Chapter 24 Kursk
KURSK
Olivia doesn’t say it out loud, but I see the weight in her shoulders, the way her eyes linger on shadows too long, how her hand sometimes drifts to the faint runes under her skin like they itch her from the inside. The Veil didn’t let her go clean.
So I do the only thing I can think of: I give her knowledge.
The old texts smell like dust, smoke, and iron ink.
They’re stacked in the corner shelf of the library, bound in cracked hide, written in Orcish script sharp enough to cut the page.
I drag them to the table one by one, flexing the stiffness out of my fingers, and start scratching translations into a cheap spiral notebook Peggy Sue found in the supply closet.
It’s slow work. The words aren’t just words—they’re curses, prayers, jokes, promises. Some are dangerous if you say them wrong. Others are harmless, like old recipes. But I can see Olivia relax when I read them aloud, my voice rough, her head bent close to hear.
“‘If a warrior forgets his home, may his tusks fall out one by one,’” I translate one night.
She snorts, laughter bubbling up like sunlight through cracks. “That’s in your holy texts?”
“It’s in a text,” I admit. “From the Grimoire of the Southhold. They were very protective of their kitchens.”
Then there’s the scroll I almost hide from her. Hand-painted, delicate script curling between sketches of entwined bodies. Orcs don’t blush, but if we did, I’d be scarlet. Olivia leans over, curious, and snatches it from me.
Her grin is wicked. “Is this…?”
I grunt. “A romance scroll. Very old. Very… detailed.”
She laughs so hard she nearly falls out of her chair. “Oh, we are absolutely adding this to story hour.”
And that’s how the circle begins.
First it’s just Olivia, Peggy Sue, and me.
Then Booger wanders in, pretending he’s bored but listening with his mouth half open.
Burnout follows, guitar in hand, strumming soft chords under the words.
Then two of the elderly gossips from town—Miss Cranberry and Mrs. Fitch—drag in chairs, whispering loudly about “orc poetry nights.”
And then there’s Stitches.
The raccoon.
Nobody invited him. He just shows up, paws clutching a stale donut from the dumpster, mask-face solemn as he plops down like he’s part of the group. Olivia swears she saw him nod during the recitation of “The Ballad of Blood and Honey.”
Peggy Sue is the most studious, scribbling notes in the margins of her church bulletins. “The runes shift depending on the reader,” she says one night, pushing her glasses up her nose. “This is fascinating.”
Booger interrupts. “Read the steamy one again.”
“No,” Olivia says firmly.
“Yes,” Mrs. Fitch cackles.
Burnout strums a riff. “Background music,” he grins.
I roll my eyes, but I read it. My voice low, steady, trying not to choke on some of the more… athletic passages. Stitches the raccoon chews his donut and stares at me like he’s judging my delivery.
Olivia sits close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table. Her hand slips into mine halfway through the reading, grounding me while laughter and murmurs swirl around us.
The library smells of wax and dust, warm bodies packed close, tea steeping in chipped mugs. The air is alive with words—orc words, human words, the kind that bridge a gap wider than the Veil ever was.
When I close the book for the night, there’s silence. Not the awkward kind. The kind where everyone’s holding the same breath, believing in the same story.
The library’s quiet tonight, but my hands aren’t still.
I sit at the workbench Olivia cleared for me, wood shavings curling under the lantern light, scent of pine and cedar thick in the air. My knife works slow, steady, each cut deliberate. This isn’t a blade, not a weapon for killing. The weight in my hands isn’t meant for war—it’s meant for memory.
A staff. Long, polished, carved with runes I half-remember and half-invent, a spine of culture pressed into wood.
At the top, I fit a curve of iron, not sharp, just symbolic—an echo of a spearhead, dulled.
Along the shaft, I etch scenes: orcs wrestling under the moon, songs carved as flowing script, even the strange twisting lines of a love poem I once mocked when I was young and stupid.
My breath fogs in the cool air, mixing with sawdust. My tusks ache from clenching too long, but I can’t stop. This feels like purpose.
Not Kursk the warrior. Not Kursk the killer. Kursk the keeper.
Behind me, Olivia hums while she ties off something with twine. I catch the smell of glue, leather, ink. She’s been secretive all week, muttering about “projects” and shooing me from her desk like I’m a nosy child.
When I finish the last rune, I lean back, wiping sweat and dust from my brow. The staff gleams under the lantern glow, warm and alive. My chest swells tight, almost painful. This is mine, yes, but it’s also for them—for anyone who ever wondered if orc voices could outlast steel.
“Done,” I mutter, voice rough.
“That’s good timing,” Olivia says, and I hear her stand. Footsteps soft on the boards. She holds something in both hands, wrapped in cloth. She sets it in front of me, pushes it forward, eyes sparkling like she knows she’s up to mischief.
“Open it,” she says.
I frown. “What is this?”
“Just open it.”
The cloth is soft, smells faintly of lavender. I peel it back.
And my breath leaves me.
A book. Not one of the old cracked texts, not one of her journals—a new book. Bound by hand, leather cover smooth under my fingers, stitches neat, pages thick. Across the front, in careful paint, words in both Orcish and English:
The Longstrider’s Tales.
My throat closes up. I flip it open—inside are my translations, the ones I scribbled in her cheap spiral notebook, rewritten in her clean, looping hand. Poems. Curses. Recipes. Even the damned romance scroll. She copied them all.
“You—” My voice cracks. I grip the edge of the table hard enough to creak the wood. “You did this.”
She shrugs, casual, but her smile is soft. “You gave me stories. I thought they deserved to be read without squinting at your chicken-scratch.”
I laugh, but it dies into something wetter, rawer. My chest heaves. “Olivia… you gave me back my voice.”
Her hand covers mine, warm and steady. “No, Kursk. You never lost it. You just needed someone to hear.”
For a long moment, I can’t speak. The lantern hums, the smell of cedar clings to my skin, and my eyes burn in a way no battlefield wound ever made them. I clutch the staff in one hand, the book in the other, and for the first time since crossing the Veil, I don’t feel like a man stranded.
I feel like a man home.
The nights feel different now.
For weeks, Olivia would wake thrashing, skin hot, eyes haunted by dreams she couldn’t quite explain.
I’d hold her through it, pressing her against my chest, whispering nothing but steady sounds until her breathing slowed.
Always, she told me she saw shadows, fire, the taste of iron on her tongue.
Always, I feared the Veil was still clawing at her.
But lately… it’s changing.
Tonight, I wake before her—dawn not yet a thought, the cabin still dark but for the faint glow of embers in the hearth.
She sleeps curled on her side, one arm under her head, hair spilling across the pillow.
Her brow isn’t furrowed. Her breath comes easy.
Her hand twitches, but not like fear—more like she’s reaching for something soft.
When she stirs awake, she blinks at me with sleepy eyes, then smiles, slow and secret.
“What is it?” I ask, brushing hair from her cheek.
“A dream,” she says, her voice husky with sleep. “But not the bad kind.”
I wait, holding her hand, rough tusks pressing into my lip as I bite back words.
She tells me she saw children—local kids, the same ones who wrestle in the mud when I teach them holds.
But in her dream, they’re sitting in a circle at the library, rapt as she explains the Veil not as a curse, not as a horror, but as a piece of history.
They listen, not afraid. She holds up books—our books.
The translations. The Longstrider’s Tales.
“They weren’t scared,” she whispers, eyes shining even in the dim room. “They were curious. Like kids are supposed to be.”
Her hand slides to my chest, resting over my heart. I cover it with mine.
“And you?” I ask.
She swallows, then smiles again. “I saw you. Building.”
“Building what?”
“A home,” she says. “With your hands. Strong and steady. Not a cabin on borrowed time. A place for us.”
I chuckle low. “I can barely build a fence that doesn’t fall sideways.”
“You’ll learn,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I saw it. We were… together. And it wasn’t scary. It just was.”
Her words settle into me like warm stone. For a long time, all I knew were battles, loss, survival. The idea of a future—peaceful, ordinary—was stranger than any beast I’ve fought. But when she says it, I believe it.
Later, she writes in her journal by the window, candlelight flickering against her face. I watch her lips move as she mouths the words. She looks peaceful, almost radiant.
I go outside, the cold biting my bare feet, and stare at the horizon just beginning to pale. The air smells of frost and pine sap. I grip the staff I carved—the one with stories etched into it—and plant it in the earth. Solid. A marker of more than survival.
The door creaks open behind me. Olivia steps out, blanket around her shoulders, hair a mess. She rests her head against my arm.
“What is it?” she asks softly.
“Nothing,” I say. Then, after a pause, “Everything.”
She hums, satisfied, and leans closer.
The runes under her skin don’t burn anymore. Sometimes, when the firelight catches, they glow faint, like embers of something tamed. I trace them with my thumb, careful, reverent. She doesn’t flinch.
“You’re not afraid anymore?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not when I see what’s coming.”
I kiss her hair, breathing her in—lavender, ink, smoke from the hearth. My chest loosens, the fear ebbing with each heartbeat.
Maybe the Veil left its mark. Maybe it always will.
But it didn’t take her.