Page 58 of Her Orc Healer

As we made our way back through the stacks, Kazrek's hand settled at the small of my back—warm, steady, guiding. It was such a simple gesture, but it made my breath catch. I wasn't used to being touched like this—with casual intimacy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Worse still was how much I liked it, how I found myself leaning into that subtle pressure without meaning to.

The main hall of the archives came into view, and with it, the sound of Maeve's delighted giggling. We rounded the corner to find her perched on Edwin Fairweather's desk, carefully pressing a gold leaf seal onto parchment while the elderly archivist watched with surprising patience.

"Now remember," he was saying, adjusting his spectacles, "we must wait until the wax is exactly the right temperature. Too hot and it runs, too cold and the seal won't take properly."

Maeve nodded solemnly, her tongue poking out in concentration as she held the seal steady. "Like Ro's special inks?"

"Precisely." Edwin's eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. "Your aunt understands better than most the importance of timing and temperature in preserving knowledge."

Kazrek’s hand pressed slightly firmer against my back, and when I glanced up at him, his expression was soft. He saw it too—how naturally Maeve took to learning, how eager she was to understand the world around her. It made my heart ache in the best way.

Because despite the shadows lurking at the edges of our world, despite the fear curling in my chest whenever I thought too long about what had happened at the market, Maeve was still just a girl. A smart, sweet girl who found wonder in wax seals and books, in stories and learning.

And I would be damned if I let anything take that from her.

She deserved this—this warmth, this ease, this simple joy of discovery. Not a childhood spent looking over her shoulder, not a future spent running from ghosts she didn’t understand.

She deserved to thrive, not just survive.

And if it took scouring every archive in Everwood, if it took unraveling magic that should have been long buried, if it took standing between her and whatever darkness had set its sights on her—I would do it.

I would keep her safe.

"That's beautiful work,zuzu’rak," Kazrek rumbled as we approached, and Maeve's face lit up.

"Kaz! Look what Mister Edwin showed me!" She carefully lifted the parchment to display the perfectly pressed seal. "He says I have steady hands, just like Auntie Ro!"

"So you do," he agreed.

Edwin cleared his throat, trying to hide his own smile. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

I held up our small stack of books, hoping the flush in my cheeks wasn't too obvious. "Maybe."

"Ah, yes—" Edwin adjusted his spectacles again, reaching for the sketch I'd shown him earlier. "May I see that symbol once more? Something about it has been nagging at me."

I pulled the folded parchment from my pocket, carefully smoothing it on his desk. The ink lines were precise—I'd copied the strange marking exactly as it had appeared on the cracked stone, each curve and angle rendered with careful attention.

"See here?" He traced the air above one swooping line. "It's reminiscent of old binding runes, but the center..." He frowned. "The center is wrong. Almost like it's been inverted."

Kazrek leaned in, his expression thoughtful. "During the war, we used similar markings in field medicine. Stabilization sigils meant to hold a patient's energy steady while we worked." His fingers ghosted over the outer ring of the symbol. "But those were simpler. This feels... older."

"You were a field medic?" Edwin's tone shifted, professional curiosity overtaking his earlier wariness. "Where were you stationed?"

"Northern front, mostly. Though I spent time in the healing tents at Moonshadow Pass after the third siege."

Something flickered across Edwin's face—recognition, maybe even respect. "I lost my leg there," he said quietly. "The siege, I mean. Was working as a record keeper for the Alderwilde Forces when the darkness broke through." He tapped his cane against the wooden floor. "Would have lost more than the leg if not for healers like yourself."

I watched as something passed between them—an understanding born of shared memories, of time spent in places where darkness had been more than just shadow.

My wartime years had been spent behind shop walls, grinding ink and binding books while others fought shadows. Not from cowardice—though sometimes it felt that way—but because someone had to keep things running. Had to preserve knowledge, maintain trade, ensure there were still pieces of normal life to come back to.

I remembered the endless lines of injured soldiers, how they would stumble into the shop asking for paper and ink—desperate to write home while they still could. I wrote many of those letters myself, when hands were too shaky or eyes too dim to manage it. And I remembered how the letters grew shorter as the war dragged on, until sometimes they were just names. Just "I'm alive," scrawled in whatever ink I could spare.

But watching Kazrek and Edwin now, I wondered if perhaps I had been preserving more than just knowledge. If maybe those letters, those moments of connection, had mattered more than I knew.

I cleared my throat. "The symbol," I said, drawing their attention back to the present. "You said it was inverted?"

"Yes," Edwin leaned forward, tapping the center of the design. "See how these lines curl inward instead of out? Traditional binding runes direct energy away from the subject. This seems designed to draw something in."

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