Page 44 of The Orc’s Comfort

There is too much resolve in her stride for this to be only about today. This is about every dismissal, every meeting where voices like his went unchallenged, every polite argument that ended exactly where it began.

I stay at my station. This is hers to do.

She speaks. The room goes quiet. She uses the mission statement. I know she keeps it memorized; I’ve heard her quote it in three different contexts today.

Then she says something I have never heard said in a public forum about orc cultural traditions, something precise and devastating in its simplicity, “A collection that only reflects the majority isn’t preservation. It’s deciding whose history matters.”

The applause starts near the back. It builds. Braswell retreats.

I’m three strides across the room before I register that I’ve moved at all. Eight years of professional distance, of never making a scene, of letting humans handle their own institutions… gone, without my permission, the moment her voice shook.

Julia stands with her hands shaking slightly at her sides, and I think: she did not do that for professional reasons. She did that because she meant it. Every word. She meant it the way I mean the blessing I say over every bowl I prepare, not because it is required but because it is true and the truth deserves to be spoken aloud.

When I reach her, she says, “It was completely necessary” before I open my mouth, which is entirely characteristic of her.

“You defended not just my cooking,” I tell her. “But my people.”

“I defended what matters,” she says.

Her hand is still trembling slightly. I find it with mine, hidden between us, and hold it until it steadies.

“When this is over,” I say, “will you have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” she says. “I think it’s time for an actual date.”

“I know a place,” I tell her. “They have chairs that hold my weight. I checked in advance.”

She laughs, full and unguarded. She squeezes my hand once before releasing it.

Chapter Nineteen

Julia

The restaurant is called Harvest, and it is exactly what he promised: candlelit, unhurried, the kind of place where the menus have no prices on one side and the chairs are built to last. He researched this, of course he did. He probably called ahead and asked about load-bearing specifications.

We are still in our exhibition clothes. Him in the saffron tunic, the ceremonial apron still tied at his waist, the carved wooden belt buckle polished smooth by years of wear, glowing in the candlelight. Seven feet of green-skinned orc in full ceremonial dress in a room full of people who dressed up to come here and are now, quietly and collectively, wondering if they underdressed.

He doesn’t notice them noticing. Or he notices and simply doesn’t care, which on him looks identical to confidence and is frankly doing something to my pulse.

I’m having dinner with the most striking person in this room. Possibly in this town.

The server arrives. Rhazgar studies the menu with the expression he uses when evaluating an unfamiliar ingredient: not dismissive, genuinely curious. He orders something with a reduction sauce, then asks one thoughtful question about how it’s made. The server answers. Rhazgar nods gravely, as though this information may prove important later.

“Well?” I ask when the server leaves.

“The sauce technique is sound,” he says. “The spice balance will be interesting.”

“High praise.”

“I am in a restaurant that is not my kitchen,” he says, “trying to have an open mind.”

I laugh. He watches me with that familiar almost-smile, and something between us relaxes. Not the charged professional restraint of the afternoon. Something quieter. More real.

“Today,” I say. “How did it feel? Walking in there.”

He is quiet for a moment. Warm light catches the botanical embroidery as I watch him decide how honest to be.

“Like setting down something I had carried so long I had forgotten it had weight.”