Summer Elves of Narrow Rock: Summer Elf Saga, #1

By i.stoneheart

A cozy fantasy romance about a second chance at first love.

 

Narrow Rock, is a mountainside village famed for its lush peach orchards and elegant stonework buildings. But for Boyne Lothar, a modest Summer Elf working as a serving maid, it shall remain the place where she discarded her first love.

Now Nimeth Beetroot, the gorgeous and renowned Chief Cook, has returned as Boyne's new boss! Can Boyne's inner hearth resist their attraction, or will the Fates grant a second chance at first love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Press
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223791591

i.stoneheart

i.stoneheart is a part time writer and full time fan who wants nothing more than to write. To find more writings, please follow the link.

Book preview

Summer Elves

of

Narrow Rock

by i.stoneheart

Copyright © 2023 by i.stoneheart

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronical or mechanical methods or used in many manner whatsoever without the prior express written permission of the publisher, and artist except in brief quotations in critical reviews, citation, and literary journals for non-commercial uses.

For permission and questions contact the author at www.substack.com/@istoneheart/

Cover Design: Nialls

Green River, Canada

Produced by D. Press and Beyond the Pearl

...for the summer elves in all of us...

Chapter 1

Nimeth Beetroot strode into the kitchen of The Maimed Mare, the new Orcish tavern in Narrow Rock owned by his old fellow, and celebrated Chief Cook, Dicesparrow. The scents of rice noodle, bell peppers, and succulent boar made him salivate as he stepped into the sweltering kitchen.

The door creaked shut and Dicesparrow spun from his cutting table. His deep red eyes widened. His lips curled around his tusks and lifted into a rarely seen smile.

Nimeth! He bounded over, capturing Nim between his massive arms and squeezed the wind out of his forlorn fellow. He pulled away and wiped starch form his apron. What are you doing here?

My favourite mentor opens a tavern and I’m supposed to deny him a visit?

Dicesparrow studied the summer elf. Then, you took your gronking time planning a visit.

I waited for the duke’s blessing before I tested the food, said Nimeth, avoiding the real purpose of his return. What was the duke’s rating? A half seal?

Full seal! Dicesparrow batted his chopper, then frowned at the vegetables he had accidentally cleaved. Insufferable. You milkys underestimate Orc skill. From my Blood-kin, to the Knobes of Myurkart, all know the nightmeal of Dicesparrow.

No one underestimated the Chief Cook. Aspirants of all races emulated his dishes. Apprenticing cooks worshipped his skill. Six years prior, an envoy form Ljosalgard scoured his gilded plate for a miscalculation of spices within Dicesparrow’s food to prove the Night Elves wouldn’t be accused of favouritism. The envoy settled on a lack of salt, and Chief Cook Dicesparrow threatened to wring his ‘twiggy neck and use his hide for seasoning.’

Tis food you’re here for? Dicesparrow asked.

Aunt and uncle migrated south. I offered to oversee their cottage until a suitable buyer arises for the deed exchange. Nim glanced around. But your grool does smell descent.

Grool? Descent! We’ll rename this tavern the Muted Milky when I catch your tongue.

Nim laughed as Dicesparrow feigned a grapple. He missed this. He savoured the orc’s playfulness and whole and felt a sense of brotherhood ripple through his broad chest. Fair enough, big green. It does smell amazing.

Dicesparrow dropped his meaty arm over Nim’s shoulders. Tis grand seeing you, Nim. He guided them to the door. We’ll find you a table in the galley. A pissant Yarl dined there at noontide. After you’ve eaten one of my new dishes you think you’ve died and reached the Hall of the Slain. You laugh, but nine of ten alchemists agree, the gateway to the Otherworld resides within my ‘grool.’

Nim laughed again.

He followed Dicesparrow to the dining hall. It was how Nim pictured it. Hand carved chairs nestled along longtables covered in Orkish linens, scented candle wax dripped from pristine stonework for ambiance at nightfall. Orcish shutters were retrofitted over the windows to allow a cool spring wind through the ornate hall. Dicesparrow had built an addition for a more modern kitchen at the rear of the old school house, and kept the dining hall true to the building’s origins. The bar beside the kitchen bustled with off-work patrons, and serving maids singing wine orders.

A human patron wearing the fine linens of a Baron hailed Chief Cook Dicesparrow.

Jah? Dicesparrow sneered.

The patron frowned. Your pottage is tainted.

My pottage is superb, spat Dicesparrow. Your pallet is tainted and your face spoils the barley.

The Chief cook’s response was unsurprising, but Nim was shocked by the tittering of onlookers. Dicesparrow excelled at his craft, and his ego – and the Orcish culture curated from centuries of Firmground’s most brutal wars – brought the worst out in him. He failed terribly when it came to adhering to mix-raced social norms.

Dicesparrow’s sneer snagged his tusk, and wordlessly marched Nim to a table in the gallery. He swatted his thick green hand for the closest serving maid. "Nightmeal is