Page 23 of Her Orc Healer

Without breaking eye contact, he placed the compass back in my hands. Then, slowly, deliberately, he covered them with his own. His palms were warm, calloused from years of warfare and healing, and they engulfed my ink-stained fingers.

My pulse thudded in my throat, too fast, too loud. He was close—closer than he had ever been. Close enough that I could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way his breath stirred the loose strands of my hair.

For one unbearable, breathless second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

Then, a soft green glow bloomed between our hands.

I couldn’t see the compass, but I could feel it. The slow, deliberate way the energy seeped through the fractures, knitting the broken pieces back together. The way it hummed, alive and ancient, something older than both of us.

Magic.

After everything with Finn, I had never been one to trust it. Too unpredictable, too dangerous. But now, standing here, my hands enveloped in warmth, I was reminded that magic wasn’t just one thing. It wasn’t just dark or light, good or evil.

It was a tool. A force. A reflection of the hands that shaped it.

The same power that made Maeve glow like sunlight had lashed out in fury moments ago, toppling shelves and shattering glass. The same orc whose hands had once wielded weapons, who had stood on battlefields soaked in blood, now used them to heal.

Air returned to my lungs, shaky and uneven.

The glow faded.

Kazrek’s hands lingered a second longer before they withdrew, slow and deliberate.

I looked down.

The compass sat in my palm, whole. The glass face was smooth and unbroken, the brass gleaming faintly in the dim shop light as if it had never been shattered at all. My fingers curled around it, gripping too tightly.

When I finally looked up, Kazrek was watching me. His gaze was steady, searching. Something unspoken passed between us, thick as the air before a storm. I could still feel the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind. My heart beat too fast. I needed to say something. Anything.

But all I could do was hold the compass tighter, its weight suddenly unfamiliar.

"Thank you," I said at last, my voice barely above a whisper.

A muffled thud from upstairs broke the moment between us. The sound yanked me back to reality—to all the things I still needed to face.

Kazrek stepped back, giving me space I hadn't realized I needed until my lungs remembered how to work properly. "You should go to her," he said softly.

I nodded, tucking the restored compass into my pocket.

"I'll finish here," he added, already reaching for the broom. When I started to protest, he fixed me with a look that was somehow both gentle and immovable. "Go. Some messes are more important than others."

Another thud echoed from above, followed by a quiet sniffle that squeezed my heart. I hesitated for just a moment longer, watching as Kazrek began sweeping with the same steady patience he seemed to bring to everything.

Then I turned and headed for the stairs.

The upstairs room was dim, the only light spilling in from the window where Maeve sat curled against the far wall. Her knees were pulled to her chest, her small fingers twisting in the hem of her tunic. She wasn’t crying anymore, but the set of her shoulders was too tight, too small.

She didn’t look up when I stepped inside.

I took a slow breath and crossed the room, sinking onto the floor beside her, leaving just enough space for her to choose whether to close it. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched, filled only by the distant creak of the shop below as Kazrek moved through the wreckage.

“I heard what she said,” Maeve finally whispered.

My throat tightened. “I know.”

She sniffled and traced a slow circle against the wooden floor. “Do you wish I wasn’t here?”

---