Chapter 4 Ella
Ella
My first day off in Arch Settlement starts with a singular, scandalous luxury.
I sleep in until eight without an alarm jarring me awake, without a wailing baby demanding attention, without twin-Orc debates filtering through the floor.
For a full five minutes after waking, I bask in the blanket cocoon and stare at the moss-lit ceiling, savoring the fact that nobody needs me for anything.
Of course, by minute six, boredom creeps in, so I throw on jeans, a clean shirt, and hit the market before my inner people-pleaser can call me back to fold laundry or organize spice cabinets.
The main square is already a fever dream of activity.
At first, it’s overwhelming, but the longer I drift, the more I see the patterns.
Rows of stalls elbow up against the base of the central arch like teeth, each one manned by Orcs who make even the biggest human weightlifters look like toddlers.
It should be intimidating, but the effect is undercut by the wildness of the wares: heaps of jewel-bright roots and fruits, piles of rough-smelted iron tools, and racks of hand-knit wool sweaters.
The air is dense with the scent of wood smoke, tangy ferments, and an undercurrent of metallic ozone from the enchanted lanterns. Every third stall has a lamp made of some faceted mineral, shining through a filter of bioluminescent moss that paints everything in shifting green and gold.
I take my time, not because I have money to burn but because each stall is its own little planet.
The first stop is a produce table, where the merchant offers me a sample of something that looks like a blood orange but tastes like a sour patch kid dipped in honey and battery acid. I buy two, just to be polite.
The next vendor deals in weapons. These aren’t the collector kind, but the brutal, get-the-job-done variety. I can’t stop staring at a cleaver with a handle carved in the shape of a gryphon, until the vendor nudges it toward me with a wink.
“Too heavy for you, I think,” he rumbles, with a smile that shows a hint of gold in his left canine.
“Definitely.” I doubt I could lift it, much less actually use it.
He lets out a huff that’s almost a laugh and gestures to a row of kitchen knives, each one honed so fine I can see my reflection. “For delicate hands,” he says, not unkindly.
The next hour vanishes in a blur of sensory overload.
By the time I reach the inner ring of stalls, my cloth bag swings heavy with impulse buys.
The two demon-citruses knock against my thigh with each step.
A pocket notebook made from recycled parchment peeks from the top, its edges already curling in the humid air.
Nestled between them sits a jar of "medicinal" honey, amber and thick, that the vendor swore would "make a human sing like an Orc.
" I believe him. My tongue still tingles from the small sample.
It's at the jewelry stall that I lose track of time completely. The table stands arranged with military precision. Bracelets form perfect rows like soldiers at attention. Rings cluster in circular formations. Necklaces drape in cascading lines across dark velvet. Every piece is made of bone, not the bleached, brittle kind from craft stores, but dense and polished, inlaid with metal bands. I don’t usually do jewelry, but I find myself running my finger along the curve of a bracelet, the bone warm and somehow alive under my skin.
“May I help you?”
The voice is male, low, and so close it prickles my neck.
I look up to see an Orc male in full Council regalia: black tunic with silver fasteners, a ceremonial sash over one shoulder.
He's leaner than most orcs, his body built for speed rather than brute force.
His amber eyes narrow when they meet mine, tracking every small movement I make.
The forest-dark skin of his face deepens to near black where shadow falls across his cheekbones, highlighting the raised pattern of ritual scars that trace his jawline like ancient writing.
He waits a heartbeat too long for my answer. “Uh—just browsing,” I stammer, suddenly aware of how nerdy my own voice sounds against his.
“Ella Blume,” he says, not a question. “Aric’s new nanny.”
He offers a hand, and I shake it because I’m incapable of not being polite, even when my brain is screaming “stranger danger.” His grip is strong but measured.
“Kael Darkthorn, Council Elder.” He says it like it’s both an introduction and a challenge. There’s no smile, but his lips twitch as if the idea amuses him. “You have an eye for the old craft.”
I glance down at the bracelet in my hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I admit. “The bone—”
“Boar,” he says. “Culled from the wild herds. Only the right front limb, for tradition. Each ring is hammered by hand.”
I want to ask more, but there’s something about his focus that makes me want to retreat two paces. Instead, I nod, set the bracelet back on the velvet, and try to invent a reason to move on. He senses it immediately.
“If you prefer the glasswork, we have a master of that three stalls down.” He leans in conspiratorially, voice dropping. “But it’s mass-produced, not worth your coin.”
I laugh, more out of nerves than humor. “I don’t actually have much coin.”
He cocks his head. “Then what brings you here, Miss Blume?”
The question lands hard. I could lie and say curiosity, or “research for my employer,” or even “just killing time.” Instead, I go with the truth. “I wanted to see what normal looked like, on this side of the wall.”
He lets the silence hang, examining me as though the answer itself is a riddle. “And?” he finally asks.
“It’s not as different as I expected,” I admit. “Except for the knives. And the jewelry. And the moss everywhere.” I gesture up at the lanterns, casting their green light across the crowd.
He follows my gaze. “The moss is from the deep caves. Very old. It reminds us that, even in darkness, there is beauty.” It’s almost poetic, and I sense it’s rehearsed.
“I like it,” I say, taking a step back from him. “The moss.”
He steps closer and gestures, palm up. “Allow me to show you the best vantage. If you’re not in a hurry.”
I hesitate, but he’s already moving toward the central fountain, a spiral of basalt and bioluminescent rock that rises in three tiers.
I catch up, partly because I’m curious, partly because the crowd is thick, and he clears a path just by existing.
He guides me to the fountain’s edge, and suddenly the whole market comes into view.
I stare down at the concentric circles of stalls, the ever-moving tide of buyers and sellers, the way the moss light picks out the seams in the ancient stones.
It’s… spectacular. Inhuman, but spectacular.
“Do you miss your human city?” he asks, quietly.
I flinch. The answer is complicated, so I just say, “Sometimes. But it never felt like home.”
He nods as if I’ve passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “You’re braver than most. Aric chose well.”
The compliment is strange, and I sense I’m doing something wrong, but I have no idea what. “Thank you,” I mutter.
Kael leans in, his voice smooth and creepy at the same time. “If you ever need guidance on our customs, you have but to ask. Integration is difficult, especially for someone so… visible.”
I bristle but try to keep it light. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Not happening. Something about this Orc makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Suddenly, there’s a hardness behind his words. “You’re a challenge. Some admire this.” His eyes flick over me. “Some do not.”
He is so close that I can see the fine, silver lines of scar tissue crisscrossing his knuckles, the way his eyes flick from my face to my hands and back, always searching.
My internal radar pings out a warning, and I’m searching for an escape route when he straightens and steps back, formal again.
“Thank you for entertaining an old Orc’s rambling.
I must return to Council business. Please, enjoy your market day, Miss Blume. ”
He leaves me with a tiny nod and blends into the crowd with predatory smoothness. The moment he’s gone, I feel my lungs expand for the first time in five minutes. I rub at the back of my neck like I can erase the weird energy Kael left behind. Time to bail.
I cut through the far side of the square, bag thumping against my thigh, tunnel-visioned on the shortcut to Aric’s place. The residential arches stretch ahead, all glowing moss and echoing footsteps. I keep my head down and power-walk, not stopping for the next round of vendors.
The shortcut runs behind the training courtyard, and the second I step into its shadow, I feel the market’s noise vanish. It’s just stone, sunlight, and the faint chemical tang of metal polish.
I take the stairs two at a time and don’t slow down until I see Aric’s home up ahead. I exhale, adjust my shirt, and nearly trip over Oren Arch.
He’s pacing the front porch, back and forth, boots grinding stone like he’s trying to wear a trench into the world. His arms are folded, chest heaving with breaths I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want anyone to notice. When he sees me, he stops suddenly and stares at me.
He’s holding flowers. The bouquet is a gorgeous explosion of color that should look ridiculous in Oren’s mitt, except it doesn't. Wildflowers tangle with lush red and pink roses, the stems carefully arranged in a green crystal vase that shimmers in the porch light. It’s not delicate, it’s powerful. Like Oren himself.
My freaking crazy day just took a turn to the Twilight Zone.
My brain short-circuits. No guy has ever brought me flowers before, let alone a seven-foot brick wall of Orc muscle who looks like he could bench-press my Civic.
The bouquet is so big it almost swallows his hand, but he’s holding it with this ridiculous, careful gentleness, like it’s something sacred.