Page 19 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

The question hangs in the autumn air between us, suspended like the golden leaves drifting slowly from the apple trees overhead. Heavy with implications neither of us wants to name out loud, but that pulse beneath the surface of every word we've exchanged today.

His golden eyes find mine, holding my gaze with an intensity that steals my breath. And there—just for a moment—something raw flickers behind that carefully controlled exterior. Hunger, maybe. Or recognition of something he's been systematically denying himself for so long he's forgotten it was ever an option. Longing that's been buried under layers of duty and self-imposed isolation.

The silence stretches, thick with tension that really has nothing to do with forest dangers or town politics. It's the kind of quiet that precedes either a storm or a surrender.

"Choose something for yourself," I challenge, my hand still touching his. "Just once. Not for duty or protection or keeping everyone else comfortable. Something you actually want."

He doesn't respond, but his breathing has changed—deeper, more deliberate. The idea settles between us like a seed finding fertile ground, and I can almost see it taking root behind those careful walls he's built.

CHAPTER 12

DRAVEN

We settle the last hive into position as the afternoon light begins to slant golden through the apple trees. My shoulders ache from the lifting, but it's the satisfying burn of work well done. The expanded apiary spreads before us in neat rows, each box angled to catch the morning sun just right.

Isolde disappears into her small storage shed and emerges with a clay jug and two wooden cups. The sweet scent of apple cider drifts toward me as she pours, steam rising faintly in the cooling air.

"Thank you." She hands me a cup, her fingers brushing mine briefly. "I know this isn't exactly your usual patrol duty."

I take a long drink, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The cider tastes like autumn distilled—tart apples, cinnamon, something indefinably golden.

"Most people think I'm a bit odd," she continues, settling onto a wooden crate beside the nearest hive. "Talking to bees, understanding their language, caring more about their wellbeing than making the maximum profit."

Her gaze lifts to study my face, those hazel eyes taking in details most people skip over. The scar that cuts through my left eyebrow. The way my tusks have worn slightly at the tips from years of unconscious grinding. The permanent squint lines around my eyes from tracking movement through dappled forest light.

"I imagine you feel the same way about the forest."

The observation catches me off guard. Not the words themselves, but the way she says them—without judgment, without that careful distance most people maintain when discussing what I do out there.

I shrug, rolling the cup between my palms.

"People don't see the beauty in things they don't take the time to really see." The words come out rougher than I intend, carrying more truth than I usually allow myself to voice. "They want the forest to be simple. Dangerous or safe. Useful or worthless."

"But it's not simple."

"No." I drain the rest of my cider, watching a worker bee navigate between the apple blossoms overhead. "It's a hundred different ecosystems layered on top of each other. Deer paths that change with the seasons. Bird calls that mean rain's coming three days out. Trees that communicate through their root systems."

The words keep coming, surprising me. I never talk about this—the intricate web of life I move through every day, the subtle signs and patterns that guide my work.

"Most people hear 'forest patrol' and picture me walking in a straight line, looking for obvious threats." I set the empty cup beside me. "They don't want to know about reading scat composition to track migration patterns, or how the way moss grows on bark tells you which direction the worst storms come from."

Isolde nods, understanding flickering across her features.

The sound of crunching leaves and heavy boots cuts through our conversation. I turn toward the treeline where Thornak emerges from the forest shadows, a leather sack of firewood slung across his broad shoulders. His axe catches the late afternoon light as it swings from his grip, and dried leaves cling to his dark hair.

He notices us and changes course, boots thudding against the packed earth as he approaches the apiary. I watch Isolde rise smoothly from her crate, already reaching for the clay jug.

"Thornak." She pours a third cup of cider without hesitation, steam curling upward as she extends it toward him. "Perfect timing."

The easy hospitality in her gesture sends an unexpected twist through my chest. Something sharp and unwelcome that I don't care to examine too closely.

"Much appreciated." Thornak accepts the cup but his dark eyes settle on me, heavy with unspoken questions. "Shouldn't you be out on patrol, Draven?"

My hackles rise instantly. The familiar weight of expectation, of being reduced to nothing more than my function.

"I was helping Isolde with her apiary expansion."

"Hmm." Thornak takes a slow sip, his gaze moving between us with deliberate assessment. "Interesting how your patrol routes keep bringing you back here. Maddie mentioned you've been quite... thorough in your security checks lately."