Page 23 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
“You’re calm.”
“I’m not,” he says. “But I’m steady.”
I sit down beside him, pulling my knees to my chest. “I won’t be controlled.”
“You’re not. The orchard doesn’t command. It remembers.”
“What if I don’t want to be remembered?”
He turns to me, voice low and certain. “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”
And for once, I don’t have a comeback.
CHAPTER 14
GARRUK
The dusk wind drifts through the orchard in slow, deliberate waves, carrying the scent of damp earth and the heavier tang of roots rising to the surface—roots that coil beneath mossy bark and hum underfoot like a throbbing heartbeat. I trace the path alone, each step pressing into loam that feels more alive now than it did yesterday, the air thick with bloom despite the late season and the petals drifting around me in soothing, ghostlike arcs that seem to respond to the tension building inside my chest. The orchard’s whispers hover at the edges of my awareness, hums in the branches, as though something ancient in the land is calling me to a reckoning I’m both drawn toward and terrified to face.
At the grove’s center stands the old oak—the one whose bark spirals in fossil lines and carries magics older than any living voice. It’s known as the heart tree, and it pulses faintly at this hour; leaves rustle in a sound like memory, and petals stir despite the absence of wind. I kneel beside its base, palm pressed flat into earth that’s too warm for the hour, my fingers sinking into recent frost that’s vanished as though evaporated by unseen fire. This place holds more than soil. It holds the weightof promises, regrets, and urgencies—roots that reach down into old bones. I feel them.
I close my eyes, breath drawn slow, and the air before me begins to blur. A vision unfolds—fragile and relentless. Ivy stands beneath these tangled limbs, hair wild, eyes full of pain. Her hands clutch her chest as though the orchard inside her is too heavy to carry. Branches above flare with blossoms in violent bloom, petals falling like embers. The ground rumbles beneath her feet, the tree’s roots twisting upward, wanting to claim more than surface. Her mouth moves, soundless, and I know she’s crying though I don’t hear it. My heart tightens, muscle knotting. The orchard pulses faster. She falls. The ground opens in my mind and she disappears.
I gasp. The haze shatters. My body hits the ground backward, chest pounding, fingers rocking in the dirt where visions burn themselves into memory. Pain so sharp blooms in my ribs that I nearly choke. My breath comes in harsh gasps. I want to stand, shout, curse the land—anything—but all I can do is press my hand into the earth and listen to it breathe.
Hour passes
I don’t hear her coming. I’m too lost in my own fevered whirl. The grove seems darker now, thickening in the hush after the vision. The petals drift in restless eddies above my head. The oak stands heavy. I sense her before I register her words. Her presence humbles the hush. Her hand settles in mine. She kneels beside me, her silhouette soft with moonlight, scent of lavender creeping through the moss.
That delicacy scares me. I don’t deserve it.
“You should’ve told me,” she says, voice quiet but steel-laced. “You were in pain. I think you think you’re supposed to bear it alone.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond. She braces against my shoulder, the swell of her breath warm at my throat. I stay still,breathing her in. The orchard tilts its silence in our direction, deeper now. Petals shift at my feet. I rest my forehead against bark, seeking roots beneath soil, seeking solace.
“I had to see it once,” I say finally, voice raw. “To believe it.”
“You don’t need to die to prove you feel something.”
The underbrush trembles. Bright moonlight fractures through the canopy. The orchard hums. I look at her, and her face isn’t soft. It’s open. Vivid as bloom.
“I’m scared,” I admit, the words brittle. Her name echoes in my chest. “Scared of seeing you that way. Scared of whatever the land is stirring beneath it.”
She smiles, small, fierce. “Thanks for finally having enough sense to tell me.”
I press my hand into the oak’s roots again. “Come here.”
We press into the heart tree. Its bark feels ancient beneath my fingers—scarred and slanted, textured with glyphs worn nearly flat by mist and time. Moss curls at the edges, luminescent under moonlight. The smell here is deep damp—like buried seasons and old incense. Ivy’s voice resonates beside me. I trace my thumb over a spiral carving that curls downward, the symbol I used to seal a guardian oath so long ago I barely believed it until now.
“You read it,” I say. “You know what it says.”
She blinks, gaze lifted. “It says I recognized you yesterday. That we share roots deeper than bloodline. That when I touched this ground with your name on my lips, the orchard sighed for it.”
I close my eyes and let the silence swallow us. The gentle hum grows into a resonance in my spine, warmth spreading from center to limbs. The petals drift heavier now, settling at our boots like silent applause.
“I don’t know what we are yet,” I say after a long breath. “But I know I don’t want any part of this—any part of you—to fade.”
Her fingers curl into mine. Skin presses over skin. “Then let’s promise to tell the truth—from now on.”
