2. Torgan
TORGAN
Idon't want to break my sister's heart.
I want to save it. There's a difference. I've been telling myself that for two days now, and the vial in my breast pocket presses against my chest as I tell myself again.
There's a difference.
We are at dinner in Valeforth Hall, seat of the Duke of Valeforth, and the stone here feels colder than the stone at home. Or maybe that's me. Battle they train you for. Sisters they don't.
Half the vial. Half into her goblet. Maybe that would be enough...
Would it? I have no idea. I don't even know if the thing works. I should have listened to the witch instead of standing there thinking about the woman who fell into me. Hazel eyes. A fistful of my tunic. Flour or chalk on her apron. She heard the whole transaction and probably thinks I'm a monster.
That shouldn't matter. She's a stranger I met in a shop two days ago.
It keeps mattering.
"Torgan? Torgan."
Pa. I blink. I haven't heard a word anyone has said for the last ten minutes.
I take my hand out of my pocket and lean forward. "Sorry. Lots on my mind."
Pa sits at the head of the table in a chair that might as well be a throne.
Lord Garran Oakenshade displays his wealth more than any of his children, but tonight I understand why.
At the opposite end sits the Duke of Valeforth, a merchant with a purchased title and land granted to him for moving goods across the four realms and taxing everything that enters his territory.
The Duke dines without his sons. Lords Princeton and Caden Voss are elsewhere. Gallivanting, according to the official explanation.
It's the younger one I'd like to see. Not that I would say so at this table. Not that anyone here knows why I'd care.
Except possibly Mirelle.
She has been sneaking out to balls and coming home smelling like a human man's cologne for three months. She thinks I haven't noticed.
I notice everything. It's my whole job.
The seating is the same as it has been my entire life. I'm at Pa's right and Ma is at his left. My sisters sit two and two, with Ysolde and Mirelle beside Ma and Brynna and Saskia beside me. More than twenty years of the same arrangement.
Why does Mirelle have to be the one who breaks it?
"Lots on your mind," Pa echoes. "Care to share?"
There is no version of this evening where I share my reservations about Caden Voss in front of Caden Voss's father. "Trade duties," I say. "From my travels."
Pa raises an eyebrow. Ma makes a small sound into her plate that means behave.
I look down the table at the Duke. White hair slicked back. Beard trimmed close. Pale blue eyes half-lidded over his meal, as though this entire dinner is a nap he is politely enduring.
He appears not to be listening.
I don't believe him.
I should be in the Moonlight Forest hunting stags. Or at the Merreach Docks, getting a look at the Voss brothers and forming my own opinion of the man my baby sister thinks is a secret.
Or back in Starling Vale, finding the woman in the apron. Asking what she really thinks of me.
Why the hells does that keep coming back? It was one moment with one stranger.
I spent twenty gold pieces on a potion that probably doesn't even work. Overpriced piece of shit.
Then testing it wouldn't hurt, would it? Mirelle's goblet is right there...
I press my palm against my breast pocket.
No.
I spear a few vegetables and force myself to eat. The food is bland, like everything else in this castle. Like most things humans make.
Except her, apparently.
A sharp ping rings through the hall. I look down and find half a fork in my hand. I've snapped the silver clean in two without noticing how tightly I was holding it.
Fuck.
"Torgan," Saskia says under her breath. "What has gotten into you?"
"Lots on my mind." I set the broken pieces down. Then I raise my voice for the head of the table. "Apologies, my lord. I suppose orc utensils are sturdier."
"Of course my son will replace it," Ma says.
"It's fine," the Duke replies, unbothered. "His is not the first fork to break in these halls."
Maybe the first one shattered, but I keep that to myself.
A servant appears at my elbow with an identical fork. I accept it awkwardly. Orcs aren't waited on this way. Having someone hover close enough to anticipate every need feels wrong.
Fake.
"Thank you," I say. Then, because the question has been eating at me all evening and I am apparently finished pretending to be sensible, I ask, "Where are Lords Princeton and Caden tonight?"
Across the table, Mirelle's eyes promise me a slow death.
Nothing like angering an orc sister. I'm the warrior in this family on paper. My sisters are the ones who would tear out your heart, figuratively or literally, depending on the occasion.
The Duke either misses the look or pretends to. He blinks at me in that slow, sleepy way. "The Merreach Docks. They're supervising a textile shipment from the Mellica Continent and seeing that the tariffs are paid."
He swirls his goblet and studies the wine.
I want to drain mine. It would give my mouth something to do besides ask the question forming behind my teeth.
"And how do the Mellicans feel about the tariffs?" I ask. It's the polite version of the question I actually have, the one that would get us escorted out of the Starlit Reach.
"They understand it's the cost of doing business here," the Duke says. "Access to the human customer base requires coordination, protection, and knowledge of the territory. Other nations would struggle to manage without our help."
"Hear, hear," Pa says quickly, before I can respond.
He doesn't smile. He looks at me the way he did when I was a boy and about to say something that would embarrass him.
Fine.
Pa is so focused on the gold and the growth of the Oakenshade name that he hasn't considered what these tariffs will do to everyone paying them.
Or he has considered it and doesn't care.
I care. That's the inconvenient thing about me.
"My lord," I say, trying for blithe and failing, "the Oakenshades have never struggled to trade with partners in any realm. No coordination required. So wouldn't this tariff mostly fall on your own people? The humans buying the cloth?"
The Duke's drowsiness disappears. His pale eyes meet mine, clear and alert.
So he has been listening.
"Ow."
Pain shoots through the top of my right foot.
Across the table, Mirelle gives me a look that would qualify as a curse if there were a drop of magic in it. She has driven her heel into my boot, and there isn't the slightest hint of apology on her face.
Only a warning that she'll do it again.
"Is everything all right?" the Duke asks with mild concern.
Mirelle's glare says keep your mouth shut. I press my lips together and dare her to try me again.
Ysolde, the eldest of my sisters and the most serene of us, places a hand over Mirelle's. Mirelle's nostrils flare. Then she turns to the Duke with a sweet smile.
"Everything is quite all right," I manage. "My boots pinch."
I rub the top of my foot. It isn't for show. Godsdamn. I knew Mirelle was good in combat. I didn't know her skills extended to footwear.
And I know why she did it. She doesn't want me causing trouble with this family. For three months, she has attended balls, come home smelling like cologne, and believed herself invisible. She's well-bred, but she isn't half as sly as she thinks.
The human boy she has chosen is the son of the man at the end of this table.
I don't like Caden Voss. I haven't met Caden Voss. How can both things be true?
I don't care. Something is wrong with this family. I can feel it every time the Duke looks at us, and whatever is wrong will reach Mirelle eventually.
And I swear it isn't only because she's the last one. The last unattached sister. The last...
"Glad it's quite all right," the Duke says, returning to his food. "You never know with boots these days. Inferior craftsmanship."
I breathe slowly through my nose and give him a pleasant smile.
Mirelle's expression says everything when I look back at her.
Ruin this and I will end you.
Ysolde leans over and whispers something too softly for me to hear. My sisters have always been like that. There are four of them, and they understand one another without needing to explain. The only brother stands outside the circle.
I've stood outside it my whole life.
Most days, it doesn't hurt.
The vial presses against my chest. The spell isn't permanent, but would a month be enough? A month for Mirelle to see Caden clearly? A month without whatever hold he has on her?
She'll be distracted at some point tonight. Servants refill the cups. No one watches every goblet.
I could keep her safe.
The hair on the back of my neck rises.
Ma is watching me.
Not glancing. Watching. She has had that same sharp attention since before I could walk. It misses nothing and forgives only when it chooses.
There is no way she knows what's in my pocket.
Does she?
"Torgan," she croons, and I know that tone. There are reasons the females of our kind are considered deadlier than the males. "Escort me outside. We could both use the air."
Saskia and Mirelle snicker. Everyone at the table recognizes a reprimand when they hear one.
"Please, Torgan," Ma adds gently. "My breathing pains me a little tonight. The fresh air would help."
Her injury is over a decade old, and she uses it because she knows I can't refuse. Not that. Never that.
Pa's attention lifts from his plate.
Caught.
Fuck.
I swallow the dry lump in my throat. "Of course, Ma." I nod to the Duke and then Pa. "My lords. I'll return."
Ma rises like the queen she should have been, while servants rush to ease back her chair. She is a full head shorter than me and shorter than all her daughters. She's still taller than the Duke and most humans, and she commands the hall as though she owns it.
She more or less does.
I walk around the table and offer her my arm. Her eyes never leave me, as though I might lunge for Mirelle's goblet on the way past.
I don't.
I do what a good son does and walk my mother outside.
"You're a good son, Torgan," she says. Her smile is gracious enough for the Duke and dangerous enough for me.
Heat climbs the back of my neck. I ignore it until we reach the gardens.
The low sun filters through the oak leaves and falls across Ma's mint-green skin. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, careful with her left side as always.
"Do you smell that, Torgan?"
I inhale. "No?"
She gives me a disapproving look. "Try again. Let it fill your lungs."
I try again.
Nothing.
"There is a distinct lack of bullshit in it," she says.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. There is no bullshit out here, and the dining hall is full of it. I needed to leave." She raises a peony to her nose and breathes it in. "Your father is doing his best to court these humans. I understand why, but I cannot stand watching him lower himself for them."
It takes me a moment to catch up. This isn't the lecture.
She's worried about Pa. About our standing. About all of it.
I let out a breath. "I don't know what he's planning either, but..."
"And it doesn't help that you're trying to wreck things for your sister."
There it is.
The lecture.
"Which one?" I ask, trying to lighten it.
She turns an unimpressed look on me. "All of them. There has not been a moment since Duran Ironhoof first called on Ysolde that you haven't behaved like the opposite of a matchmaker. Ysolde. Saskia. Brynna. And now whatever Mirelle believes the rest of us haven't noticed."
So Ma knows about Caden too.
Of course she does.
I open my mouth. Her look closes it.
She studies me for a long moment. Then her gaze drops to my breast pocket.
The vial might as well be glowing through the fabric.
She doesn't reach for it or ask what it is. She just waits. Whatever she sees in my face disappoints her, because she sighs.
"I know you mean well, Torgan. But at some point, you have to trust that your sisters are their own orcs. They're grown. They get to choose."
They don't know their asses from their elbows, but I keep that thought to myself and nod.
"I knew you'd see it my way." She smiles. "Which is why I'm asking for your help."
"My help?" I ask warily. "With what?"
Ending the betrothals? No. Too much to hope for. And aside from the one they haven't announced, my sisters chose decent males.
I know that.
It has never been the point.
" Ysolde’s wedding is only a few weeks away, and Brynna’s follows soon after. They’ve heard of an atelier in Starling Vale. A dressmaker who creates gowns fit for queens. They intend to go." Her eyes brighten in a way I don't trust. "Considering you're already acquainted with Starling Vale..."
Did she just look at my pocket again?
"...and considering you insist on playing protector, you will escort them. See that no harm comes to them. Spend some time with your sisters before they're married."
The last part hits hard.
Because I can already feel the empty places they'll leave behind. I'm the eldest. The responsible one. I was there for every scraped knee and every broken heart. I made sure nothing reached them, all four of them, for as long as I could.
Now they will leave one by one.
And I will stay.
Torgan Oakenshade. Alone.
"I know you'll miss them," Ma says softly. She rests her hand on my shoulder. "You've been a good brother. This is your chance to show them while it still counts."
I don't want to do it. Escorting them to dress fittings means watching my family change one gown at a time.
But Ma is right.
"Okay," I say. "Okay, Ma."
She cups my cheek, proud. Then she gives it a light slap, which she considers affectionate and which still stings because she has never known her own strength.
I blink and look away.
"Come," she says. "Back to the bullshit before the Duke takes offence and rescinds the trade offer."
"I don't think he notices much of anything," I mutter as we turn toward the doors.
"He notices more than he lets on." The grimness in her voice makes me look at her, but her attention remains on the hall. "There is something about that man I don't like."
And his sons.
Inside, Pa and my sisters are still making small talk as if we never left. I return Ma to her seat and ease the chair in behind her.
"Apologies, my lords," she says. "I needed the air. You keep such lovely gardens, Lord Voss."
The Duke blinks sleepily and begins a long explanation of his plantings. For a moment, I think Mirelle has decided to let the matter go.
Then, just before I reach my chair, her heel presses down on the top of my boot.
Deliberate. Precise.
She withdraws it and settles back into her seat.
Don't fuck this up, Torgan.
She can't know what Ma and I discussed in the garden. She can't know what's in my pocket.
But I feel the weight of both for the rest of dinner and all the way home.
Don't fuck this up.