Page 24 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
I let the words settle. The orchard’s wind picks up, leaves clatter overhead, and moonlight shimmers across glyphs carved deep in bark.
“I promise,” I say.
There’s tension in that promise—a weight I haven't dared carry. Ivy presses closer, leaning into me so her cheek rests just under my jaw, and every one of my muscles clenches. The orchard shifts, branches brushing overhead as if adjusting arrangement to cover us in leaf and shade.
I don’t say what I’m afraid of again. But maybe later I will.
Instead, I press her gloved hand against the oak. Feel her pulse. Feel our names echo in grain.
I wrap my arm around her waist—a gesture far more primal than I’ve allowed myself—and she’s soft against me, breathing slow, steady. The orchard hums, alive with bloom, alive with promise. I’d rip roots from this land before I let it take her against her will—but I'm no longer sure the orchard is a threat. Maybe it’s a crucible.
We pull away when the petals swirl thicker overhead. Dusk falls deep. Our silhouettes stretch across the grove floor like half-spoken truths. Ivy’s eyes are bright, still, steady.
“We’ll tell each other everything,” she says.
I nod. With her beside me and our promise made, the fear eases—from being consumed by what’s happening—and becomes instead a kind of weight worth carrying.
The grove breathes around us, less quiet, more insistent—alive, watchful.
And we walk out together.
CHAPTER 15
IVY
Ididn’t plan to go to the Harvest Festival. But I’m not one to skip town events when they involve apple pies and cider strong enough to knock the bloom off an orchard. Against all better judgment—and under the gentle insistence of Brody, who can’t stop pretending this place frightens him—here I am, moving through the festival with my lips barely curving and my heart stretched taut between curiosity and dread.
The main square buzzes like a beehive with old women in straw hats calling out, “Best pies this side of the ridge,” while children dart between hay bale forts, faces smeared with caramel apple remnants and laughter that sounds like summer in its final gasp. Lanterns are strung between oaks, glowing pale gold in the late afternoon sun, and the scent of cinnamon-dusted pastries mingles with the whine of nearby cider presses whirring in wooden vats. Overhead, lanterns sway in the breeze and flicker against the ridge, casting warm pools of light over greasy-spackled picnic benches and festival games that sound like clinking bottles and laughter.
It should feel normal—or at least nostalgic. But every time I catch a flash of a maple-leaf medallion or hear the punctuated bark of the dunking booth, I feel the land inside me twist, asthough even the festival stands are rooted too deep to be tame. The orchard hums in response, silent and watchful.
Brody is nowhere to be seen, presumably off sampling every cider stand in a radius wide enough to drown regrets. I’m left hovering near a booth labeled “Embervale Fortune Cookies”—hand-shaped dough stuffed with apple blossom petals and riddles about forthcoming storms and stolen kisses—where the mayor’s wife is insisting they’re "totally wholesome." I collect one anyway, mostly because I want something to do with my hands.
“They’re telling your fortune,” the woman croons. I give her a flat look until she rolls her eyes and pulls out a slip of paper.
Your roots will bind more than trees.
She beams, then gestures at an older man behind me inspecting jars of jam. He nods quietly, handing her a jar of spiced quince preserve. Cherry-tinted cheeks, eyes soft and curious.
“Your father would’ve loved that booth,” she says.
“Probably ate the whole display,” I say dryly. The words slip out before I can stop them, but she only smiles and pats my shoulder.
Then whispers start—sharp, sly. “That orc, Garruk, was spotted with Miss Ivy in the orchard dawn this morning.” “Someone saw him carving the Harvest banner last night.” “You think she’s going to stay?”
The gossip hum is low, a current flowing through the festival. I try to ignore it, sipping cider that’s too sweet and grains sharp across the tongue, but every voice feels pressed close, curious, judging—not just who I am, but what I’m doing here, in this town, with that orc.
“Apple bobbing contest at three,” someone calls nearby, and two girls run through the square shrieking with gummy worms wound around their wrists. The oak-scented wind swirls,scattering leaves and carrying the undertones of cider and autumn. The town’s warmth feels thin, as if sewn onto me, but just out of reach.
Then comes laughter low and brassy, high pitched and slurred. Brody crashes into view, cheeks flushed deep rose, shirt stained with something sticky.
“Ivy!” He waves a plastic goblet filled with something dark. Cider? Meade? Something strong enough to ease his cynicism into sloppy sincerity. “You look like hell. You deserve better than vines wrapped around your ankles.”
I arched a brow. “Deserve?”
He tips whatever’s in the goblet toward me. “You deserve to be loved, Ivy. Not preserved. Not held behind glass. Not tied to anything greener than you are.”
My throat squeezes. I wasn’t expecting that. And yet—God—why does the wind through the oaks feel like it knows exactly what he means?
