Page 76 of Her Orc Healer

Selior studied the drawing in silence. His fingers didn’t touch the parchment, but his silver-marked eyes flicked over the lines and curves with the precision of someone reading more than ink on paper. The firelight behind him flickered, the shadows stretching long across the table, and something in his expression darkened—just for a fraction of a second.

Then he exhaled softly, as if amused or resigned, and leaned back in his chair. The parchment stayed where it was. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t speak. Not yet.

Instead, he reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a slender, carved pipe. The stem was bone-white, smooth from years of use, and the bowl bore delicate runes that whispered faintly when they caught the light. Without hurry, Selior packed the tobacco, struck flint to light it, and took one long, thoughtful draw. Smoke curled from his lips, wreathing his face in shifting patterns.

"There was a woman once," Selior said, voice low as smoke drifted from his pipe. "She lived at the edge of the Moonshadow Forest. Every morning, she’d wake to find strange gifts on her doorstep—flowers that bloomed in darkness, stones that sang when held to the light, feathers that never stilled."

He paused, taking another drag. "She thought them beautiful. Harmless. Until the day she followed the shadows that left them... and found herself in a place where the trees grew sideways and the stars shone up from pools of midnight water."

My jaw tightened. "If this is meant to be a warning—"

"She never returned," Selior continued, as if I hadn't spoken. His eyes met mine, silver-bright and knowing. "Sometimes it's better not to look too closely at the gifts darkness brings."

The quiet that followed felt heavy, weighted with meaning I didn't want to untangle. But I couldn't stop thinking about Maeve—about the way shadows seemed to reach for her, about the whispers she claimed to hear.

"You said I was worth talking to," I said finally, my voice harder than before. "So talk to me. No more stories, no more warnings. My niece needs help, not riddles."

Selior held my gaze for a long moment, pipe forgotten in his hand. Then, something in his expression shifted—not softened, exactly, but changed. Like he was seeing past the surface of things, into depths I couldn't fathom.

"Some knowledge isn’t mine to give," he finally said, setting the pipe aside. He tapped the edge of the parchment with one long finger, not quite touching the rune. "You want someone who’s seen this before and survived. Find Sylwen."

Kazrek’s brow furrowed. “The runemaster?”

Selior nodded once. “He’s already paid the price.”

Something in the way he said it made the back of my neck prickle. A warning, quiet and deliberate. But I didn’t flinch. Whatever it was—whatever it cost—I would pay it.

I gathered the parchment, tucking it back into my shawl. "Where can we find him?"

"The Runery," Selior said, rising from his chair with fluid grace. "Though I suggest you wait until evening. Sylwen prefers the quiet hours." He paused, then added almost gently, "And Rowena? When you go... leave the child at home."

Before I could press him further, he was gone—slipping away like smoke between shadows.

Vorgrim drained his mug and stood with a grunt. "Well, that was cheerful." He clapped Kazrek on the shoulder. "I'll leave you two to sort out your day. Try not to get cursed or eaten by shadows."

I waited until his heavy footsteps faded before looking at Kazrek. "The Runery?"

"I know where it is." His hand found mine under the table, warm and steady. "We don't have to go today."

I thought of Maeve, probably waking up now, asking Auntie Brindle for pancakes and stories. Safe, for the moment. Protected. But for how long?

"Yes," I said quietly. "We do."

Chapter 21

Weleftjustafterthe midday bell, the forest still cool beneath its canopy and the path soft with fallen needles. Maeve was restless. I was worse. Kazrek had been called to tend a fever down in the Riverside Ward, and we wouldn't go to the Runery until nightfall—so I told myself it made sense to get out. To move. To do something with my hands before my mind tore itself in circles.

I remembered Iris mentioning she'd be foraging in Mistfen Glen for spiderwort and moonleaf today, and before I thought better of it, I had Maeve's cloak buttoned and Brindle waiting with her satchel of tea tins. An impromptu excursion, I told myself. Just a walk. Just some fresh air.

The path wound through the mist-threaded understory, the scent of damp earth rich beneath the cypress and alder. Maeve darted ahead, her laughter bright against the hush of the glen. She crouched to peer at beetles in the loamy soil, then spun in slow circles to follow the drifting silver threads of glowmoths. I should’ve felt lighter seeing her like this—untouched by the weight pressing on my chest—but I only felt the contrast more sharply.

Brindle moved at an easy pace beside me, her sharp eyes flicking between the moss-laden roots and Maeve’s skipping form. She hummed a low tune, half under her breath.

There’d been whispers, lately—just murmurs at the edge of conversation. That the deeper paths in the Moonshadow Forest had gone strange. That the trees there didn’t listen like they used to. No proof. Nothing close. But the forest felt different, even here at the edge. Like something old had started breathing again, just beneath the moss.

I breathed deep, trying to quiet the gnawing worry in my ribs. The glen's magic sat low in the air, curling in beads of mist that caught the morning light. Ordinary enough. Safe enough. But ever since the market, I’d been waiting—for some unseen snare to tighten, for some whisper in the trees to turn sharp.

"You're coiled tight as a bramble vine, love," Brindle murmured. "You’ll cut yourself before anything else gets the chance."

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