Page 34 of Built Orc Tough
Ivy freezes mid-squat, one arm still flailing for balance, eyes wide like she’s just seen me sprout wings. “Did you just—did you actually laugh?”
I lean against the counter, shaking. “You—moonwater—you looked like a startled cabbage?—”
She straightens up, her mouth twitching. “Cabbage? I will have you know this is high-tier stumbling. There was elegance involved.”
“Sure there was. Elegant disaster.”
“Better than stoic sneeze-splosion.”
We both dissolve into it then—her laughter spilling out like a chime made of broken wineglasses, mine lower, rougher, but just as unguarded.
The shop is a disaster. There’s glitter in the thyme. Sage bundles half-tied. A trail of golden pollen footprints across the floor like some mythical creature threw a tantrum. But for once, we’re not scrambling to fix it.
We just laugh.
She slides down the wall to sit on the floor, still giggling, and pats the spot beside her. “C’mon, Commander Sparklebeard. Join the glittery abyss.”
I groan but sink down beside her, legs stretching out in front of me, back against the cool stone. “This is absurd.”
“Welcome to the battlefield.”
I glance at her. Her cheeks are flushed from laughing, eyes bright, mouth curled into something soft and real. No armor. No snark. Just Ivy, radiant and ridiculous and right here.
“I don’t laugh much,” I murmur.
She leans her shoulder against mine. “Yeah. I figured. It looks good on you.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s easy. Settled.
We sit there, surrounded by chaos and shimmer and herbs in the wrong places, and I feel like I belong to something that doesn’t require me to fight.
Just breathe. Just be.
She nudges me gently. “You know this means war isn’t over, right?”
“Oh, I know.”
“And I fight dirty.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She snorts and rests her head briefly on my shoulder.
And in that moment, with laughter still echoing in the rafters and glitter clinging to everything, I let myself think—maybe joy isn’t a weakness. Maybe, it’s a kind of strength.
Especially when it smells faintly like shimmerleaf and sass.
CHAPTER 15
IVY
It’s always the dumbest things that get you. Not dragon attacks or ancient curses or rampaging bramble beasts—no, it’s a stubborn piece of rose stem and a pair of dull shears.
One slip. That’s all. One tiny miscalculation because I’m too busy replaying Gorran’s laugh in my head like some deranged music box. The blade jerks, and a thin line of red springs across my palm before I even register the sting.
“Son of a vine rot—ow!”
I drop the bouquet, thorns clattering against the wood floor, and cradle my hand like it betrayed me.
