Page 12 of Built Orc Tough
“She’s not—” I start, then stop.
Terra throws her head back andhowls.“Oh no. You’reso gone.”
I groan, standing. “Forget I came.”
“Too late,” she calls as I head for the door. “Bring her something. Something thoughtful but not try-hard. And not wrapped in burlap this time!”
I ignore her laughter echoing after me and take the long way back through the woods. Somewhere between the thornbrush and a patch of blue echinacea, I spot a clearing full of goldenbursts. They only bloom for a few weeks this side of summer, bright as fire, medicinal in low doses, and supposedly lucky if picked before dusk.
I gather a small bundle—wild, unarranged, unassuming.
Peace offering. Nothing fancy. Just... a gesture.
By the time I get back to the shop, the sun’s starting to soften and shadows stretch long across the floorboards. Ivy’s hunched over a bucket of delphinium, frowning like they owe her money.
I step into her side of the room. She looks up, instantly suspicious.
“Did one of your cauldrons explode again?” she asks. “Because I’m out of sage and patience.”
I hold out the flowers.
She stares. “What... is this?”
“Wildflowers,” I say simply.
“Ican seethat. Why are you handing them to me like they’re a bribe?”
“They’re not.”
She takes them slowly, eyes narrowing. “Is this some sort of herbal trap? Am I going to fall asleep and wake up speaking orcish?”
“They have calming properties,” I mutter. “That’s all.”
She sniffs them, then looks back up at me, blinking.
“Oh,” she says, voice cool and flat. “You think I’mtoo high-strungto function, and this is your gentle orcish way of sayingcalm down, woman?”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re giving mehealingflowers, Gorran. Like I’m a broken teapot. Or a feral cat. Is this your idea of subtle insult?”
“No,” I say, frowning. “They’re— They’re just flowers.”
She sets them on the counter, carefully.
“Thank you,” she says finally, tight-lipped.
It’s not gratitude. It’s concession.
I nod once and turn to go, my jaw working quietly.
I can’t win. Not with her.
I don’t mean to linger, but I do. Just for a second.
She’s not looking at me, not anymore. She’s focused on the wildflowers, rearranging them into something more structured without thinking—tucking a stem here, trimming a leaf there. Even angry, Ivy moves like she’s choreographing a ballet only she can hear, sharp and deliberate.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” I say finally, voice low. “You’ve been working hard. I thought you might want—” I shrug. “Something to ease the tension.”
