Page 10 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

T he sun’s barely up when Maddie comes skittering up the forest path to find me, curls bouncing, skirts swishing around her knees like she’s part of the morning mist. I’m in the middle of stacking fresh logs, sweat already trickling down my back because the day decided to be unseasonably warm, and of course she’d pick right this moment to interrupt.

She stops a few paces off, biting her lip. Her eyes keep darting to the woodpile, then back to my face, then back to the ground, like she’s fighting with herself.

“Out with it, sunshine,” I rumble, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. “Got that look like you’re about to beg a favor or confess to murder.”

Her laugh bursts out high and bright, hands fluttering like startled birds.

“No murders, I promise. But actually—well, yes, a favor. Only if you’re not too busy!

It’s the orchard’s front porch. The railing finally gave up and collapsed in a tragic display of splinters.

I tried to patch it but apparently hammering nails at random angles doesn’t count as actual carpentry. ”

I grunt. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’d probably try to fix it with frosting if left alone long enough.”

She gasps, presses a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Excuse you, my frosting is multi-talented, I’ll have you know. But… yeah. The porch needs real help. I can pay you in pies. Or cider. Or eternal gratitude and not telling Liora your embarrassing forest secrets.”

I arch a brow at that. “Don’t have any forest secrets.”

She smirks, eyes dancing. “Then you’re no fun at all.”

I end up following her back to the orchard, tools slung over my shoulder.

She chatters the whole way, telling me about new tart recipes she wants to try and the little fairy lights she’s planning to string up for the harvest dinner.

I mostly grunt in response, half because it keeps me from saying anything stupid, half because her voice is enough on its own—soft and warm, winding around me like a trailing vine.

The porch is worse than she described. A good third of the railing’s missing outright, the remaining posts cracked through with dark rot. I crouch down, running a hand over the splintered wood, frowning.

“Could’ve killed yourself leaning on this,” I mutter.

She laughs, light but a little wobbly. “Well, that’s why I wanted the best muscle in the valley to come rescue me. You know, in case I decided to dramatically faint and needed catching.”

“Reckless,” I grumble, though my chest does a strange, tight little twist at the idea of her falling and me being the one to break it.

It’s sweltering by midmorning, sun glaring down like it’s personally offended by my existence.

I give up on wearing a shirt halfway through planing the new beam.

Maddie’s perched on the porch steps with a basket of peeled apples, pretending she’s not watching me while her cheeks burn hotter than the orchard cider.

Every time I glance over, her gaze darts away so fast she nearly loses her balance.

“You’ll get a crick in your neck staring like that,” I rumble, mostly to be an ass, which seems safer than acknowledging the hungry little look she keeps sending my way.

Her mouth pops open, eyes wide. “I wasn’t— I mean, it’s just— you’re very… dedicated to your craft, that’s all.”

“Uh huh.”

She makes a strangled noise, huffs, then tosses an apple peel at me. It bounces off my shoulder harmlessly. “Stop being smug about it.”

When the porch rail’s finally sturdy under my hands, I stand back to test the posts, rocking them gently.

They hold. But it feels… bare. Wrong somehow, for this place.

So before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my carving knife and start etching a pattern along the main beam—a lazy curling knotwork of vines and tiny leaf clusters, half memory of the orchard itself, half dream.

I lose track of time. The sun shifts, the orchard hums with wind through branches, and my hands just move. When I finally step back, Maddie’s right there, hovering so close I can feel her breath. Her eyes are wide and soft, mouth parted.

“Oh Thornak,” she whispers, reaching out to trace a finger over the little carved leaves. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to— I mean, this is art. Not just fixing something broken. You made it… us.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she sucks in a tiny gasp like she hadn’t meant to say it.

I clear my throat, suddenly too hot all over again. “Just seemed fitting. Didn’t want it plain.”

“Still,” she says, smiling so bright I nearly have to look away, “thank you. Truly. It means more than I can say.”

I pack up my tools quickly after that, pretending I don’t notice the way her eyes linger on the lines of my arms or the careful way she bites her lip whenever I catch her. She stands by the railing as I shoulder my bag, hands gripping the newly carved beam like she can’t quite let it go.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” she blurts when I start down the path.

I pause, exhale slow. “Yeah. You will.”

Then I walk off before I do something idiotic. Like lean down and kiss her right there on the newel post I just carved, taste cinnamon and bright laughter and make a complete fool of myself.

Back in my cabin that night, I can’t settle. I pace the floor, stare out at the moonlit clearing, then sit at my workbench, knife in hand. I start on another scrap of wood—just something to keep my hands busy, I tell myself. Something small.

But it doesn’t stay simple. Turns into a cluster of tiny pumpkins twined with leaves, the lines delicate, edges smoothed under my thumb. I set it down and scowl at it like it betrayed me.

Because the truth gnaws at me from inside out. I’m starting to hope. Hope for mornings where she greets me with flour in her hair, for evenings where she falls asleep against me like she did on that festival bench.

Hope for more.

And that’s dangerous ground for a beast like me.