His eyes close. He leans into my touch like a man starved.
We stand there a long time, the scent of ink and paper wrapping around us, lantern flames hissing soft. His forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with mine.
That night, back at the cabin, I write in my journal by candlelight. My hand shakes, but the words spill easy:
I used to believe in stories. Now I live in one.
I close the book, set it on the table, and crawl into bed beside him. He pulls me close, no distance now, no silence. Just warmth, scar to scar, heart to heart.
Outside, the shadows linger for a while at the edge of the clearing. But by midnight, they slip back into the trees.
And for once, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, love is enough to hold them there.
CHAPTER 24
KURSK
Olivia doesn’t say it out loud, but I see the weight in her shoulders, the way her eyes linger on shadows too long, how her hand sometimes drifts to the faint runes under her skin like they itch her from the inside. The Veil didn’t let her go clean.
So I do the only thing I can think of: I give her knowledge.
The old texts smell like dust, smoke, and iron ink. They’re stacked in the corner shelf of the library, bound in cracked hide, written in Orcish script sharp enough to cut the page. I drag them to the table one by one, flexing the stiffness out of my fingers, and start scratching translations into a cheap spiral notebook Peggy Sue found in the supply closet.
It’s slow work. The words aren’t just words—they’re curses, prayers, jokes, promises. Some are dangerous if you say them wrong. Others are harmless, like old recipes. But I can see Olivia relax when I read them aloud, my voice rough, her head bent close to hear.
“‘If a warrior forgets his home, may his tusks fall out one by one,’” I translate one night.
She snorts, laughter bubbling up like sunlight through cracks. “That’s in your holy texts?”
“It’s inatext,” I admit. “From the Grimoire of the Southhold. They were very protective of their kitchens.”
Then there’s the scroll I almost hide from her. Hand-painted, delicate script curling between sketches of entwined bodies. Orcs don’t blush, but if we did, I’d be scarlet. Olivia leans over, curious, and snatches it from me.
Her grin is wicked. “Is this…?”
I grunt. “A romance scroll. Very old. Very… detailed.”
She laughs so hard she nearly falls out of her chair. “Oh, we are absolutely adding this to story hour.”
And that’s how the circle begins.
First it’s just Olivia, Peggy Sue, and me. Then Booger wanders in, pretending he’s bored but listening with his mouth half open. Burnout follows, guitar in hand, strumming soft chords under the words. Then two of the elderly gossips from town—Miss Cranberry and Mrs. Fitch—drag in chairs, whispering loudly about “orc poetry nights.”
And then there’s Stitches.
The raccoon.
Nobody invited him. He just shows up, paws clutching a stale donut from the dumpster, mask-face solemn as he plops down like he’s part of the group. Olivia swears she saw him nod during the recitation of “The Ballad of Blood and Honey.”
Peggy Sue is the most studious, scribbling notes in the margins of her church bulletins. “The runes shift depending on the reader,” she says one night, pushing her glasses up her nose. “This isfascinating.”
Booger interrupts. “Read the steamy one again.”
“No,” Olivia says firmly.
“Yes,” Mrs. Fitch cackles.
Burnout strums a riff. “Background music,” he grins.
