I moved stiffly, hyper-aware of every eye in the room, until Hanna turned, placed my hand at her waist, and whispered, “Just breathe, Savla. It’s not a test.”
“That’s exactly what someone says right before a test,” I muttered.
She laughed, the sound brushing against me like a spark. “Then you’re in luck. I’m a gentle teacher.”
I looked down at her—really looked. Her hair had come loose from its braid, curls framing her face. Her lips curved when she smiled up at me, and her magic—subtle but unmistakable—hummed between us, like the air itself wanted to lean closer.
We started moving. Slowly. Awkwardly at first. My hand was too heavy on her back; her step was too quick for mine. But she didn’t mind. She just kept smiling, murmuring small corrections until somehow we found a rhythm.
When I finally stopped focusing on my feet, I realized I couldfeel the steady beat of her pulse through her wrist where I held her hand.
“See?” she said softly. “You’re not terrible.”
“I’m barely adequate.”
“Barely adequate looks good on you.”
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Absolutely,” she said, her voice dropping just enough to make my chest tighten. “You’re impossible to throw off—I take that as a personal challenge.”
“You’re failing.”
She tilted her head. “Am I?”
The song slowed. For a moment, we just stood there, still swaying, her hand light against my chest. The hall around us blurred—the chatter, the clinking glasses, the other dancers. It all faded until it was just her eyes meeting mine.
Then Gabbi’s little voice cut through the moment. “Uncle Savla’sdancing!”
The hall erupted in laughter and applause.
I stepped back instantly, muttering, “Traitorous witchling.”
Hanna was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “You were perfect,” she said.
“I was ambushed,” I grumbled.
She smiled up at me, still breathless. “You’ll live.”
Maybe. Though I wasn’t sure my heart had gotten the message yet. Swallowing hard, I turned and walked to the back of the room again, refusing to look back.
The naming ceremony party had gone on long after the music stopped. Orcs never did anything halfway—even celebrations had endurance rounds. But eventually, the laughter faded, the youngling was tucked away, and the crowd began to scatter likesmoke.
I escaped to the roof as soon as I could.
The cool air hit me like a blessing. I shrugged off my jacket, unbuttoned that cursed collar, and let my shoulders breathe again. The city of Grebath sprawled below, all twinkling lights and far-off noise, but up here, it was quiet—just the hum of the night and the soft croak of my pet Mountain Toad, Ribbon, somewhere near the water barrels.
My workshop smelled like sawdust, oil, and the faint hint of burnt resin—home. Bits of half-finished projects cluttered the tables—carved wood panels, weapon hilts, a sketch of something I’d been meaning to build but hadn’t found the right purpose for yet.
I ran a hand over the workbench, exhaling slowly, releasing the tension of the night.
This was better. Quieter.
No witches, no bowties, no—
“I love this view.”
I froze.
