Chapter 20
KURSK
Iwake with a crack between my bones. At first I think I’m dead—cold and quiet, everything diffuse, like I’m drifting in an endless tunnel of shadow. Then a sharp slap lands across my face, warm and alive, burning like fire.
“Hey, dumb green bastard,” Olivia snarls, her voice ragged. Her hand stings. I blink and see her above me—eyes wild, hair tangled, sweat and ash on her cheeks. My heart pounding so loud I swear I can hear it in my ears.
“Olivia…” I rasp.
She kneels beside me, hands wrapped in mine. “Do not you give me the illusion you’re gone,” she says, voice thick. “You alive, you hear me?”
I attempt a grin. Jaws heavy. My mouth tastes of smoke, cold stone, and something metallic. I breathe in and out. Slowly.
She leans in, lips pressed to mine—fierce, trembling. I taste iron, taste hope. I hold her. My arms wrap around her like I’m anchoring myself to this moment, this breath, this living, this us.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Alive.”
She smiles, one corner of her mouth crooked. “Finally. I thought I lost you.”
“I never left,” I say, voice hoarse.
She laughs soft, then kisses me again—light, fiercely. So fully alive it stings. I press my forehead to hers. Her breath hot on my cheek; her heartbeat thudding against my chest.
We lie there, in what feels like her bed—warm covers, the scent of linen and faint lavender. Outside the world is safe. The Veil is sealed. The terrifying echo of undead shadows has faded. The spear is gone—gone with the light that detonated, with the Veil’s collapse.
I feel safe, for one shallow moment. But the price tugs at me—something we traded, something lost.
Olivia strokes my hair. “We did it,” she says, voice small.
“Yes,” I reply. “But never again ...”
She raises an eyebrow. “What?”
I swallow. “I can never go home. Not wholly. Not ever.”
She presses her lips against mine. “Then let this home be what we build.”
The dawn light filters through windows. Birds call. Morning tastes of ash and rain, but also warmth, possibility.
She reaches for my hand. I take it, fingers interlaced.
We are alive.
A whisper in my mind, not quite sound—Chief Rand’s voice, distant, as if carried on wind through broken stone.
“You are a hero, Kursk,” he says. “Your bond to the old world is severed. Your new world awaits.”
I shut my eyes. The words roll over me, warm like fire, healing and mourning at once. The old world—the orc homelands, the blood, the family I’ve lost—that’s a ghost now. His bond severed. I feel it, as if chains around my heart have broken. But what replaces them is raw and untested.
“Rand,” I whisper, though I don’t know where I found voice. I feel Olivia shift beside me, soft breaths, her hand slipping into mine. She’s awake. Her face under the light: gentle lines, dark circles, but full, alive.
I rise, slow, every muscle screaming. I look down at blankets, at the warmth of the moment. I feel the bed creak—wood, linen, skin. I taste the last moments of hope, sharply sweet.
She stirs. “Kursk?” she says. Her voice low, thick.
I pull her close. She presses her cheek to mine. Sighs like the world is breathing again.
“We did it,” I say. “The Veil is sealed.”
Her lips curve in a tired smile. She tastes like earth and dawn.
We stand. The darkness around us is gone. The wall is just wall; the bed is just bed. The world outside waits—quiet, trembling.
I drop the illusion. The magic Olivia used to cloak me—green skin flares back, tusks gleam, tusk-tips sharp, ears swelling, scars dark. Breath catches in my throat. I feel raw. Vulnerable. Human, or orc, or both.
Olivia gasps—just a little—but she doesn’t flinch. She grips my hand. “You,” she says.
We walk out the door together.
The morning air is cool, alive. Light has color now—blue sky, gold sun, crisp smell of dew and grass. Walnut Falls stirs. Doors open. Windows creak. A dog barks. Music from somewhere—an old radio in a truck.
I see faces. Old neighbors. Kids walking to school. Townsfolk stepping from their homes. They squint at me. Some stop mid-step. Others mutter.
No one runs.
A woman watering her porch tilts her head. A man sweeping his porch leans on his broom, staring. But they don’t bolt. No cries, no screams. Only curiosity. Wonder. Maybe even relief.
Olivia steps beside me. She tightens her grip. We walk down Main Street. My boots make soft thuds on wood boards and cracked pavement. The smell of fresh coffee from the bakery, of maple syrup, of earth warmed by the sun. I taste hope.
Children glance. Mothers clutch infants. Old timers nod.
“Is that him?” someone whispers.
“Yes,” another replies.
I pass the fairgrounds—shadows of burned tents, but the carnies' wagon is gone. The booths torn, but flags flutter in weak breeze. String lights hang limp. Still, people move around—sweeping up, tending damage, helping.
Olivia squeezes my hand. “They see you,” she whispers.
I nod. “They accept.”
She looks up at me—eyes shining. “You’re not alone anymore.”
I swallow, feeling the hero weight settle. The severing of old bonds doesn’t feel like loss now. It feels like possibility.
We reach the edge of town, where the road splits. I stop.
“Where to now?” I ask.
She pulls me close, voice soft. “Here,” she says. “Home is here now.”
I look at Walnut Falls—houses, smoke from chimneys, children leaving for school, men going to fields. The scent of rain on soil, morning sun on kernel-stoned paths. There is damage, yes. There is loss. But there is life.
I turn to Olivia. “I can never go home to the old world,” I say, voice thick. “But if home must mean something, let this be it.”
She smiles, faint tears. “Then this is home.”
I take her hand. Together we step forward into town. Illusion dropped, armor still heavy in my bones, tusks exposed, scars showing. We walk tall.
Nobody runs.
Walnut Falls has seen stranger things.
I walk slow down Main Street, boots echoing on cracked boards, past storefronts splintered but standing. Light drips through leaves overhead—morning sun scattering gold on broken concrete. The scent of fresh coffee drifts from the bakery; crisp air tastes like clean rain after fire.
Peggy Sue limps beside me, still wrapped in blankets from the fight, her eyes red but bright.
She clears her throat and holds out something wrapped in waxed cloth.
“Kursk,” she says, voice small but steady, “I dunno how you feel about this… but—job at the library. I mean, co-librarian, maybe keep the books safe, help people find their stories.”
I blink. My hands are stained with rot, grime, pain. My ribs still ache. But I see her trying. I nod, my throat thick. “I’d like that,” I say, voice low. “Very much.”
Booger lurches forward, grinning, holding out a battered cassette tape tied with twine.
A mixtape—songs he says he burned, tracks that remind him of us, of lost nights, of fights, of hope.
I take it, fingers brushing the tape-shell.
The plastic is warm. I can feel edges rough. I smell tape, of static, of memory.
“Play this sometime,” he says. “When the world’s quiet. When you sleep.”
I tuck it in my coat. It weighs nothing, but feels like everything.
Burnout claps me on the shoulder. “Hey man, do me a favor—once you're official, officiate my wedding.”
I stagger a laugh. “Officiate your wedding?” I echo.
He nods. “Yeah. Peggy Sue and me—they want you to be there. You know… for vows and stuff.” His eyes are hopeful.
I look at Peggy Sue. She blushes. Booger laughs. My heart clenches. I try to imagine what vows are. Words. Commitments. A future. Something I used to believe was only for stories.
I swallow. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’ll officiate.”
Olivia, walking a half-stride behind me, slips her arm around my waist. Warm, real. Her breath hot against the back of my neck. The sense of peace is weird. Fragile. But I let it fill me.
“Welcome home,” she says.
I press her hand tight. I feel the sun fully on my face. No illusions. No disguises. I am Kursk. Wounded, scarred, changed—but home is here.
The world is safe, for now.