Page 30 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I kiss his forehead and tuck him into bed not long after, voice steady, heart anything but.
When the house is quiet, I crawl beneath my own covers, bone-tired but restless.
Sleep comes in fits and starts.
A dream.
I’m back on the boardwalk beneath soft string lights. The tide hums beneath the planks. Drokhaz stands there in his suit sleeves, arms crossed, watching me like I’m the only person left in the world.
He steps closer.
Doesn’t speak.
Just brushes a calloused thumb over my cheek—gentle, reverent.
I wake with a start, breath ragged, sheets tangled around my legs.
“Gods damn it,” I mutter into the empty dark.
Angry at him.
Angrier at myself.
Because no matter how many lighthouses my son builds… I know exactly who’s getting in too deep.
And it’s me.
CHAPTER 10
DROKHAZ
The storm wasn’t on the forecast.
I know because I checked—twice. Tight schedule this week. No margin for delays. The sky had been clear when I left the trailer this morning, the sea quiet, compliant.
Now?
Now the wind howls like a living thing, tearing at the edges of the boardwalk. Rain lashes sideways. Waves slam the pylons below with brutal rhythm.
I stand beneath the awning of a shuttered café, jaw tight, watching as the storm rolls in faster than the crews can react. Merchants scramble to pull carts and displays under cover. Loose debris skitters across the planks like frightened crabs.
I should return to the trailer.
I do not.
Because through the sheets of rain, I see a figure struggling near the old popcorn stand—one of the relics slated for demolition. The roof is sagging under the weight of the downpour, boards groaning.
And beneath it—an old man I vaguely recognize. Emerson Clarke. Owned the stand since the seventies. Too stubborn to retire. Too frail to weather this alone.
“Fool,” I mutter.
Then I move.
Boots pound the slick planks. The wind fights me with every step, salt spray stinging my face. Rain soaks through my suit jacket in seconds, but I barely feel it.
“Sir,” I call, voice rough. “You must get clear.”
Emerson looks up, eyes wide. “Can’t—my hip?—”
