Page 22 of Built Orc Tough
And…personal.
I pick up the cup slowly, bring it to my nose, and inhale.
It’s perfect.
Of course it is.
I glance around the shop, half expecting him to be lurking behind a shelf, arms crossed, waiting to see my reaction. But there’s no sign of him. No footsteps. No ceremonial orcish humming from the back room.
Just silence. And this damn tea.
I sit on the stool, holding the cup in both hands like it’s a question I have no answer for.
“For peace.”
What does that mean? Peace from what? From the awkward lingering glances? From the kind-of-not-quite fights? From the fact that my chest keeps doing that annoying squeeze every time he does something that surprises me?
I take a sip.
Warm. Balanced. Slightly sweet.
And now I’m annoyed. Because now I’m thinking about him instead of my morning prep list. Now I’m wondering if he meant it as a peace offering or a challenge or some kind of emotional grenade disguised as herbal hospitality.
I set the cup down and eye the note like it might bite me.
“For peace.”
Whateverthatmeans.
CHAPTER 10
GORRAN
The storm hits hard and fast, the way trouble always seems to find people trying to make something delicate out of something broken.
One second the sky’s just gray and low, and the next it’s cracking open like some old god finally lost patience. Thunder rolls through Elderbridge with the kind of authority that makes you straighten your spine even if you’re indoors. I’m elbow-deep in a crate of calendula, sorting out what’s still usable from last week’s batch, when the first raindrop smacks the shop window hard enough to sound like a warning.
Then there’s another. And another.
Crack.
A sound I know too well. Wood. Under pressure.
I’m already moving before Ivy yells my name, my boots heavy on the floor as I head toward the front.
The roof over the west wall—the one we patched last spring, the one that creaks when the wind’s just right—has finally given up. Rain’s coming in through a jagged crack just above the ribbon shelf, cascading down in a crooked waterfall that’s already soaked two crates of dried ferns and a stack of parchment order slips.
“I told you this place was held together by sarcasm and expired permits!” Ivy shouts, barreling in behind me with a tarp she yanks from the back storage bin like it’s her sword of war.
“I thought your aunt said she fixed this part!”
“Shesaida lot of things! She also said kombucha was a meal!”
We get the tarp up, more or less, but it’s a losing battle. The rain’s not letting up, and the wind’s driving it sideways like it’s got something to prove.
“We have to move everything,” I say, keeping my voice level as I start snatching salve jars from my side of the shelf. “Anything important. Get it to the back room.”
She nods, already moving faster than I expected, grabbing spools of ribbon and stacking flower boxes, muttering about backup vases and soggy invoices.
