14. Traig
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TRAIG
Iarrived before dawn, when the building was still holding its breath against the coming day.
The coffee maker hissed and gurgled in the break room while I stood with my hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. Two creams. No sweetener. The measurements were automatic now.
A mug of coffee in hand, I walked to the reception desk. I set it down carefully, centering it on the exact spot where she always placed it when she was drinking. Within reach but out of the way enough she wouldn’t hit it by accident and spill it. A small offering that might mean nothing.
Fred floated near the ceiling, his grumbling pitched higher than usual. Amanda’s crown flared orange, then yellow, then back to orange in irregular bursts.
Creatures always knew when something was breaking.
I walked to my office and closed the door.
I pulled the Scribe’s message from my pocket and unfolded it, laying it flat on my desk.
Midday assessment. Be prepared.
Prepared?
I’d spent years preparing but none of it mattered now.
The only thing that mattered was what I’d tell the scribe today.
A while later, footsteps echoed in the hallway.
My head snapped up.
Brovish appeared in my doorway, Sofia perched on his shoulder.
“Have you heard from Willa?” he asked. “She’s not here yet.”
“No.” The word came out too flat. Empty.
Brovish studied my face for too long.
“She’ll be here,” he said. “You made the coffee.”
“Yes.”
“At dawn.”
“Yes.”
His expression softened. “That’s not nothing, Traig.”
“It’s just coffee.”
“It’s never been just coffee.”
He pushed off the frame, continuing down the hall.
As if on cue, Krem appeared in the doorway, holding his clipboard, his usual energy muted.
“The scribe arrives at noon,” he said. “Do you have a plan?”
I’d told them everything yesterday. Showed them the letter. Explained what would happen if I failed. They’d listened without interrupting, their faces growing more serious as I spoke.
“No,” I said.
Krem’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…not you.”
“You’re right.”
He made a note on his clipboard that I knew wasn’t actually about anything on whatever list he was compiling.
“It will work out,” he said quietly.
“You can’t know that.”
“No.” He met my eyes. “But I hope it will.”
He left.
I got up because sitting still was making my skin crawl. I needed to move.
A shadow filled my doorway.
Greth. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway.
His look said he saw everything I was trying to hold together and knew exactly how close I was to breaking. He’d been there the night I’d bought the second chair. Helped me carry it in without asking why I needed two when I’d always eaten alone. He’d known then.
He nodded once and walked away, which was worse than anything anyone had said.
Before I could round my desk, Drogar burst through the door. He braced his hands on my desk, breathing hard.
“The wounded fillawig escaped his pen,” he said. “We’ve got to find him. Brovish is busy with Laina, and I can’t find Krem or Greth. I need your help.”
My first instinct was to say no. Everything hung in the space between now and noon. But the creature needed me.
We rushed outside.
The woods were dense and still, the morning light filtering through the canopy in broken shafts. As we followed the trail, our boots crunched over last year’s leaves, the sound too loud.
Drogar moved ahead of me, scanning the underbrush. I followed, but my mind was elsewhere.
She kissed me.
She left.
“You’re thinking about her,” Drogar said.
I didn’t answer.
“Traig.”
“I’m looking for the fillawig.”
“You’re not.” He stopped, turning to face me. “You’re thinking about Willa and what you’ll say to the scribe.”
He was right.
“There.” Drogar pointed ahead.
The split pine rose from the forest floor, its trunk divided by lightning years ago. The fillawig huddled at its base, favoring its injured leg, its gold fur matted with dirt.
Getting it back to its enclosure took longer than it should have, but I was distracted.
My hands moved through the motions, approaching the creature slowly, keeping my voice calm, and offering my palm for it to sniff.
But my thoughts kept circling back to the reception desk and the coffee I’d left there and whether she was sitting at it now or whether the mug was still full and cold.
Drogar didn’t push me to move faster, just took his turn carrying the wounded creature.
We reached the enclosure, and I opened the gate. He carried the fillawig inside and gently set him on his bed near the back. My hands shook when I repaired and secured the latch.
Drogar saw, but he didn’t comment.
“This will work out,” he said quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I have a good feeling.”
I wanted to believe him.
He glanced at the sky. “Nearly noon. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would take this long.”
Damn.
I’d spent three years building this life, and I was going to lose it because I’d prioritized a wounded fillawig over documentation.
Exactly the way my parents said I would.
I ran around to the side entrance because it was closer, and I couldn’t afford to waste time.
Bursting through the door, my boots loud on the tile, I ran down the hallway. Sweat cooled on my back. My hair had come loose from its tie. Dirt streaked my shirt. I stopped outside my office, dragging both hands through my hair, tucking in my shirt, trying to look like I had my life in order.
I didn’t.
I opened the door.
An orc in dark robes stood with his back to me, studying my bookshelf. Tall, but not as tall as me. Older, gray streaking his temples. He held a ledger in one hand, the leather cover worn smooth from years of use.
Cold authority radiated from him like winter air.
He turned and his gaze took in my loose hair, the dirt, and the sweat, and his expression didn’t change.
“You arrive at the final moment,” he said, his voice clipped.
“I apologize.” I closed the door behind me, my pulse roaring in my throat. “A creature escaped. I had to—”
“I’m not interested in your beasts.” He gestured to the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
He sat first, in my chair, without being invited.
I remained standing because I didn’t know what else to do.
He laid the ledger on my desk, opened it, and held his pen over a blank page, looking up. “Do you have a mate, Traig Valtresh?”
My throat closed. The truth sat there, too complicated for the blank line on his page. Yes, I chose someone. No, I can’t prove it yet. No, she hasn’t chosen me back. Yes, I’ve been making her coffee for weeks. We’ve kissed. I think she likes me too. Does that count?
None of it would fit in his ledger.
The scribe waited, his pen ready to document my failure.
“I don’t have—”
The door banged open.
My head snapped toward the sound.
Willa stood in the doorway, slightly breathless, her hair coming loose from where she’d tucked it behind her ear. She wore a dress, a soft blue thing I’d never seen before, because she never wore dresses at work.
Everything in my chest went still.
She crossed the room and latched onto my arm with both hands, her fingers digging into my sleeve.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
She extended her hand toward the scribe.
“I’m Willa Enford,” she said. “Traig’s mate.”