Page 1 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
CHAPTER 1
IVY
Inever meant to come back to Embervale—not really. I told myself I was done with this town the day I left it behind, suitcase bruising my knee and a half-shouted goodbye still hanging in the summer air. But here I am, seven years older, maybe one inch wiser, parked just outside the crooked gate of Morrell Orchard, where everything smells like rotting leaves and the ghosts of better intentions.
Dad’s gone. That’s the reason. It’s the only reason. Not because I miss the trees or the cider or the people who always thought I was too sharp around the edges. No, I came back because the funeral is done, the papers are signed, and the land—this damned stretch of soil and stubborn roots—is mine now.
I shove the car door open and step into thigh-high grass that brushes my jeans like it’s trying to pull me back under. The orchard has grown wild since I last saw it, vines draped like mourning shrouds over rusted fence posts, the air thick with the scent of overripe fruit and something faintly metallic. I can almost hear it breathing.
And standing dead center in the gravel drive, arms crossed, blocking the path like some broody woodland sentinel sculpted out of bark and bad decisions—is him.
Garruk Thorne.
I’d recognize that glower in a blizzard. He hasn’t changed much, not really. Maybe broader across the shoulders, maybe a little more weather carved into his face, but the same stoic grimace, the same dark braid slung over one shoulder like a rope. Gray-green skin stretched over muscle and scars, and those tusks—filed down, but still undeniably there. Garruk looks like a myth someone dared to make real, standing there like he belongs to the land more than any human ever could.
“Thorne,” I say, lifting an eyebrow, voice drier than the summer dust in my throat. “Did someone appoint you Orchard Welcome Committee while I was gone?”
His gaze skims me once, and I can’t tell if that sound he makes is a grunt or a breath he doesn’t want to be caught taking.
“You’re early,” he rumbles.
“Not here for small talk.” I step forward, shouldering my bag. “Just need to sign some papers, find the keys, and leave before I start sprouting bark.”
He doesn’t move. Just stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say something different. As if the orchard itself is waiting too.
“You planning to sell it?” he asks.
That stops me. I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The land,” he says, voice like stone rolling over stone. “You gonna sell it?”
I narrow my eyes. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do with an orchard? Start a folksy apple brand and star in my own slow-burn indie movie?”
His jaw flexes.
I keep going, irritated now. “Yes, Garruk. I’m going to sell it. Developers offered double what this dying patch of soil is worth. You got a problem with that?”
“You should walk it first.”
I bark a laugh that’s mostly disbelief. “Wow. You rehearsed that, didn’t you? ‘You should walk the land, Ivy.’ Real poetic. Did Dad feed you that line too?”
His eyes flash. “Your father understood what this place is.”
“My father understood a lot of things—except me,” I snap. “So if you’re planning to guilt-trip me into staying, save your breath. I didn’t ask for this land. I didn’t ask for this conversation. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for you.”
He doesn’t flinch, not even when I push past him on the overgrown path. The wind picks up, rustling through the trees in a way that almost sounds like murmuring. Like someone’s whispering my name.
Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.
I shake it off. Just wind and old branches. Nothing more.
The house hasn’t changed much either. Still leaning to the left, still peeling in places where the paint gave up years ago. The porch groans under my weight as I step up to the door, and I don’t knock. I just push it open, because ghosts don’t care about manners and this house is full of them.
Inside, the air is stale and familiar. The scent of woodsmoke clings to the walls like a memory. I drop my bag at the foot of the stairs and move through the kitchen where his old mug still sits in the sink, faded words declaringWorld’s Okayest Dad. I don’t laugh.
I open the fridge. There’s nothing edible inside—just expired butter, a jar of pickles, and an old bottle of hard cider that smells like vinegar. I dump it down the sink. One small act of rebellion, one quiet exorcism.
The floor creaks behind me.
