Page 4 of The Orc’s Comfort

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear rapid, heavy footsteps in the hallway. A pounding on my door. A deep voice calling my name with unprecedented urgency. A wave of dizziness washes over me as I try to focus my thoughts, the room spinning alarmingly around me.

“Julia? Julia Whitaker?”

It’s Rhazgar. My addled brain finds this hilarious. I’ve been trying to figure out how to approach him for six months, and all it took was nearly getting crushed by literature.

“I’m under here,” I call, but it’s barely a whisper. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

The last thing I register before consciousness fades is the sound of my door bursting open and Rhazgar’s voice, closer now, filled with a concern that warms me even as darkness claims my sight.

Well, I think distantly, this certainly breaks the ice.

Chapter Three

Rhazgar

The sound of splintering wood jolts me from my kitchen clean up. Then, a cry of pain from next door, distinctly human, distinctly female.

Julia.

I’m moving before conscious thought forms, my body responding to the distress call with instincts honed by generations of WarmHearth protectors. Three strides take me across my living room, two more to my door, then four strides down the hallway to her condo, and I’m pounding before I’ve fully stopped moving.

“Julia? Julia Whitaker?” I call, pounding on her door with enough restraint to avoid punching through it. No answer comes, but my sensitive hearing picks up labored breathing and the subtle shift of objects settling.

“I’m under here,” comes a weak voice, barely audible even to my ears.

Relief lasts exactly one heartbeat.

The door is locked, but WarmHearth warriors don’t let barriers stand between them and those needing aid. I grasp the handle, applying controlled pressure at the optimal angle. The lock mechanism protests briefly before surrendering with a crack.

The scene inside stops me cold. Books everywhere, hundreds of them scattered across the floor like casualties on a battlefield. And at the center, a massive bookshelf unit has fallen, with Julia’s small form pinned beneath it.

Only her head and one arm are visible, the rest of her is trapped under what must be hundreds of pounds of wood and literature. Her eyes are fluttering, consciousness clearly fading, a trickle of blood marking her temple.

“Remain still,” I instruct, my voice dropping into the calm, authoritative tone my father used when addressing injured clan members. “I’m going to lift this away from you.”

I grip the heaviest section of the fallen unit and hoist. The solid oak bookcase, still weighted with dozens of leather-bound volumes, must be three hundred pounds. It feels like nothing. I barely register the weight.

Julia’s face comes fully into view as I lift the unit clear. Blood at her temple. Breath too fast and shallow. Then her eyes flutter open, close enough that I can see the amber flecks in the brown. She’s alive. That’s what matters right now. I gently set the bookcase against the wall, making sure it’s stable, then sweep the scattered books away from her in two efficient motions before returning to her side.

“It’s just a few bruises,” she protests, though the grimace that follows tells a different story. “Maybe a twisted ankle.”

I notice then what she’s wearing, blue pajama pants covered with cartoonish books with faces, and a faded t-shirt reading “SHHH… HAPPENS” with the library logo beneath it. A blush colors her cheeks as she realizes my observation, and she makes a futile attempt to straighten her clothing with her uninjured hand.

“We need to assess your injuries,” I say, trying to give her dignity by focusing on the medical situation.

“Really, I’m fine,” she insists, trying to push herself upright. She makes it halfway before her ribs seize, and she goes still, waiting out the pain in shallow breaths. Then she tries again, gets as far as her feet, and her right ankle makes an attempt to bear weight before giving out entirely.

I catch her before she can fall, my hands steadying her shoulders. A jolt of awareness shoots through me at the contact: the delicate bones beneath my palms, the warmth of her through the thin fabric, the subtle scent of her that grows stronger with proximity. I push the observations aside, focusing instead on her injuries.

“You are not fine,” I state firmly. “You need medical attention.”

“It’s just a sprain,” she argues, though her face has paled considerably. “And maybe a bruised rib or two.”

“And the head wound?” I ask pointedly, gesturing to the visible lump on her temple.

Her fingers touch the spot, that is the size of an egg and already turning purple. She winces in pain. “Oh,” she says in a small voice.

“I’m calling for assistance,” I declare, the decision made.