Page 39 of Till Orc Do Us Part

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“So I have been told.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts her mouth, then fades.

“Jamie’s still asleep,” she says quietly.

I nod. “I noticed.”

She hesitates. Then, voice rough: “You scared me.”

The words land heavier than I expect.

I meet her gaze. “I regret causing worry.”

“That’s not—” She cuts off. Exhales. “You shouldn’t have been out there alone.”

I tilt my head. “Neither should you.”

Silence hums between us.

The lines I drew—between enemy and something else—blur more with each passing day. Each passing look.

Dangerous.

Necessary.

I shift, the ache in my shoulder a grounding tether.

“I will return upstairs,” I say quietly. “I do not wish to wake your son.”

Rowan watches me a moment longer. Something flickers in her eyes—fear, perhaps. Or understanding.

Then she nods. “Alright.”

I incline my head, then turn.

But as I climb the stairs again, her voice follows me—soft as the tide:

“Goodnight, Drokhaz.”

I pause.

“Goodnight, Rowan.”

The ache beneath my ribs is not from loss. It is from something dangerously close to hope.

Upstairs, the room hums with quiet.

Jamie stirs once, curls matted to his cheek, plush shark still clutched in small fingers. I ease down beside the low writing desk near the window, the storm now no more than a distant murmur across the rooftops.

My sketchbook lies where I left it in my bag.

I pull it free. Flip past pages of towers, facades, sterile lines meant to impress investors.

The pencil feels heavy tonight.

I should review site revisions. Rework the southeast lot.

I do not.

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