Page 85 of Till Orc Do Us Part

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And there—near the back, half-shadowed beneath the arch of the old mystery shelves?—

Drokhaz.

He leans against the pillar, broad arms crossed, green skin gleaming beneath low lamplight. His eyes catch mine.

For the first time, I see it: a smile.

Real. Unmasked. Soft as tide foam.

My breath stutters. I grip the mic tighter.

And somehow, I speak.

I read an old poem—one I wrote years ago, when hope felt thin and fierce.

“We are more than brick and board.

We are voice and storm and story.

We are the stubborn light that stays.”

My voice wavers, but I finish.

And when I do, the applause rolls like a tide.

But I hear none of it.

Because my eyes are still locked with his.

And in that look, everything unspoken hums between us.

No promises or plans.

But a start.

I want it.

I don’t mean to read another, but the room is still, breathless, waiting. And the poem burns in my pocket like it’s been waiting, too.

I pull out the folded paper, edges worn soft from all the times I’ve touched it but didn’t dare speak it aloud.

Liara’s eyes catch mine from the front row. She nods, once.

I step back to the mic.

“I wasn’t going to read this,” I say softly. “It’s… not new. And it’s not polished. But it’s honest.”

The crowd leans in, curious.

I unfold the page with slow fingers. My throat tightens as I scan the first line.

Then I breathe, and I begin.

“Where the Salt Settles.”

Where the salt settles

is not always where you want to stay.

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