Page 39 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
But tonight’s different.
Tonight’s for magic.
For binding.
For us.
“You look like you’re about to bite someone,” Brody says from behind me, trying to coax his curls into something less feral with the comb he definitely borrowed from a goat.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Save it for the vows.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth quirks in spite of myself. Brody’s dressed too formally for someone who once considered suspenders ‘church clothes.’ He’s wearing a dark linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a belt made of twine and stubbornness. There’s a small sprig of the orchard bloom pinned to his collar, and his eyes are a little too shiny for someone who claims he’s just here to make sure the paperwork gets signed.
“You sure about this?” he asks quietly, voice dipping into something less sarcastic, more brotherly.
“No,” I admit. “But that’s never stopped me before.”
“Good. Because I cried too much picking out these shoes for you to back out now.”
The clearing at the orchard’s heart has been transformed—not with garlands or drapes or whatever nonsense weddings usually demand—but withlight. Hundreds of candles float in quiet circles, hovering midair like lazy fireflies, casting golden shadows across the bark and stone. The leaves above us have all turned crimson, deep and velvet-dark, as if the orchard decided this moment deserved its own season. There’s a stone circle in the center, carved with fresh glyphs, each glowing faintly in response to the approaching dusk.
And Garruk stands in the middle of it.
He’s not in armor. Not wrapped in leathers or covered in blood or wearing that expression like he’s waiting for someone to challenge him. He’s just…there.Quiet. Grounded. Dressed in a shirt he clearly hates, sleeves rolled up, hands fidgeting with the pendant I carved. The way he looks at me when I step into the ring—it nearly stops my breath.
Not because he’s handsome, though he is.
But because he looks like he’s choosing me. Again. Still. Every single day.
“Alright,” Brody says, voice already cracking, “let’s get this show started before I start ugly crying in front of half the damn town.”
Lettie hands him a scroll. He immediately drops it. Ivy twitches. Garruk stares straight ahead like he’s bracing for battle. Honestly, it’s a miracle this ceremony hasn’t imploded already.
“The orchard recognizes the bond,” Brody begins, clearing his throat so aggressively I worry for his esophagus. “The land bears witness. The breath-stones hum with approval, and, uh, we’re all here to... sanctify... formalize? No, no,celebratethe connection forged between two people who’ve seen each other at their worst and still decided, ‘Yep, that one. That’s mine.’”
There’s a soft murmur of laughter from the gathered crowd—council members, orchard workers, townsfolk, even a few kids perched in low branches like squirrel witnesses.
I take Garruk’s hand. His grip is firm but not crushing. Grounding.
“Ivy,” Brody says, sniffling now, “do you vow to walk beside this grumpy, brooding man even when he insists on building things without blueprints and answers questions with grunts?”
“I do,” I say, loud and clear.
“And Garruk,” Brody continues, “do you vow to stand with this sarcastic, stubborn woman even when she’s right and you wish she wasn’t?”
“I do,” Garruk growls, but it’s soft, warm. Certain.
We exchange tokens. Not rings—too delicate for us. Instead, I press the matching pendant into his palm, the one I carved after the storm, the one I couldn’t bear to give until now. He slides it over his head and tucks it next to the one already resting against his chest.
He gives me something too. A length of bark, smoothed and worn, carved with the same glyph that flared the moment wesealed the bond. “From the ridge,” he murmurs. “The highest root. Grew it with my blood.”
My throat tightens, but I nod.
We step into the circle together.
The glyphs around the stone flare gold.
