Page 42 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
To be fair, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. He’s wearing his softest shirt (still dark and intimidating), his hands are empty (but massive), and his expression is... well, “neutral” for Garruk looks a lot like “furious” to the uninitiated.
“...Ivy,” he mutters, stopping mid-step as three small children scramble behind a bookshelf like they’re avoiding a forest monster. “This was a mistake.”
I bite back a laugh. “No, no, you’re doing great. They’ve only completely panicked.”
“I told you I don’t do kids.”
“You said youdon’t likekids. Not that they’d flee at the sight of you.”
“They’re loud. And sticky. And fragile.”
“Kind of like you,” I quip.
He shoots me a flat look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. Barely.
“All right, everyone,” I say, raising my voice over the whispers and shuffling. “This is Garruk. He’s our guest today, and he’s here to show us how to safely strengthen soil bonds with spell layering. Who remembers what layering is?”
Petra, fearless as ever, raises her hand. “It’s when you stack glyphs like pancakes but you don’t burn the orchard down.”
“That’s... a poetic interpretation. I’ll allow it.”
Garruk crouches—slow, controlled, the way he moves when he’s around horses or fire—until he’s almost at eye level with the front row. One brave boy steps forward, jaw clenched in the way little ones try to mimic adults.
“You’re the scary man from the ridge,” he says.
“Yeah,” Garruk replies, deadpan. “But only when people lie to Ivy.”
The kid nods solemnly. “Cool.”
And just like that, the spell breaks.
Garruk talks in short, gruff bursts, demonstrating how to press a ward into soil without cracking the outer membrane, explaining how blood magic leaves a trace even when diluted, how root-glyphs can warn plants of drought before it hits. The kids eat it up. I watch him from the back, arms crossed, heart doing that annoyingly soft thing where it decides gruff and gentle aren’t mutually exclusive.
By the end, two of the kids are trying to mimic his scowl in the window reflection. Another has climbed onto his boot like it’s a hill.
He glances up at me, eyes faintly panicked. “What do I do?”
“You let it happen.”
“But it’s on me.”
“That’s a compliment,” I say, grinning. “They like you.”
“I hate this.”
“You’re glowing.”
“Ivy.”
“Fine. You’re smoldering ominously. Better?”
He huffs.
Later, once the classroom’s cleared and Petra’s finally stopped hiding in the seed cabinet, I find him outside by the garden beds, rolling his shoulders like he’s survived a battle.
“You were great,” I say, bumping his arm with mine.
“I terrified half the town’s youth.”
