Page 11 of Built Orc Tough
Ineed a break from the smell of her hairspray and burning resentment before I start steeping valerian root with bad intentions.
The walk to Terra’s workshop clears my head more than any meditation tea ever has. Elderbridge is quiet this time of day, just after the midday rush and before the evening hush. I pass a trio of goblin kids arguing over a lopsided kite, the corner bakery with its open shutters and sugar-thick air, and a nymph sitting on a fountain, her hair glistening like she bathed in the stream this morning—which she probably did.
Terra’s place sits just beyond the tree line, a squat wooden structure half-eaten by ivy and old magic. The smell of sawdust and cedar hits before I reach the porch.
I knock once.
She yells, “If it’s the damn mayor asking for another hand-carveddiplomatic spoon,I’m moving into the caves!”
“It’s me,” I call back, deadpan.
The door swings open, and there she is—half a head shorter than me, covered in wood shavings and sweat, hair braided to keep it out of her face but mostly falling apart anyway.
Terra squints up at me. “You look like a man who’s either constipated or emotionally compromised.”
“Can’t I just be visiting my little sister?”
She snorts. “You haven’t visited since the Midsummer bonfire. Either you’re dying, or something you care about is.”
I follow her inside without arguing. It smells like home—old smoke, tree sap, a hint of polish she only uses on ceremonial commissions. She shoves a pile of tools off a bench and jerks her chin for me to sit.
“Well?” she asks, sitting on a stool across from me and cracking open a bottle of water with her teeth. “Talk.”
I lean forward, elbows on knees. “There’s this florist?—”
“Ohthank the gods,” she interrupts. “It’s a woman.”
I blink. “I didn’t say?—”
“You said florist. That’s enough.”
I grunt. “Her name’s Ivy.”
Terra narrows her eyes. “Pretty name. Uptight?”
I sigh.
“Floral tattoos, drinks too much herbal tea, owns at least one linen apron she wears like a suit of armor?”
“Close enough.”
“And let me guess—she’s shoved into your life against both your wills, has trust issues that hit like a boomerang, and you’ve already argued at least twice over a shared broom?”
“Three times,” I admit.
Terra grins, wide and smug. “Oh, you aresodoomed.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not,” I insist, though it sounds weaker now. “She’s loud, she’s territorial, she labeled my bone bark ‘Dead Tree Dust,’ and she smells like a fancy apothecary for rich humans who cry during yoga.”
“But?” Terra prompts.
I sigh again. “But she’s got fight in her. And she works hard. And she doesn’t flinch when I growl. And sometimes when she’s muttering to herself while trimming stems, I forget to be annoyed.”
She leans back, arms crossed. “So, what’s the plan, big brother? Gonna grunt her into submission? Or maybe glare until she stops being cute?”
