling into a gentle smile. Her voice had an ageless quality, as if she had tended these flowers for centuries.

“They’re beautiful,” I said truthfully. My eyes grazed over the selection, drawn to a cluster of deep purple flowers that seemed to shimmer slightly, catching the light in an almost magical way. “I don't often get the chance to stop and enjoy things like this.”

Her brow arched curiously as she leaned closer over her cart. “And why not?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, fumbling for an explanation. “Well, I—I'm a blacksmith... or at least,” I gave a dry laugh, “I was. There’s not much room for flowers in the forge. Not much room for beauty, really.”

The dryad tilted her head as if considering my words, the motion graceful and slow, like the gentle sway of a tree in the wind.

“Not much room for beauty?” she echoed, tapping her chin with a moss-covered fingertip. “Why not?”

“Because… because that’s just how it is,” I stammered, suddenly feeling a bit silly as I tried to explain. “A forge is hot, loud, dirty. It’s fire and iron, not flowers and soft things.”

A light breeze stirred the delicate vines of her hair, and the dryad’s lips quirked again, this time as if she were holding back a laugh. “Perhaps that’s just how it was for the men who came before you. You are not them, are you?”

“No,” I said slowly. “But—”

She straightened up, a knowing look in her leaf-green eyes, and reached beneath the tangle of vines spilling from her cart, rummaging for a moment before producing a single flower—a stunning crimson blossom the size of my palm, its petals thick and velvety to the touch, like the fires of a sunset caught in bloom.

“Here,” she murmured, holding the flower toward me as if offering up a secret. “This is a firepetal.”

I studied it, uncertain. “Firepetal?”

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