Page 56 of The Orc’s Comfort

I pull back enough to look at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes too bright, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Rhazgar looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his own hands.

“She should be here,” he says, so quietly I almost lose it under the sound of the room. “She spent six years teaching me to carry this. She isn’t here to see that I succeeded.”

I don’t have a healing broth for this. I don’t have a tradition to offer him, no ritual words in a language I don’t speak. I just draw his forehead down to mine, the way he’s done for me a hundred times since the bookcase, and hold on until his breathing evens out.

“She’s here,” I tell him. “In every ingredient you refused to give up on. You didn’t just carry it, Rhazgar. You built something new out of it. That’s not failing to preserve her. That’s the opposite.”

His voice, when it comes, has gone rough in a way I’ve never heard from him. “Say that again.”

I do.

The band is warm against my wrist. Rhazgar’s heart beats steady under my ear again, finally.

I let myself cry.

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.