12. Traig
CHAPTER TWELVE
TRAIG
My cottage was dark when I finally made my way home. I didn’t turn on the lights.
The letter sat in my jacket pocket. I’d been carrying it around all day. Through the adoption meeting and lunch with Willa in the break room. While watching her drive away, I stood in the gravel lot, unable to leave until her taillights disappeared around the bend.
I pulled it out and set it on the kitchen table.
The wax seal gleamed dull red in the moonlight coming through the window. My family’s crest pressed into it. Three mountain peaks above a horizontal line representing the Cassarian Sea.
I sat down in my usual chair.
The seal cracked when I broke it, pieces of wax falling onto the table like drops of blood.
The paper inside felt thick, expensive, and from a glance, I could see the script was formal. Written by a scribe, not my parents. They wouldn’t waste their time writing to me themselves.
Traig Valtresh of the House of Valtresh,
By decree of the Ancestral Council and in accordance with the Pact of Surface Integration, all single-orclings residing beyond family outposts are required to demonstrate Domestic Excellence, proof of a stable, permanent mating bond, within three years of relocation.
Your relocation occurred two years, ten months, and fourteen days ago.
No record of your mating bond has been filed with the Council.
The House of Valtresh reserves the right to reclaim any unbonded orcling for arranged mating within the kingdom. An Ancestral Scribe will arrive at your location in four days’ time to conduct a formal assessment.
Failure to demonstrate a mating bond will require your immediate return to kingdom jurisdiction for an arranged mating of your parents’ choice.
By order of the Council,
Scribe Kelthren of the Third Registry
Fred floated through the window I’d left open and bumped into the wall before settling on the back of the empty chair.
Amanda rode on his head, her crown dim.
Fred grumbled.
“I don’t need company,” I told them.
Fred grumbled louder and flew, bumping my shoulder.
I reached up and steadied him with one hand. His fur was warm. His grumble vibrated against my palm.
“Alright,” I said. “Stay.”
I read the letter again, but the words blurred.
Demonstrate Domestic Excellence.
That was what they’d reduced it to. Not “have you built something that matters” or “are you happy.” Just: prove you’ve acquired a mate according to our specifications.
Four days.
I pulled my tablet closer and opened a new document.
Assessment Requirements, I typed. Then stared at the blank space below.
I had no idea what to write. The thing they were measuring didn’t exist yet.
I stood and walked to the window, but there was nothing to see except my own reflection in the glass. A seven-foot orc staring at a piece of paper like it could unwrite itself.
I’d had years here, and I’d spent them color-coding intake forms and arguing about filing systems rather than making an effort to find a mate for a law I was unaware of.
No. That wasn’t fair.
I’d spent the time building something that mattered. Bonding with my true-heart brothers. Learning how surface-world systems worked so I could make this life work.
I hadn’t spent that time thinking about what my family might eventually require of me.
None of it counted.
The Ancestral Council didn’t care about the rescue league or the creatures we saved or the fact that I’d finally found a place where I belonged. They cared about one thing: whether I’d secured a mate.
If I couldn’t prove it, they’d force me to return to the kingdom, and I’d be paired with someone from a suitable family, approved by my parents and the Council. My new mate would look at me the same way my parents did and find me adequate at best.
I’d lose everything I’d built here.
Willa.
I lifted my gaze to the second chair, the one that had stayed empty through every meal and late-night planning session.
She’d kissed me and walked away before I could process what it meant.
Willa.
I sat back down.
The thought of losing her made my hands go still on the table.
I could ask her. The words were right there. Help me pass this assessment. Pretend we’re mated so I can stay.
She’d probably say yes. She’d showed up with cookies every time we met. She’d reorganized my filing system, and I’d finally stopped putting it back to how it was before. She’d kissed me, and I’d sat there like a fool, too surprised to kiss her back properly.
But asking felt wrong, like I was solving a problem instead of choosing a person.
My tablet sat within reach. I could open a new document and make a list. Reasons This Would Work and Reasons This Is a Terrible Idea.
I didn’t reach for it.
Wanting wasn’t the same as having, and I couldn’t control whether she wanted me back.
I read the letter again, but the words didn’t change, so I spoke to the empty kitchen.
“She’s not a problem to solve.” My voice sounded too rough in the silence. “She’s a person who made me cookies because she was thinking about me. She’s an excellent office manager and a woman any male would be grateful to have as a partner.”
I stopped and listened to the words hanging in the air.
“I don’t know how to prove a bond that doesn’t exist.” The admission scraped coming out. “I don’t know how to ask her to save me without making that all she is, without using her just like Derek did.”
The empty chair across from me didn’t answer.
The moon moved across the sky outside my window. Hours passed. I remained at the table.
Dawn broke, pale light creeping across the table.
The letter still sat in front of me, the words burned into my mind.
Three days now until a scribe would arrive. I’d left this instead of reading and preparing just like I’d withheld information from Willa. Hurting her and myself in the process.
I needed to do something besides read the letter again.
After showering, I dressed in clean clothing, grabbed my tablet, and left.
The silent building greeted me when I let myself in.
I went straight to the conference room and spread my work across the table. School curriculum documents. Safety protocols. Parent communication templates. Things I could control that had clear frameworks and measurable outcomes.
I opened my tablet and started making notes, adjusting timelines.
The sun rose higher. Light poured through the windows.
I kept working until my eyes burned, and I found myself unable to read a word on my tablet.
Then I fell asleep with my head resting on my arms on the conference room table, waking late that night to stumble home and fall into my bed.
I woke somewhat refreshed Monday morning. After showering and dressing in clean clothes, I walked to the rescue, finding no one else there but me.
Back in the conference room, I studied the school paperwork, but the timeline still didn’t make sense because I kept reading the same section without processing it.
The curriculum was fine. Willa and I had built something good together.
Willa.
I stared at my hands.
The scribe would arrive in two days.
The front door opened. I looked up as Willa appeared in the doorway. She stopped when she saw me, a container in her hands.
“You’re here early,” she said.
“I have to deal with this thing,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the tablet and papers spread out everywhere. No order. I’d lost it when I read the letter.
Her gaze moved over my face and lingered.
I must look how I felt: worn out, half-functional, holding myself together with structure that wasn’t working anymore.
She stepped into the room and set a container full of cookies on the table. “I made more cookies.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re right.” She pushed the container toward me. “But you enjoy them, and I figured you’d appreciate reinforcements. I actually came in early to check on Fred. But if you’re working, I could make you some tea before I leave.”
“I’m not thirsty but thank you.” I wasn’t hungry, either. Not even for cookies.
She sat down beside me, close enough that her leg brushed mine under the table.
The contact sent heat up my spine.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Traig.”
Her rich brown eyes grabbed onto mine, hers soft with concern.
“It’s the school visit,” I said. “I need to complete the final details. The families will expect everything to be ready.”
It wasn’t a lie. The school visit did need work.
She studied me for another moment, then nodded and reached for my tablet. “Can I look?”
Her fingers brushed mine as she took it. The touch lingered, loaded with everything I couldn’t say.
She scrolled through the curriculum document, making small sounds of approval as she read. Her shoulder pressed against my arm. Her sweet scent surrounded me.
“This is really good,” she said. “The children are going to love this.”
I wanted to tell her.
I should tell her, especially after holding back Rue’s potential adoption.
But how did I explain that my entire life here was hanging on something I couldn’t control? Asking her to be my mate felt like asking her to solve a problem instead of choosing her because I wanted her.
She handed the tablet back. “You should go home and sleep.”
“I already did.”
“Then why do you look worn out?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not, but I won’t push.” She stood. “I’m going to find Fred.” She paused in the doorway and looked back. “Whatever this new thing is you’re dealing with, you don’t have to do it alone. You know that, right?”
I couldn’t pull in a full breath.
“I appreciate that,” I said.
She smiled and left.
I sat in the conference room with her cookies on the table and my tablet full of work I couldn’t focus on.
Finally, I got up, went to my office, and worked.
Focusing my mind on something else helped.
It wasn’t until silence echoed inside the building that I realized the sun had set and everyone else had gone.
The scribe would arrive in two days, and I still had no idea what I was going to do.
Rising, I made myself go home and eat something I didn’t taste.
After, I sat on my couch and stared at the wall while the moon rose and skated across the sky.