I roll my eyes, but I read it. My voice low, steady, trying not to choke on some of the more… athletic passages. Stitches theraccoon chews his donut and stares at me like he’s judging my delivery.
Olivia sits close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table. Her hand slips into mine halfway through the reading, grounding me while laughter and murmurs swirl around us.
The library smells of wax and dust, warm bodies packed close, tea steeping in chipped mugs. The air is alive with words—orc words, human words, the kind that bridge a gap wider than the Veil ever was.
When I close the book for the night, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind. The kind where everyone’s holding the same breath, believing in the same story.
The library’s quiet tonight, but my hands aren’t still.
I sit at the workbench Olivia cleared for me, wood shavings curling under the lantern light, scent of pine and cedar thick in the air. My knife works slow, steady, each cut deliberate. This isn’t a blade, not a weapon for killing. The weight in my hands isn’t meant for war—it’s meant for memory.
A staff. Long, polished, carved with runes I half-remember and half-invent, a spine of culture pressed into wood. At the top, I fit a curve of iron, not sharp, just symbolic—an echo of a spearhead, dulled. Along the shaft, I etch scenes: orcs wrestling under the moon, songs carved as flowing script, even the strange twisting lines of a love poem I once mocked when I was young and stupid.
My breath fogs in the cool air, mixing with sawdust. My tusks ache from clenching too long, but I can’t stop. This feels like purpose.
Not Kursk the warrior. Not Kursk the killer. Kursk thekeeper.
Behind me, Olivia hums while she ties off something with twine. I catch the smell of glue, leather, ink. She’s been secretiveall week, muttering about “projects” and shooing me from her desk like I’m a nosy child.
When I finish the last rune, I lean back, wiping sweat and dust from my brow. The staff gleams under the lantern glow, warm and alive. My chest swells tight, almost painful. This is mine, yes, but it’s also for them—for anyone who ever wondered if orc voices could outlast steel.
“Done,” I mutter, voice rough.
“That’s good timing,” Olivia says, and I hear her stand. Footsteps soft on the boards. She holds something in both hands, wrapped in cloth. She sets it in front of me, pushes it forward, eyes sparkling like she knows she’s up to mischief.
“Open it,” she says.
I frown. “What is this?”
“Just open it.”
The cloth is soft, smells faintly of lavender. I peel it back.
And my breath leaves me.
A book. Not one of the old cracked texts, not one of her journals—a new book.Bound by hand, leather cover smooth under my fingers, stitches neat, pages thick. Across the front, in careful paint, words in both Orcish and English:
The Longstrider’s Tales.
My throat closes up. I flip it open—inside are my translations, the ones I scribbled in her cheap spiral notebook, rewritten in her clean, looping hand. Poems. Curses. Recipes. Even the damned romance scroll. She copied them all.
“You—” My voice cracks. I grip the edge of the table hard enough to creak the wood. “You did this.”
She shrugs, casual, but her smile is soft. “You gave me stories. I thought they deserved to be read without squinting at your chicken-scratch.”
I laugh, but it dies into something wetter, rawer. My chest heaves. “Olivia… you gave me back my voice.”
Her hand covers mine, warm and steady. “No, Kursk. You never lost it. You just needed someone to hear.”
For a long moment, I can’t speak. The lantern hums, the smell of cedar clings to my skin, and my eyes burn in a way no battlefield wound ever made them. I clutch the staff in one hand, the book in the other, and for the first time since crossing the Veil, I don’t feel like a man stranded.
I feel like a manhome.
The nights feel different now.
For weeks, Olivia would wake thrashing, skin hot, eyes haunted by dreams she couldn’t quite explain. I’d hold her through it, pressing her against my chest, whispering nothing but steady sounds until her breathing slowed. Always, she told me she saw shadows, fire, the taste of iron on her tongue. Always, I feared the Veil was still clawing at her.
But lately… it’s changing.
