Chapter 3
Orlena Blackwell slipped back into the workshop through the back door.
Her heart was still racing, and she was slightly out of breath.
She shut the door quietly behind her and leaned against it for a moment.
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead as the sounds of the fair faded.
The initial cheers had turned to distain and boos once they’d understood a human had won the contest.
She blinked.
She’d won.
The realization of the outcome of the contest sent her a little dizzy.
She hadn’t meant to stay until the final round.
Truly she hadn’t. She had only wanted to test the bow—her bow—under pressure.
It was a unique design she’d created, and she wanted to test it out and see how it handled distance and wind.
She had never thought she’d outshoot every contestant.
Especially not her.
The tall female orc had been impossible to ignore.
Her smooth green skin, her pearly-white tusks that appeared to gleam in the sunlight, her broad shoulders, muscular arms…
Orlena blinked. She hadn’t been aware she had caught all of that with the few glances she’d allowed herself to take.
She’d tried to stay hidden where no one would recognize her while she’d participated in the contest.
The orc had remained calm. Her eyes had seemed to capture and weigh everything. Orlena’s fingers had tightened on the bowstring the moment she’d faced her. Her nerves had almost got the best of her.
Then she’d released.
Bullseye.
Orlena pushed away from the door and straightened.
She removed her cloak and hung it up on the hook by the door.
She quickly gathered her bow and quiver and strode across the workshop floor.
The space was familiar and comforting, even with the clutter.
Half-finished bows hung on the wall. Their curved, glazed frames glowed softly in the lantern light.
Bundles of cured sinew rested on the worktable beside her tools.
They were arranged just the way she liked them to be.
She quickly hid her bow. It was her latest creation, and her boss was unaware of this design.
Hard footsteps made their way to her work area. A massive orc appeared in the doorway.
Yambul.
His amber-eyed gaze landed on her. He was an older orc who had run this shop for the past forty solars.
He was a third or fourth generation of the business.
Archery had been in his blood. She’d heard tons of stories of how one of his great-grandfathers had been a famous archer in a war, then came home and opened up the shop.
“You were gone too fecking long,” he complained.
“I’m sorry.” She swallowed hard. She took a deep breath and stood to her full height.
She hadn’t thought he would notice the length of time she’d been gone.
She’d used the excuse of wanting to go to the market for a bite to eat.
“The fair was crowded. It’s such a lovely day out.
I had a hard time getting back through.”
“You’re paid to work here in the shop, not wander through the fair and market,” Yambul snapped. He ran a hand across his jawline and eyed her.
“I know. I finished the orders you left me this morning.” She nodded.
“That doesn’t excuse you for disappearing for half a day.”
“I won’t do it again.” She sucked in a breath.
Yambul was a tough orc and didn’t let her slide on much.
“See that you don’t.” He studied her for a moment longer then turned away from her. “If you do, I’ll add more time to your service.”
The words hit her like a familiar blow.
She couldn’t afford to have any more time added to her contract. She was so close to being free of the damn thing. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.
“I won’t,” she said softly.
He grunted, apparently satisfied with what he’d heard.
“Close up the shop today. I’m heading out,” he called.
She moved over to the spot he’d vacated. He grabbed his cloak and left without another word. The front door banged shut behind him.
She exhaled slowly.
Now that he was gone, she could work in peace. Yambul was a grumpy orc who had taught her everything she knew about the fine art of bowery.
She strode through the shop and lit a few more lanterns.
It was no surprise that he wanted her to close.
Every day she was there before the shop opened, working for hours, and she stayed late and ensured the shop was closed.
Some days she worked late on orders so they were filled in a timely manner.
Soon, customers trickled through the door. A pair of travelers came in, asking for repairs. An orc woman bought new bowstrings. A human man entered and eyed the hunting bows.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked. She came to stand next to him.
He glanced over at her nervously.
“Um, not really,” he said. He peered past her head and took in the few customers. He faced her again, and this time he lowered his voice. “It was you. I saw you at the archery—”
“Shh…” She held a finger up to her lips.
“Don’t worry. None of them know our language,” he murmured. He’d switched over to the lost dialect. Once, it had been considered one of the main languages spoken by billions of humans thousands of solars ago.
English, it was once called.
She exhaled and nodded. She, too, looked around and found the other customers engaged in their browsing.
“Yes, it was me,” she replied in her native tongue.
She had learned it when she was a young child.
Her mother had taught it to her. It had been passed down through the generations of her mother’s family.
Even though the majority of humans spoke Universal, some still held on to the old ways of generations past. She had been surprised to learn that most of the humans in Soza spoke it.
“I was so proud of you. You did amazing.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, gave a squeeze, then brushed past her. He exited the store without a word.
She smiled softly and thought of how good it felt to be recognized by one of her own. Not too many humans had been in the crowd at the archery competition. The orcs hadn’t been too happy that a human had bested one of their kind.
They will get over it.
She blew out a deep breath and returned to work. When the flow of foot traffic finally slowed, she allowed herself to relax.
She swept the floor then wiped down the counter. She repositioned a few items that had been moved by customers browsing. Her gaze drifted to her workstation and where she’d hidden her bow. She scurried into her room and withdrew the bow. She moved back to the store front and stood at the counter.
Yambul would not return. He never did once he’d ordered her to close up the shop. There was no telling where he’d gone.
She sighed and traced her fingers over the smooth curve of the wood. She’d carved it herself from mountain yew. She’d tested its balance for weeks. The bow was nearly perfect.
Nearly.
Tomorrow morning, she would adjust the grip and fine-tune the tension. She had the deep urge to make it flawless, because perfection mattered.
It always had.
She’d learned that early on—had learned it the hard way.
When she’d come to Soza at the young age of eight solars, she hadn’t understood the reasoning. A contract was all that her father had said. She’d clutched his hand and tried not to cry. She was a big girl, and big girls didn’t cry.
Her mother had made her promise to be strong for her father and brother. Orlena had done it, too. The light in her mother’s eyes had faded moments later.
Her father had been desperate for money. Her mother’s sickness and death had drained everything they had. Grief had done something to her father. Tavis Blackwell was not the same man after his wife’s death. He was broken, and raising two kids had been too much for him.
Apparently, he had heard about working contracts in Soza. One where a person could work off a debt. He’d bargained, and before she knew it, she was given to Yambul for a price. He’d paid her father, then promised her food and shelter for exchange for work.
She hadn’t known it would be for decades.
At first she had received letters from her father. Short ones he’d written where he apologized to her and promised her the contract wouldn’t be for long. She’d believed every letter where he’d spoken of her returning.
But then his letters had come less and less.
Then none.
It had been solars since she’d last communicated with him.
Orlena pressed her lips together and set her bow aside. The familiar ache of abandonment settled deep in her chest.
What had happened to her father?
She wondered about her younger brother, Tashard. He would be thirty-five now. He was three solars younger than her, but in her mind he was forever frozen as a boy who scraped his knees and had a crooked smile. She imagined him to be taller now, maybe even married with children of his own.
She hoped he’d found happiness.
Heck, she hoped he was alive.
The shop bell chimed again. She blew out a deep breath.
With the fair going on this weekend, the steady flow of traffic was expected.
She slid the bow underneath the counter on a shelf where customers wouldn’t see it.
She didn’t want to have to explain that this particular bow was not for sale—at least not yet.
Yambul had yet to see it, and she was sure he was going to have a fit that she’d designed one on her own.
She looked up to greet the newcomer. She froze in place, unable to move.
The woman from the contest was there in the store. She was just as Orlena remembered. Tall, muscular, and unmistakable.
This was the female orc she’d beaten. Now, here she stood, as if she belonged. Her amber eyes locked on Orlena with a startling intensity.
Orlena’s mouth went dry.