Page 38 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs
"I know I've kept to myself since becoming the gamekeeper," Draven continues, his voice carrying across the square with uncomfortable honesty. "A guard between the wild world and Harvest Hollow. I thought that was working in my favor."
The crowd shifts restlessly. This isn't the romantic declaration they expected. Mrs. Penwhistle's face scrunches with confusion, her ribbons trembling as she tilts her head.
"But I'm realizing, slowly, that my tendency to avoid what goes on in the village has been more harmful than I thought."
Vaelis's expression falters, the musical confidence draining from her features like water from a cracked vessel. Her pale gold skin takes on an almost sickly pallor.
"Draven." Her voice cuts through his speech, sharp enough to draw blood. "What are you doing?"
He doesn't even glance down at her. His golden-brown eyes sweep across the crowd with the methodical precision of a hunter tracking prey.
"So allow me to clear everything up." His voice rises, ensuring every person in the square can hear him. "There is nothing going on between me and Vaelis, and there never has been."
The collective gasp ripples through the crowd like wind through grain. Someone drops what sounds like a ceramic mug. The merchant's wife beside me clutches her honey jar so tightly I worry the glass might crack.
"But we've known each other for so long!" Vaelis's composure cracks, her carefully modulated tone sharpening to a blade. "We've been friends for—"
"We have never been friends."
The words land with the finality of an axe splitting wood. Vaelis stumbles backward as if physically struck, her perfect posture crumbling.
Draven's expression remains unchanged, carved from stone and shadow. "In fact, I have never been friends with anyone in this town. I've only been a servant to you, doing the dirty tasks of protecting you while you live in sunshine and cinnamon."
The festival atmosphere evaporates. Vendors abandon their negotiations. Even the autumn breeze seems to still, as if the world itself holds its breath.
"Only one person has offered me real friendship." His voice drops, carrying a weight that makes my chest constrict. "And I fear I've broken her heart."
His eyes meet mine over the heads of everyone here to enjoy the festival. My heart flips, flops, and squeezes, and a wave of chills run down my spine.
Vaelis lunges forward with desperate fury, her pale hands clawing at Draven's legs. The structured blue fabric of her dress tears at the seams as she attempts to drag him down from the barrel.
"Get down here!" Her voice cracks, the musical quality shattered into something raw and ugly. "You don't get to humiliate me in front of everyone!"
Draven plants his feet wider, unmovable as a mountain oak. His golden-brown eyes remain fixed on mine across the crowd, even as Vaelis's nails scrape against his leather boots.
"This is ridiculous," she snarls, abandoning her attempt to physically dislodge him. Her silver-blonde hair has escaped its careful styling, wild strands framing her flushed face. "You want to know what he's really done for this village? Nothing but run and hide in the forest like a coward!"
The crowd shifts uneasily. Mrs. Penwhistle's ribbons tremble as she exchanges uncertain glances with Alma, who watches the spectacle with obvious distaste.
"He pretends to be our protector, but where was he when Sarah got hurt last week?" Vaelis's voice rises to a shriek, her composure completely abandoned. "Attacked by a wild animal while he was too busy sniffing after that hussy beekeeper to do his actual job!"
My blood turns to ice. The merchant's wife beside me gasps, her weathered hand moving to her throat. Murmurs ripple through the gathering like poison spreading through water.
"Sarah wouldn't have been injured if he'd been patrolling properly instead of lurking around the apiary!" Vaelis spins toward the crowd, her pale gold skin mottled with rage. "But no, he was too distracted by honey and whatever else that woman was offering!"
The word 'hussy' hits like a physical blow. I watch faces in the crowd shift, doubt creeping into expressions that moments ago held curiosity and surprise. Someone whispers behind their hand. Another nods with grim understanding.
"She's right about Sarah," a voice calls from the back. "Poor thing nearly lost her wing."
"And where was our so-called protector?" another adds.
My hands shake as I set down the honey jar, rage building in my chest like steam in a kettle. The careful control I've maintained for weeks—through the whispers, the exclusions, the constant evaluation—finally snaps.
CHAPTER 24
DRAVEN
"Enough already!"
