Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Chapter 4
Ella
My first day off in Arch Settlement starts with a singular, scandalous luxury. I sleep in until eight without an alarm jarring me awake, without a wailing baby demanding attention, without twin-Orc debates filtering through the floor. For a full five minutes after waking, I bask in the blanket cocoon and stare at the moss-lit ceiling, savoring the fact that nobody needs me for anything.
Of course, by minute six, boredom creeps in, so I throw on jeans, a clean shirt, and hit the market before my inner people-pleaser can call me back to fold laundry or organize spice cabinets. The main square is already a fever dream of activity. At first, it’s overwhelming, but the longer I drift, the more I see the patterns.
Rows of stalls elbow up against the base of the central arch like teeth, each one manned by Orcs who make even the biggest human weightlifters look like toddlers. It should be intimidating, but the effect is undercut by the wildness of the wares: heaps of jewel-bright roots and fruits, piles of rough-smelted iron tools, and racks of hand-knit wool sweaters.
The air is dense with the scent of wood smoke, tangy ferments, and an undercurrent of metallic ozone from the enchanted lanterns. Every third stall has a lamp made of some faceted mineral, shining through a filter of bioluminescent moss that paints everything in shifting green and gold.
I take my time, not because I have money to burn but because each stall is its own little planet. The first stop is a produce table, where the merchant offers me a sample of something that looks like a blood orange but tastes like a sour patch kid dipped in honey and battery acid. I buy two, just to be polite.
The next vendor deals in weapons. These aren’t the collector kind, but the brutal, get-the-job-done variety. I can’t stop staring at a cleaver with a handle carved in the shape of a gryphon, until the vendor nudges it toward me with a wink.
“Too heavy for you, I think,” he rumbles, with a smile that shows a hint of gold in his left canine.
“Definitely.” I doubt I could lift it, much less actually use it.
He lets out a huff that’s almost a laugh and gestures to a row of kitchen knives, each one honed so fine I can see my reflection. “For delicate hands,” he says, not unkindly.
The next hour vanishes in a blur of sensory overload. By the time I reach the inner ring of stalls, my cloth bag swings heavy with impulse buys. The two demon-citruses knock against my thigh with each step. A pocket notebook made from recycled parchment peeks from the top, its edges already curling in the humid air. Nestled between them sits a jar of "medicinal" honey, amber and thick, that the vendor swore would "make a human sing like an Orc." I believe him. My tongue still tingles from the small sample.
It's at the jewelry stall that I lose track of time completely. The table stands arranged with military precision. Bracelets form perfect rows like soldiers at attention. Rings cluster in circular formations. Necklaces drape in cascading lines across dark velvet. Every piece is made of bone, not the bleached, brittle kind from craft stores, but dense and polished, inlaid with metal bands. I don’t usually do jewelry, but I find myself running my finger along the curve of a bracelet, the bone warm and somehow alive under my skin.
“May I help you?”
The voice is male, low, and so close it prickles my neck. I look up to see an Orc male in full Council regalia: black tunic with silver fasteners, a ceremonial sash over one shoulder. He's leaner than most orcs, his body built for speed rather than brute force. His amber eyes narrow when they meet mine, tracking every small movement I make. The forest-dark skin of his face deepens to near black where shadow falls across his cheekbones, highlighting the raised pattern of ritual scars that trace his jawline like ancient writing.
He waits a heartbeat too long for my answer. “Uh—just browsing,” I stammer, suddenly aware of how nerdy my own voice sounds against his.
“Ella Blume,” he says, not a question. “Aric’s new nanny.”
He offers a hand, and I shake it because I’m incapable of not being polite, even when my brain is screaming “stranger danger.” His grip is strong but measured.
“Kael Darkthorn, Council Elder.” He says it like it’s both an introduction and a challenge. There’s no smile, but his lips twitch as if the idea amuses him. “You have an eye for the old craft.”
I glance down at the bracelet in my hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” I admit. “The bone—”
“Boar,” he says. “Culled from the wild herds. Only the right front limb, for tradition. Each ring is hammered by hand.”