Page 56 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I step aside as she approaches, voice trembling but clear.
And just like that, we begin.
The night unfolds like magic.
One by one, neighbors and strangers step up—some with poems scrawled on napkins, others from memory, some just stories spun in rich, rolling voices.
A fisherman reads a love letter to his late wife.
A high school girl raps about salt air and first kisses.
Old Man Cass recites a bawdy limerick that has half the crowd in stitches.
I laugh. I cry. I clap till my palms ache.
It’s more than I dreamed.
I’m flipping through the next names when I hear it.
The shift.
The hush.
The way conversation stutters, heads turning toward the back of the crowd.
And when I glance up, clipboard halfway down, my breath catches.
Drokhaz.
Moving through the lantern-dappled dark like some ancient tide. Dressed down—no suit tonight. Just dark slacks, a rolled-sleeve shirt that pulls taut across his shoulders. The scar on his forearm visible beneath the bandage. No armor now. No mask.
His eyes find mine.
And gods—my heart stumbles.
He gives the faintest nod, then folds into a seat near the back, posture loose but watchful.
I nearly drop the damn clipboard.
“Careful,” Liara whispers beside me, smirking.
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
“You’re a liar.”
I shoot her a look. Focus, Rowan.
Jamie’s next.
I call him up, voice steadier than I feel.
He beams as he bounces to the mic, curls wild, cheeks flushed.
“My poem is called ‘Lighthouse Love,’” he says, loud and proud.
The crowd melts.
He reads—short lines about light and hope and monsters being good sometimes.
