Chapter 6
Savla
I’m not going to do it.
No matter how many times Pen gave me that don’t embarrass the clan look, or how many songs the band struck up, I wasn’t dancing. Orcs weren’t built for that kind of spectacle. We were built for battlefields, not ballroom floors.
And then Hanna found me.
“Still hiding?” she said, appearing from nowhere again—all green silk, beautiful eyes and mischief, her cheeks flushed from laughter.
She was a female of many depths. On the outside, if you didn’t look closely enough, you’d think that she was happy all the time. But if you just delved a little deeper, you’d spot it.
The pain, the insecurity. I saw it, but it wasn’t my business. We were just friends. Nothing more. I’d decided that early on. And I wasn’t changing my mind.
“I’m not hiding,” I said. “I’m observing.”
“Observing from behind a potted plant?”
“It’s strategic positioning.”
She grinned, the kind that could get a male into trouble. “You promised me a dance.”
“I never promised,” I corrected. “You threatened.”
“Semantics.” She reached for my hand before I could protest. “Come on, Sav. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I could think of several answers—public humiliation, tripping over my own feet, dying of social exposure—but none of them mattered once her fingers curled around mine. Her skin was warm, soft, alive in a way that made every rational thought abandon ship.
The music shifted—something slow, almost sultry—and she led me—yes, led me—toward the open floor where other couples swayed under floating lanterns. My clan-brothers were all there with their mates, holding them close and lost to the world.
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 could feel 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’s dancing!”
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 like smoke.
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.
Hanna’s voice floated from the doorway. She leaned against the frame, her green dress now rumpled from the night, curls loose around her face, and no shoes in sight.
“You’re barefoot,” I said.
She grinned. “Observation skills, ten out of ten.”
“I thought you left with the others.”
It had been like this for months now. After the first time she’d discovered my hidden sanctuary. No one knew except us. It was like a secret we promised each other never to share without saying the words.
“I did. Then I didn’t.” She stepped inside, eyes wandering over the scattered tools and sketches. “I don’t know why, but there’s times when I feel like if I don’t come here, I won’t be able to sleep.”
“It’s not much.”
“It’s wonderful,” she said simply. “Smells like work and imagination.”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever described me like that before. Work, yes. Imagination? That was new.
Ribbon croaked loudly, hopping from his perch toward her. Hanna bent down without hesitation, offering a hand. The toad—a massive, furry creature easily the size of a hound—blinked, then croaked again and nuzzled against her fingers.
“Traitor,” I muttered. “You weren’t supposed to like anyone except me.”
Hanna laughed softly. “He has good instincts.”
“Or terrible ones.”
She stood again, moving closer to the workbench. Her eyes found a small wooden carving I’d abandoned—a rough figure of an orc warrior holding something fragile in his hands. I didn’t even remember starting it.
“When did you make this? I didn’t see this the last time I was here,” she asked.
“Started to. Didn’t know what it was supposed to be.”
She traced the figure’s outline with one finger. “Maybe it’s waiting for you to figure that out.”
Something in her tone—quiet, sure—hit deeper than I expected. I leaned against the bench, trying to shake it off, as her eyes flared with a green light that made me frown. Her fingertips too. Right where she was touching the wood. “You shouldn’t be up here this late. What if I hadn’t been here?”
“I’ll risk it,” she said. “You’re much better company than my own.”
I huffed. “That’s a low bar.”
She smiled. “Maybe. But I’m not leaving yet.”
For a long moment, we just stood there—the sound of the city below, the wind through the rafters, and Ribbon making contented toad noises at our feet.
It should’ve been simple. A witch, an orc, a quiet night. But nothing about her was simple. She filled the space without trying—like light slipping through a crack in a door I didn’t realize I’d closed years ago.
“Savla?” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, then smiled that small, knowing smile again. “You can scowl all you want. It doesn’t hide how kind you are.”
I looked away before she could see what that did to me. “You should go before I start charging rent.”
Hanna laughed, walking backward toward the door. “Fine, grumpy. But I’ll be back. Artists are terrible at scowling when they’re inspired.”
When she disappeared down the stairs, the workshop felt too quiet. I turned back to the carving on my bench.
And, without really knowing why, I started to work on it again.