Page 35 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"The town's gamekeeper," I answer automatically, my eyes searching the crowd until I spot him. He strides from the direction of the forest path, his dark hair still damp from an early patrol, shoulders set in that familiar line of controlled tension.

"I told him he simply had to attend today," Vaelis continues, her voice pitched to carry. "After all, festivals are about celebrating community bonds, aren't they? And some bonds are more... significant than others."

Draven's brow lifts slightly as he catches his name, his golden-brown gaze sweeping the gathered crowd. For a moment, his eyes find mine across the square, and something flickers in his expression—recognition, perhaps even longing. But then Vaelis steps closer to him, her pale hand settling on his arm with practiced ease.

"We've been discussing plans for after the harvest season," she says, her words deliberate and clear. "It's time to think about the future, about permanence. About what really matters in a community like this."

The crowd murmurs approval, heads nodding as they absorb the implication. Mrs. Penwhistle beams like she's witnessing a long-awaited proposal, while Garron shifts his weight with the satisfied air of someone seeing natural order restored.

I watch Draven's face, waiting for him to step back, to correct the assumption, to do anything that might indicate he hasn't agreed to whatever future Vaelis is painting for their audience.

Instead, he grunts—that low, noncommittal sound that could mean anything but sounds like agreement to ears that want to hear it. The crowd takes it as confirmation, their smiles widening, their congratulations beginning to bubble up.

The jar slips in my suddenly nerveless fingers, and I catch it just before it hits the table. The customer reaches out to steady it, concern creasing her features.

"Are you alright, dear?"

"Fine." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Just... festival excitement."

But inside, I feel like something vital has been carved out of me with a dull blade. Used. Discarded. A temporary distraction while he sorted out what really mattered—what the town expected, what made sense, what fit into the neat little boxes everyone had constructed around his life.

I focus on the transaction, counting out change with mechanical precision while Vaelis's voice continues to weave her web of implication and assumption. Each coin feels cold against my palm, each smile I force onto my face a small act of defiance against the hollow ache spreading through my chest.

CHAPTER 22

DRAVEN

The crowd's collective smile makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Mrs. Penwhistle clasps her hands together with the delighted expression of someone witnessing a long-anticipated engagement announcement. Alma nods approvingly from her stall, and even the visiting merchants exchange knowing glances.

My grunt—that automatic, meaningless sound I make when cornered—has just sealed a future I never agreed to.

"Oh, Draven." Vaelis's fingers reach for my forearm, her touch light but possessive. "I knew you'd come around to seeing reason."

I jerk backward before her skin makes contact, the movement sharp enough to make several onlookers blink in surprise. The space between us suddenly feels charged with tension rather than intimacy.

"I didn't—" The words stick in my throat as I scan the gathered faces, all beaming at me with congratulatory warmth.

My gaze sweeps across the festival grounds until it lands on Isolde's honey stall. She stands behind her carefully arranged display, speaking with a travel-worn woman who examines jars with obvious appreciation. Even from this distance, I can see the professional composure in Isolde's posture, the way she gestures to explain her different varieties.

Pride surges through me—fierce and unexpected. She's built something here, carved out her own space in a town that initially saw her as temporary. The customer reaches for multiple jars, and I catch the flash of Isolde's genuine smile as she completes what's clearly a successful sale.

But then I remember last night. The dinner she'd made for me that I missed because of my duties to the village.

The weight of that failure sits heavy in my chest as I watch her lean forward to answer the customer's question. Professional. Composed. Independent. Everything she's always been, everything that drew me to her in the first place.

"Draven?" Vaelis's voice carries a note of uncertainty now, her perfect composure cracking slightly. "Where are you going?"

I don't answer. My feet are already carrying me away from the fountain, away from the expectant crowd, toward the honey stall where Isolde continues her conversation as if the world hasn't just tilted off its axis.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Thornak's bulk blocks my path like a mountain deciding to relocate. His dark eyes burn with an intensity I've rarely seen directed at me, and his massive hands curl into fists at his sides.

I pull up short, genuinely taken aback. "What?"

"Don't 'what' me." His voice carries the low rumble of distant thunder. "Half the town just watched you publicly agree to this ridiculous fantasy Vaelis has been spreading, and now you're stomping off toward Isolde like some lovesick pup."

"I didn't claim anyone." The words come out harsher than intended. "I made a sound. People heard what they wanted to hear."