Page 32 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"Izzy—"

"I said I don't want to discuss it."

But even as I speak the words, I can feel the bitter truth settling deeper into my bones. This town has already decided who belongs with whom, and I'm just the temporary disruption they're waiting to pass.

I smooth down my skirts and straighten my shoulders, feeling the weight of both women's attention like a physical thing.

"I'm going to the Guild Hall to finalize my vendor agreement for the harvest festival." The words come out steady, businesslike. "After that, I'm focusing on my honey and my bees. No more of this drama."

Maddie opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off with a raised hand.

"If Draven wants to avoid what happened between us, then so will I. It's that simple."

I tuck the wrapped cakes under my arm and head for the door, ignoring the way Calla's sharp eyes follow my movement and the soft sound of distress Maddie makes behind me.

The walk to the Guild Hall feels like running a gauntlet. Conversations pause as I pass, heads turn with the subtlety of weather vanes in a storm. Mrs. Penwhistle's voice carries from the haberdashery steps, something about "poor timing" and "natural order," but I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead.

The Guild Hall's heavy oak doors provide blessed sanctuary from the scrutiny. Inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and ink grounds me, the carved trade insignias watching from their places along the walls like silent witnesses to countless negotiations.

Granda Oltar sits behind the main table, his silver beard catching the light from the tall windows. His deep-set eyes assess me with the patience of someone who's witnessed decades of human folly.

"Miss Briar." He gestures to the chair across from him. "I have your agreement prepared."

I settle into the seat, placing the cakes on the table between us. "Thank you for accommodating the rush."

His thick fingers tap the parchment before sliding it across the polished wood. "Festival vendor status, as requested. Standard terms, three-day commitment during harvest week."

I scan the document, noting the careful language that grants me a place without promising anything beyond those three days. The script is precise, formal, leaving no room for assumption or hope.

"Once we see how you perform during the festival, we can revisit the matter of permanent supplier status." Granda's voice carries the weight of institutional wisdom. "But for now, that remains... undetermined. Particularly since you haven't decided where you're settling permanently."

The emphasis on 'permanently' isn't lost on me. This town deals in certainty, in long-term commitments and established patterns. I represent neither.

"I understand completely." I reach for the quill he offers, dipping it in the inkwell with deliberate care. "Three days should be sufficient to demonstrate my capabilities."

The scratch of nib against parchment seals more than just a business arrangement—it sets my timeline. Three days to prove myself, then departure. Clean, simple, without the messy complications of hearts and expectations.

"Thank you, Granda. This is just what I need."

The walk back to the apiary feels like shedding layers of pretense with each step away from town. By the time I reach the edge of my property, the weight of forced politeness has lifted from my shoulders, replaced by something sharper and more honest—resolve.

My bees hum their familiar greeting, the sound washing over me like absolution. Here, at least, expectations run simple. Provide care, receive honey. No hidden agendas or social calculations required.

I set the wrapped cakes on the small table beside my equipment shed and pull out the ledger I've been keeping since arrival. The pages show neat columns of expenses, projected yields, and timeline calculations. Numbers don't lie or disappoint—they simply exist.

"Three weeks until the harvest festival." My voice carries clearly in the afternoon air, spoken to the bees but really to myself. "One week to prepare inventory, three days of sales, then departure."

The timeline feels solid, manageable. Four weeks total before I load my wagon and point it toward the next opportunity. No lingering, no second-guessing, no waiting for someone to decide I'm worth choosing.

CHAPTER 20

DRAVEN

The town square buzzes with the kind of controlled chaos that precedes any festival, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of fresh timber and canvas. Merchants unfold their heavy awnings with practiced efficiency, the fabric snapping in the autumn breeze as they work to secure the corners. Locals jostle and negotiate, staking claims to prime selling spots with a mixture of camaraderie and territorial stubbornness. Their voices weave together in a dense tapestry of haggling, complaint, and the occasional burst of laughter—the familiar symphony of market day preparations.

I weave through the organized mayhem, my boots finding purchase on the worn cobblestones as I navigate around a cart laden with pottery and a cluster of children chasing a stray dog. The folded notice in my pocket presses against my ribs, feeling heavier than it should, as though the weight of what it represents—the end of a hunt, a life taken—somehow transfers itself through the paper.

My eyes sweep the crowd automatically, moving from face to face with the same methodical precision I use when tracking game through dense underbrush. I'm searching for familiar dark curls that catch the light just so, for the warm brown skin and gentle posture that I've come to recognize even at a distance. For the faint scent of honey and lavender that seems to follow Isolde wherever she goes, marking her presence more surely than any footprint. Nothing. Just the usual faces—Mrs. Dalloway with her ever-present market basket, Jonathan arguing with a spice merchant, the blacksmith's daughter hauling iron stakes for tent moorings.