Page 2 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
She bursts into laughter, then leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know, you could always aim for someone a little more… imposing. A big orc, maybe. Lots of tusks, solid muscle, minimal nonsense. Good way to keep those developers in line too.”
I gape at her. “A big orc? You mean like Thornak Ironjaw, who barely says two words to anyone and looks like he might snap you in half just for fun? That’s your solution?”
Liora shrugs, smirking. “I didn’t say it was apracticalsolution. Just entertaining. Besides, I’ve seen the way he lingers outside your bakery windows some mornings. Maybe he likes the smell of your buns.”
“You are absolutely incorrigible,” I groan, hiding my face behind my hands. “And it’s probably just because he likes—bread. Who doesn’t like bread?”
“Maddie.” Liora’s voice softens, and when I peek between my fingers, she’s watching me with a rare seriousness. “You’ll figure this out. You’re the sunniest, most determined person I know. If anyone can pull a miracle out of a half-baked tart tin, it’s you.”
My throat tightens. I try to muster up a smile. “Thanks, Liora. Really. I just… I can’t stand the idea of losing that orchard. Aunt Hester spent her life turning that place into magic, and it’s all tied up with everything I love—apple blossoms in spring, lazy summer picnics, harvest festivals…”
“And pumpkin spice season?” she teases gently.
I let out a strangled little laugh. “And pumpkin spice season. I don’t want to see it bulldozed by some smug elf in fancy loafers who thinks ‘rustic charm’ means imported birch paneling.”
Liora stands, sweeping her long cloak behind her. She squeezes my shoulder with cool, graceful fingers. “Then you won’t. Because you’ll find a way, Maddie Quinn. Even if it means roping in a grumpy orc and feeding him tarts until he says ‘I do.’”
“Stars above,” I groan again, dropping my head to the table with a soft thud.
But when I lift it, the laughter fades, and the bakery feels a little dimmer. Because for the first time, the dream I’ve been nurturing since I was a flour-dusted girl in Aunt Hester’s kitchen doesn’t feel like a guarantee. It feels fragile. Like it could slip right through my fingers, no matter how hard I try to hold on.
And that terrifies me.
CHAPTER 2
THORNAK
The forest always greets me the same way—like it’s been waiting, breath held, for me to return. It exhales around me in long sighs of pine and moss, needles whispering overhead, sun shafting down through thick green boughs in patterns that shift as if the whole wood is breathing. Here, at least, nothing expects me to smile or make polite words. Trees stand honest in their silence. Roots reach deep, unashamed. I can be all the rough, scarred weight of myself without worrying I’ll break something delicate.
I grip my axe tight and swing it in a long, arcing stroke. The blade bites deep into the trunk, sending a satisfying tremor up my arms. Sap beads bright against the dark bark. I work with measured care—each strike calculated, never reckless. The forest gives, but only if you take with respect.
When at last the tree groans and tips, crashing through underbrush in a flurry of startled crows, I pause. My breath mists in the cool air. I press a calloused hand to the fresh stump, muttering a quiet orcish thanks. These woods raised me better than any clan ever did.
By late morning, I’ve got a neat pile of trunks ready to haul to the mill. But my shoulders ache for a different sort of work,something finer than brute force. I load my pack with rough blocks of wood and head for the glade where I keep a makeshift bench—a sturdy slab of old oak propped on boulders, shielded by hanging branches.
I settle in with my carving knife, drawing slow, deliberate cuts. The shape emerges like it’s always been there waiting: a squat little bear with stubby paws and a goofy grin. It’s for Korga’s youngest, who’s been sniffling ever since his older brother bragged about getting a wooden fox last spring. I smooth the bear’s round belly, imagining the kid’s eyes going wide.
In this small world of knife and woodgrain, I find a kind of peace I don’t let many see. Orcs are expected to be blunt force, not careful hands, and certainly not makers of tiny toys. But the truth is, gentleness lives in me just as fierce as any battle roar.
I’m packing up when a sharp rustle breaks the quiet. A raven flutters down, glossy feathers flashing blue-black, and drops a sealed envelope right at my feet. It hops away with an indignant croak when I grunt at it.
“Bloody fancy messengers,” I mutter, tearing the wax.
It’s from the Hollow’s new development syndicate—long-winded human script, all curlicues and sly threats. They want more land to clear, specifically these woods. Their letter is full of polite words that still manage to drip with menace.Cooperation... incentives... inevitable progress.I can practically smell the perfume they probably doused it in to cover the stink of greed.
I crumple it in my fist, jaw tightening until my tusks press hard against my bottom lip. Over my cold carcass. These woods are my blood. If they think they can flatten them for a row of glittery vacation houses, they’ve got another thing coming.
When I finally stalk out toward the orchard that borders my stretch of forest, my mood’s foul enough to curdle fresh milk. I don’t usually bother with human land—it’s all trimmed hedgesand pretty fences, nothing like the honest sprawl of untamed green. But Hester’s orchard had always been different. She let the wildflowers creep right up to the porch, hung wind chimes from gnarled old trees, left bowls of cider out for wandering sprites.
Except now it’s a mess. Weeds snake through neat rows of apple trees, leaves spot with rot in places, and some fence posts lean drunk against each other. I click my tongue. Humans never know when to leave good enough alone.
I’m about to turn back into my own blessed shadows when I catch a flicker of bright movement near a half-collapsed flower bed.
There she is. The human baker.
Maddie Quinn.
She’s crouched in the dirt, all curls and flowy skirts that billow like she’s part autumn breeze herself. Her hands are gentle on the tangled vines, trying to untwist them from each other, lips pursed in concentration. I should look away. I’ve made an art of it for weeks—watching from behind trees or across fences, telling myself it’s just curiosity. She’s loud, always laughing, always sticky with flour, always surrounded by people who beam at her like she hung the bloody sun.
