Page 40 of Built Orc Tough
“Sprout,” I growl, “I swear on every sacred bloom and bar of soap?—”
“You said yes,” he interrupts gleefully, plucking a sprig of lavender from a bouquet-in-progress and tucking it behind his ear. “But now you’re spiraling.”
“Am not.”
“You are. You reorganized the gift shelf by threat level.”
I glance toward the display of gnome-themed keepsakes, where the grinning warlock-gnome with glowing eyes has mysteriously claimed the top spot. “That’s just good merchandising.”
He snorts. “That’s existential panic disguised as retail strategy.”
Before I can argue further, a gentle chime ripples through the shop, and Miss Lyria enters like a breeze wrapped in velvet and jasmine, her presence as commanding as a royal inspection but with far more glitter.
“Darling,” she coos, eyes already scanning me from head to toe, “you didn’t think we’d let you go to dinner looking like a stressed carnation, did you?”
I raise my hands in protest. “Absolutely not. I am not getting magically made over for a maybe-date with the flower ogre. I am chaos. I wear chaos. Iamthe storm.”
“And every storm needs a good glow,” she says breezily, producing a wand and a silk pouch from nowhere.
Sprout conjures a plush stool, complete with embroidered vines that move if you look at them too long, and gestures for me to sit.
Lyria snaps her fingers, and my dirt-smudged apron and boots vanish, replaced with a wrap dress that’s all fluid shadow and moonlit moss, the fabric charmed to hug in all the rightplaces and swish dramatically when I move—even when I’m standing still. It smells faintly of rain.
“What—what is this?!” I ask, flapping a sleeve like I’ve grown wings.
“Charmwoven glamour-linen,” Lyria replies, pleased. “Doesn’t wrinkle, stain, or ride up during surprise emotional outbursts.”
Sprout holds up a small pot of shimmering cream. “And this is enchanted makeup. Stays on through nerves, wine, windstorms, and first kisses.”
“I’m not kissing him,” I mutter as they start dabbing and brushing.
“You didn’t plan the last one either,” Sprout says.
“Exactly!” I snap. “Which is how we ended up in three days of awkward almost-eye contact and me accidentally telling a customer to compost themselves.”
Lyria hums as she fluffs my hair. “And yet here you are. Nervous. Hoping. Going.”
I try to glare, but it softens. Because she’s right.
They finish fussing and step back with matching nods of approval. I glance in the mirror and barely recognize myself—not because I look different, but because I look like a version of me I’ve never let out into the world before. Confident. Intentional. Like I meant to exist this way.
Sprout gives a dramatic bow. “Behold, Ivy in full bloom.”
“I look like someone who charges for potions and emotional damage,” I murmur.
“For tonight,” Lyria says, tucking a silver leaf behind my ear, “you charge nothing but honesty.”
They leave in a swirl of laughter and scent and quiet magic, the shop settling into golden hush once more. I stand alone, fingertips still tingling, the faint rustle of my dress the only sound.
He asked me to dinner.
Not because he had to.
Because hewantedto.
And for once, I think that might just be enough.
And yes—I'm still going.
