25. Epilogue
Epilogue
One Year Later
Julia
The year since the exhibition passed the way real life does: unevenly. We combined our condos within a month, his ceremonial items settling beside my books, his new cooking island swallowing what used to be my dining room, and the upper cabinets becoming his territory by default.
Braswell resigned from the board that November. I read the announcement between a facilities update and the minutes from the previous meeting, felt a brief flicker of satisfaction, and went back to work. By then, we had already built something too successful for his opinion to matter.
What started as one afternoon at a library exhibition became a monthly program with a weeks-long waiting list. Then it became a cookbook. Tonight is that cookbook’s launch.
The cultural center’s main hall buzzes with energy: laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses, and underneath it all, the rich aroma of Rhazgar’s cooking.
Our cookbook officially launched three hours ago, and the publisher has already announced that the entire first printing is spoken for.
The line for Rhazgar’s cooking demonstration wraps around the room.
So why am I gripping the edge of the book signing table like it’s the only thing keeping me upright?
“May I have your signature?” A woman holds out a copy of Cooking Between Worlds: WarmHearth Traditions for Earth Kitchens for me to sign.
“My daughter married into HammerFall clan last year. This will help me understand his family’s traditions.”
I reach for the book, but the moment I lift it, my stomach lurches violently. The scent of Rhazgar’s herb demonstration, usually one of my favorites, suddenly smells overwhelmingly pungent.
“Are you alright, dear?”
“Fine,” I manage, though my hand trembles as I sign. “Just a bit warm.”
It’s a lie. I’ve been nauseated for three weeks. Exhausted. My breasts are so tender, even my softest bra feels like torture. But I’ve been too busy, and too terrified, to think about what it might mean.
“Julia!” Eliza appears at my elbow. “Channel 9 wants a quick interview. Five minutes. Can you handle it?”
“Just need the restroom first.”
“That’s the third time in an hour,” Eliza observes quietly. “Should I be worried?”
“I’m fine. Two minutes.”
I make it to the bathroom before the nausea wins. Kneeling on cold tile, I press my palm against my forehead and breathe through my mouth.
This is Rhazgar’s night. His triumph. I can handle feeling sick for a few more hours.
“Julia?”
I freeze. Rhazgar’s voice, concerned and gentle, comes from just outside the door.
“I’m fine,” I call, but my voice cracks.
“Your scent has changed.” A pause. “I’m coming in.”
“Rhazgar, this is the women’s—”
The door opens. He fills the doorway, still wearing his demonstration apron, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand. His amber gaze finds me on the floor, and his expression shifts to something between wonder and concern.
“How long?” he asks quietly, setting down the spoon and sitting beside me on the tile floor.
“How long what?”
“How long have you been feeling ill?” He touches my face gently. “Three weeks? Four?”
“I don’t know what you—”
“Julia.” His hand moves to rest on my stomach. “You’re pregnant.”
The word hits the exact place I’ve been carefully avoiding for three weeks.
“You don’t know that,” I say too quickly. “I haven’t taken a test. We’ve been careful.”
“I’ve known for three weeks.” His voice is soft. “Your scent changed. Richer. Sweeter. Like caramelized honey.”
“Three weeks?” I stare at him. “You’ve known for three weeks and didn’t say anything?”
“I was waiting for you to feel safe enough to tell me.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Though I’ll admit, the waiting has been torture.”
My mind races. Pregnant. I’m pregnant. With a hybrid child. “Oh, my God. I’m terrified,” I whisper.
“So am I.” His admission surprises me. “Terrified and honored and—” He stands, helps me up, and pulls me into his embrace despite the cramped quarters. “We’ll handle this together. Whatever comes.”
A sharp knock interrupts us. “Julia? The camera crew is getting impatient—” Eliza tries the handle, finds it locked. A pause. “Wait, did I hear Rhazgar? Oh. Um. Should I tell them ten minutes?”
“Five,” Rhazgar calls back. “Tell them we’re consulting about culinary traditions.”
After her footsteps retreat, I look up at him. “We can’t tell anyone yet. Not until I’ve seen a doctor. Not until we know for sure that everything is—”
“We can’t tell the humans, you mean.” He leans back just far enough to look at me.
“But with orcs, it isn’t a matter of telling.
Any orc who comes within scenting distance will already know, whether we’ve decided to say anything or not.
Which means Elder Korgath will know the moment she’s near you.
We might as well tell her properly, so she can help. ”
“After we know it’s real,” I insist. “Not before.”
He tips my chin up to look into my eyes. “It’s real, Julia. I promise you.” A pause. “Grulk is coming today.”
My eyes slam shut as I groan. “He’s going to tell everyone. Orc and human, the second he scents me.”
“He will,” Rhazgar says. “And there is nothing in any world that will stop him.”
The interview goes smoothly, though I’m hyper-aware of Rhazgar’s gaze on me the entire time. When the interviewer asks about future projects, I manage to discuss the second cookbook without mentioning the other project currently making me nauseous.
The interviewer wraps up, shakes my hand, and says the segment will air Thursday. I thank her and watch her crew pack up their equipment and think: a year ago, a board member stood in this very hall and decided this exhibition wasn’t worth the trouble. That this culture wasn’t worth the room.
He’s not here tonight. The hall is full, the book table has been stripped bare, and a woman just told me her daughter married into HammerFall clan and needs this book to understand her family. Some things don’t need a confrontation. They just need time and enough people willing to show up.
Afterward, we navigate through the congratulatory crowd. Rhazgar keeps one hand on my back, a steady presence.
“Julia! Rhazgar!” Grulk crosses the room toward us, his vest adorned with so many clan pins it looks like armor. “The cookbook is magnificent. I’ve pre-ordered seventeen copies. The adaptation techniques alone are worth—”
He stops mid-sentence. His nostrils flare, once, sharp.
Oh no.
For half a second I can see exactly what’s coming. I visualize with excruciating clarity what he’s going to do.
He doesn’t.
His mouth opens, closes. He looks at Rhazgar, then at me, and something crosses his face I’ve never seen on him before: restraint that is visibly costing him something.
“Congratulations,” he says, low, just for us, and grips Rhazgar’s shoulder hard enough that Rhazgar rocks on his feet. “I am going to go stand very far away and not say anything else until you tell me I am allowed to.”
He backs off exactly three steps and stands there, vibrating, both hands pressed over his own mouth.
“Grulk.” Rhazgar says his name gently.
“I’m not saying anything,” Grulk says, muffled. “I am a wall. I am silence itself.” His eyes are suspiciously bright.
“Grulk. Why are you covering your own mouth.” Elder Korgath’s voice is dry, and it reaches us before she does.
She arrives a moment later, her silver tusk adornments catching the light.
Her sharp gaze moves from Grulk’s hands to Rhazgar’s face to mine.
Whatever she finds there answers her own question before anyone says a word.
“The child is healthy?”
I blink. “We haven’t confirmed… I mean, I only just found out—”
“May I?”
At my nod, she rests her palm on my stomach, eyes closing briefly. “Strong life-force. Resilient.” Her eyes open. “I’ve witnessed many hybrid pregnancies. The signs I can sense are favorable.”
My shoulders drop an inch. I didn’t realize I’d been clenching so tightly. “Thank you.”
“Come to the clan hall next week. We’ll begin nutritional protocols.” She smiles, warm and grandmotherly, then pierces Rhazgar with her perceptive gaze. “I told you when you bonded that this human would bring strength to the WarmHearth line. I’m pleased to be proven correct.”
After she moves on, Grulk is still vibrating with barely contained excitement. “This requires celebration,” he says, in what passes, in his world, as a whisper. “I’ll need to speak with Torgun about the birthing tools. There are traditions to prepare.”
“Grulk,” Elder Korgath says, not unkindly, “go find Torgun. Tell him what you like, but tell him quietly.”
“Quietly,” Grulk repeats, like he’s testing whether the word will hold. He goes.
I lean into Rhazgar’s side. “So much for keeping it quiet.”
“With Grulk involved? We never had a chance.” He touches my wrist where the silver connection band rests, the one shaped by our shared heat, his hands steady over mine until the metal yielded and fit itself to me.
I still feel the weight of it, like something that was always supposed to be there.
“But he’s right about one thing. This deserves celebration. ”
“Tonight,” I say, “I still have a line of books to sign. Celebration can wait until I’m not nauseated.”
He accepts this without argument, and the party winds down around us. I answer questions and sign stragglers’ copies until my voice goes rough.
Finally, mercifully, the last guests depart.
Rhazgar and I stand in the deserted hall, surrounded by evidence of success: scraped-clean dishes, a book table stripped bare, and a banner declaring our cookbook a bestseller.
Someone's left one last copy open on the table, face up to the dedication page.
For my grandmother. Because she taught me.
Seven words. He wouldn't let me talk him into more, no matter how many drafts I pushed back with margin notes asking for detail.