Page 46 of The Orc’s Comfort

He’s bringing me home.

Chapter Twenty

Julia

“Are you sure this is okay?” I tug at my amber dress for the third time. “I don’t want to show up and accidentally insult her.”

Rhazgar’s hand finds mine across the console. “She asked for informal. She wants to meet you, not assess you.”

“Great,” I mutter. “No pressure.”

Two days since the exhibition. Two days since dinner and the love confession over candlelight. I still catch myself smiling for no reason.

“She already knows what matters,” Rhazgar says, turning into an unfamiliar neighborhood. “She knows how you have treated me.” He glances at me. “That is what she will care about.”

His fingers tighten gently around mine. “And you make me lighter. Less like I’m carrying it alone.”

Before I can respond, he pulls into a driveway. The house is surprisingly normal: single-story, human-scaled, with a garden that has clearly been loved for years.

“This is her place?”

“She says if you need a palace to prove you’re important, you’re probably not.”

The door opens before we reach it. Elder Korgath is shorter than Rhazgar, maybe six and a half feet, silver-streaked braids woven with silver and green beads, laugh lines deep around watchful eyes. She’s wearing an apron, and she looks at me the way someone looks at a thing they’ve already made up their mind about and are waiting to have confirmed.

“There he is.” She grabs Rhazgar’s arm in greeting. “And this is the librarian who made that board member reconsider his entire life.”

“You heard about that?”

“Six times. Someone posted the video.” Her grin is wide and genuine. “Come in. Food’s ready, and I want to talk to you instead of just hearing Rhazgar’s version.”

Rhazgar starts to speak. The elder cuts him off with a look.

“Go set the table. I’m stealing your human.”

He catches my eye, checking, and I nod. He disappears.

The house smells extraordinary. Something savory and deep that makes my stomach announce itself before I can stop it.

Korgath laughs. “Good. In our culture, that means you’re honest.” She takes the spoon from my hand; I’ve drifted toward the pot and picked it up without noticing. “Go sit down,” she says. “Tell Rhazgar to pour the drinks.”

Dinner is not what I expected. She asks about my family, my work, what I want long-term, the expected questions. What surprises me is how much of herself she offers in return. She talks about the early years after the Emergence, when the clans nearly fractured over whose traditions would take precedence in the compound. The arguments that lasted for months. The night two elders stopped speaking entirely and she had to sit between them for six hours until something shifted.

“The ones who wanted to preserve everything unchanged,” she says, refilling my glass with something spiced and warm, “they weren’t wrong to want it. They were just afraid. People who are afraid make bad decisions about what matters.”

“What changed their minds?”

“Nothing changed their minds.” She says it plainly. “I outlasted them. Eventually, the ones who were afraid got tired of being afraid, and the ones who understood what survival actually requires took over.” She looks at me. “WarmHearth understood it earliest. That’s why I’ve worked most closely with them. Rhazgar’s grandmother was the one who taught me what adaptation actually looks like. Not surrender. Not performance. Roots going deeper so the branches can go further.”

Rhazgar’s hand finds mine under the table.

“She sounds remarkable,” I say.

“She was the best person I ever knew,” Korgath says it without sentiment, just as fact. “When she died, I promised her I’d help her grandson keep the traditions alive. Not frozen. Alive.” She looks at Rhazgar. “I have not always done this well.”

“You’ve done it,” Rhazgar says quietly.

“I’ve shown up,” she says. “There’s a difference.” Her gaze moves back to me. “When he started telling me about you, and he told me often, I thought, maybe this is what she meant about roots and branches. Not one culture absorbing another. Something that couldn’t exist without both.”