Page 13 of The Orc’s Comfort

He falls silent, considering. I resist the urge to fill the quiet with more persuasion, recognizing the seriousness with which he approaches such decisions.

“Would any preparation be acceptable,” he finally asks, “or do you seek specific traditional dishes?”

Hope flutters in my chest. “Whatever you feel is appropriate to share. You’d have complete control over the presentation. The entire point is authenticity on your terms.”

He nods once, deliberately. “I will consider it. There are clan protocols to respect, boundaries between public and private knowledge.”

“I completely understand,” I assure him. “That you’re even considering it means a lot to me.”

As Debussy’s “Reverie” fills the room, Rhazgar rises to leave, collecting the empty containers. Our fingers brush as he takes my empty bowl, and for a breathless moment, neither of us moves.

There’s barely six inches between us, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes drop to my lips, lingering there long enough that my heartbeat thunders in my ears. I lean forward without meaning to, my breath hitching as my body responds to his closeness like gravity pulling me in. He’s the one who steps back first, clearing his throat, some internal boundary reasserting itself before I find out what might have happened next.

“Tomorrow, perhaps you could share the music with strings and hammers you mentioned.”

My heart warms at this request, this small interest in my cultural background. “Maybe harpsichord along with piano. Absolutely.”

“You said the instrument resembles our string-stones,” he explains, then hesitates. “Though I imagine the sound is less… aggressive.”

“Aggressive?”

“String-stone performances often ended with bleeding ears among non-clan members,” he says matter-of-factly.

I stare at him, uncertain if he’s serious until I notice the subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“You’re teasing me,” I realize with delight.

“WarmHearth warriors don’t tease,” he says solemnly, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Of course not. That would be far too undignified,” I play along.

“Precisely. We simply state alternative facts for educational purposes.”

My surprised laugh makes my ribs protest, but it’s worth the pain to get another glimpse of his playful side.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and exits before I can think of a reply.

After he leaves, the music plays on as I sit with my cooling tea. I don’t pick up my book. I’m thinking about his next visit and I’m not pretending otherwise.

Chapter Six

Rhazgar

The next morning, I stand in my kitchen preparing Julia’s healing broth, my hands moving through familiar motions while my mind wrestles with unfamiliar territory.

Eight days of this now. Eight days of bringing her carefully prepared meals, watching her eyes light up when I explain the cultural significance behind each ingredient, hearing her ask questions that show genuine understanding rather than surface-level curiosity. Eight days of the wall between our worlds growing thinner with each shared moment.

I crush silver thistle between my palms, releasing its sharp, savory scent into the steam rising from the pot. Among WarmHearth plants, it is the most versatile, used in celebration, deep healing, and bonding ceremonies alike, its purpose shaped by intention rather than bound by nature.

Today, my intention is healing. The second-stage broth requires precise timing: bone-strengthening minerals must be added at the right intervals to achieve proper integration. My grandmother’s voice echoes through my memory as I work: “Healing food is more than nourishment, little warrior. It’s connection. It’s hope made tangible.”

But she also taught me to conscientiously guard our traditions. “What took generations to preserve can be lost in a moment of carelessness,” she’d warned. “Share only with those who will honor what they receive.”

The question that’s haunted me since yesterday returns with fresh urgency: is Julia one of those people?

I know what the cautious voices say. I’ve been hearing them for eight years. But those voices haven’t spent a week watching her face when she makes the connections. They don’t know about her notebook.

I add the final herbs to the broth: seven precise pinches, counterclockwise around the pot’s edge. The ritual grounds me, connects me to every WarmHearth healer who came before, all the way back to ancestors on a world I’ll never see again.