Page 84 of Her Orc Healer

“Sore throat?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

She gave the smallest shrug, eyes fixed on the flickering lamp nearby. One hand clutched the small brass compass that had once belonged to Finn—the one Kazrek had repaired, the one Maeve had hardly let go of since.

“Stomach hurts?” Another shrug. More listless than usual, but not enough to panic. Her skin was warm but not fevered.

I touched the back of my fingers to her brow and tucked the cloak tighter around her. “You’ve had worse,” I murmured. “Just a fog-day in your bones, that’s all.”

She didn’t argue. Just leaned her head against my arm and closed her eyes. I sat with her like that for a minute longer than I should’ve, listening to the silence press in around us.

Kazrek hadn’t come.

He hadn’t stayed the night, either. After the Runery… after Sylwen’s warning, after the wordsacrificehung too long in the air… he’d gone quiet. Not distant. Not unkind. Just quiet.

I hadn’t asked him to stay. He hadn’t offered.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most—not the silence itself, but what it left room for.

I told myself he needed time. ThatIwould’ve needed time, too.

But there’d been something in the way he looked at me—too still. Too steady. Like he’d seen the choice already forming in me… and decided not to fight it.

And now… nothing. Not even a knock on the door.

I stood slowly and moved behind the counter, pulling down the ledger I hadn’t opened in days. Dust clung to the edges. I ran my thumb along the spine, then set it aside and began restocking the shelf of powdered vermilions. Half the jars were mislabeled—my handwriting uneven from the last rush order.

You’re spiraling, Iris would’ve said, and she’d be right.

But better to spiral into shelves and glass jars than into thoughts I couldn’t do anything about.

"Can I have some tea?" Maeve asked, her voice smaller than usual.

"Of course." I moved to the small kettle I kept in the back room, grateful for the simple task. "With honey?"

She nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The water hadn't even started to boil, but I set out the cups anyway—one for Maeve, plain and chipped at the rim, and one for me, though I wasn’t sure I’d drink it. I added a curl of dried ginger to each, a habit I’d picked up from Iris for mornings like this. For sluggish days and sullen weather. For hearts that couldn’t quite beat steady.

My fingers worked without thought—honey, a pinch of mint, just enough to cut the edge. I liked the ritual of it. The quiet clink of the spoon against ceramic. The gentle steam rising from the kettle when it finally hissed and sighed.

I focused on those small, manageable things because they were the only ones I could manage.

The rune stone Sylwen had given us sat on the counter, wrapped in soft cloth. I still needed to find a way to keep it close to Maeve—maybe a small pouch she could wear around her neck. The stone had grown warm when I'd placed it near her while she slept, as if responding to something invisible to my eyes.

I poured the tea into our mugs. My gaze drifted to the larger mug on the shelf, the one Kazrek used the mornings he brought breakfast. It sat clean and empty, waiting for a hand that wasn't there.

He hadn't said goodbye. But no one ever did.

"Here you go," I said, handing Maeve the mug. "Careful, it's hot."

She took it with both hands, her small fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. "Thank you," she murmured, blowing gently across the surface.

I watched her for a moment, this tiny person who had become my entire world, and felt the weight of what we'd learned pressing down on me like a physical thing. I should be doing something. Researching, warding, calling in favors—anything. But all I could manage was tea. Ginger and honey, like that would hold the darkness at bay.

Is this how it starts?

One foggy morning, a child goes quiet. Her warmth shifts, and you tell yourself she’s just tired. Just catching something. Just needs rest.

And then she stops glowing. Stops laughing. Stops coming back.

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