Page 37 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

I glance toward the honey stall where Isolde continues her business, professional and composed. The customer she's been helping finally makes her purchases, gathering several jars before moving on. Isolde begins rearranging her display, each movement efficient and purposeful.

"She thinks I'm choosing duty over her." The realization tastes bitter. "She thinks Vaelis is the safer option, the one the town prefers."

"Isn't she?" Thornak's bluntness stings because it's accurate. "You've never given her reason to think otherwise. Never stood up to the assumptions, never prioritized her over your obligations to everyone else."

The weight of my failures settles heavy in my chest. Every missed dinner, every interrupted conversation, every time I've let someone else define what I want instead of claiming it myself.

CHAPTER 23

ISOLDE

The elderly merchant's wife examines my wildflower honey with genuine appreciation, turning the jar to catch the afternoon light. Her husband hovers nearby, already clutching two jars of lavender-infused varieties.

"This one has such a lovely amber color," she murmurs, her weathered fingers tracing the glass. "How do you achieve such clarity?"

"Time and patience." I arrange the remaining jars on my display, grateful for customers who appreciate the craft rather than just the product. "I filter it slowly, never rushing the process. The wildflowers around here produce something special when they're allowed to⁠—"

"Attention! Everyone!"

Draven's voice cuts through the festival chatter like an axe through wood. The unfamiliar volume makes my hands still on the honey jars, my heart lurching with sudden dread.

The merchant's wife looks up with curiosity, following the collective turn of heads toward the center of the square. I force myself to continue arranging my display, but my peripheral vision catches movement as people abandon their conversations and drift toward whatever spectacle is unfolding.

"What's all that about?" the merchant asks, craning his neck to see over the gathering crowd.

I finally look up and my stomach drops straight through the cobblestones.

Draven stands atop a cider barrel near the fountain, his broad frame rigid with discomfort. His golden-brown eyes sweep across the sea of upturned faces with the expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere else in the world. The afternoon sun catches the green of his skin, making the scars on his forearms stand out like silver threads.

Hundreds of people stare at him with rapt attention. Festival-goers who moments ago were haggling over produce and admiring crafts now form a loose semicircle around his improvised stage. Mrs. Penwhistle clutches her shawl with visible excitement. Alma abandons her fabric stall entirely.

"It's come to my attention," Draven begins, his voice carrying despite the obvious strain, "that I need to address some rumors and assumptions that have been circulating through Harvest Hollow for the past few weeks."

My hands go numb around the honey jar I'm holding. The merchant's wife continues to examine her purchase, oblivious to the way my world tilts sideways.

This is it. The public declaration I've been dreading. The moment he chooses the path of least resistance, the woman the town expects him to claim.

"Specifically," Draven continues, his gaze finding and lingering on a particular spot in the crowd, "regarding Vaelis Thandor and her assertions about our connection, our friendship, and suggestions that it's blossoming into something more."

The words feel like countless bee stings. Each syllable confirms what I've known but refused to acknowledge—that whatever happened between us was temporary, a distraction before he returned to the life everyone expected him to live.

"Oh, how sweet!" Vaelis's voice carries across the square, light and delighted.

She steps forward through the crowd, her silver-blonde hair catching the light like spun moonbeams. Her structured blue dress moves with practiced grace, and her pale gold skin glows with obvious pleasure.

"Really, Draven, a public speech isn't necessary." She laughs, the sound musical and confident. "Though I do appreciate the gesture."

The crowd murmurs with approval. Several people exchange knowing glances, Mrs. Penwhistle practically vibrating with vindicated satisfaction. I watch Vaelis position herself at the base of the barrel, looking up at him with the expression of someone receiving exactly what she's always expected.

My vision blurs around the edges.

"Are you alright, dear? You've gone quite pale."

I force my lips into what might pass for a smile. "Just the heat."

But it's not the heat. It's the crushing realization that I've been a fool. That I let myself believe his quiet intensity, his careful attention, his hands on my skin meant something beyond physical convenience. That I mistook desire for devotion, passion for permanence.

The crowd presses closer to Draven, eager to witness this long-anticipated moment. I catch glimpses of familiar faces—Thornak scowling from the edge of the gathering, Maddie with her hands clasped at her chest, Granda Oltar nodding with evident approval.