Page 18 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"You know," I brush dirt from my palms, studying his concentrated expression, "for someone who's lived here over a decade, you keep yourself remarkably separate from everyone."

His hands still on the hive edges.

"I do my job. That's what they need from me."

"Is it though?" I pick up another hive box, testing its weight. "Because from what I've seen, people respect you. They rely on you. That's not the same as wanting you to disappear when the work's done."

Draven straightens, his jaw tightening in that way that signals I've hit something tender.

"People don't really want to know what I do out there." His voice carries the flat tone of someone stating obvious facts. "The hunting. The tracking. The killing." He pauses, golden eyes fixed on the tree line. "The skinning. All the morbid details of keeping threats away from their comfortable lives."

I set down the hive box and brush honey residue from my fingers, watching his profile.

"That seems like a pretty grim view of people who clearly care about you." I keep my tone light, but pointed. "I mean, Vaelis certainly seems interested in what you do."

I watch for any shift in his expression, any tell that might reveal how he feels about the elegant elf who greeted him with such familiarity at the bakery. But his face remains stone-steady, those golden eyes still fixed on the distant tree line like he's calculating threats that don't exist.

"Vaelis is just like everyone else." His voice carries the same flat certainty as before. "They pretend they want to know. Maybe they even think they want to know."

He turns to face me, and something darker flickers across his features.

"But when it comes down to it—when they see me gut a dire wolf that was three hours from reaching their children, when they watch me track down the bandits who've been picking off their trade caravans and find what's left of the merchants—" He pauses, jaw working. "When they smell the blood under my fingernails and see exactly what their safety costs, they tuck tail and run."

I study the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hands have unconsciously curled into fists.

"So you've tested this theory with her specifically?"

"Don't need to." He picks up another hive box with controlled force. "I've seen how she looks at me when she thinks no one's watching. Like I'm a project that needs refining. Something that could be acceptable if I just learned to hide the rough edges better."

The bitterness in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't just about doing an unpleasant job—this runs deeper.

"Maybe she's just trying to connect with you the only way she knows how."

Draven's laugh holds no humor.

"Connect." He shakes his head. "She wants the idea of me. The protection, the reputation, the useful parts. But she'd faint at the reality of what I actually do out there."

"Just like everyone else?" I let the question hang between us, steering away from whatever complicated history exists with Vaelis.

"Yeah." He grunts, hefting another hive with unnecessary force. "Better to make the choice for them."

The resignation in his voice sparks something protective in me—not the kind that wants to shield him from the world, but the kind that wants to shake him until he sees what I see.

"Well, what about the choice you want to make for yourself?"

His hands freeze on the wooden frame. For a moment, he looks genuinely startled, like I've asked him to explain the color of air or the weight of moonlight. The expression passes quickly, but not before I catch the flicker of confusion.

He resumes working, movements more deliberate now.

"Doesn't matter what I want." His voice carries the flat certainty of someone reciting scripture, words worn smooth from repetition—like he's told himself this so many times it's become gospel. "I'm here to serve them, not myself. To protect Harvest Hollow in exchange for a bed and a warm meal. That's the arrangement. That's all it needs to be."

The simplicity of it strikes me as almost tragic. As if a life could be reduced to such transactional terms—safety provided, basic needs met, nothing more required or expected. As if wanting anything beyond survival makes you selfish or ungrateful.

I reach for the same hive frame he's adjusting, deliberately closing the distance between us. My fingers brush against his knuckles—rough, scarred skin still warm from exertion. The contact sends a jolt of heat shooting up my arm, spreading through my chest in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the autumn sun filtering through the orchard. I don't pull away. Neither does he.

For a heartbeat, we both stay frozen like that, hands touching on weathered wood, the moment stretching longer than it should.

"I think there's more to life than that." My voice comes out softer than I intended, almost gentle, but I press on because someone needs to say this. "If there's no pleasure—no joy, no comfort, no connection that goes beyond duty—then what are you actually living for? Just existing until the next threat comes along?"