Page 12 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

I hate crowds. Always have. Too many bodies packed in close, too many eyes that flit over me then away like they’ve brushed something unpleasant. It’s worse with elves—thin little folk who look at me like I’m some barn animal that wandered inside to sniff the linens.

So of course that’s exactly what Maddie’s cider tasting is full of.

She’s set up a long table outside her bakery, all laid out with little glass cups, plates of flaky pastries and tiny boards of sliced pears drizzled with honey.

Lanterns swing overhead, catching the gold in her curls every time she tips her head back to laugh.

She’s in her element—chattering, pouring samples, teasing the gnomes into trying stronger cider than they can handle.

And damn if I don’t hover at the edge of it all like a mossy boulder someone inconveniently dropped in the middle of town square.

It’s worth it just to watch her work. The way she lights up, dimples flashing, hands fluttering as she describes a tart’s crust or the sparkle of spiced clove in the latest brew. Her voice wraps around everyone like a warm quilt.

But then three elf dandies stroll up to her table, all sleek tunics and smug mouths, with that lilting sneer that’s half politeness and half dagger. They pick up one of her tarts—apple-caramel with a buttery crumble—and prod at it like it might crawl off the plate.

“This is charming in a rustic sort of way,” drawls the tallest, pale as moonlight, his hair twisted in a braid so fine it probably took him an hour to fuss with it. “Though you know, dear baker, in Thalavar we’d never serve something so… unsophisticated. It’s practically peasant fare.”

The other two chuckle, flicking Maddie glances like they expect her to giggle along at her own expense.

Her bright expression falters for just a breath, mouth parting like maybe she’s going to laugh it off, make some cheerful joke. My chest goes hot—slow, molten fury that trickles out through my fingers as they curl into fists.

I step forward before I’ve thought it through.

Shadows swallow me up, and all three elves look up in tandem, their smug faces going pinched and uneasy.

I let the quiet stretch until they’re practically fidgeting under it.

Then I lean in, dropping my voice to that deep growl that rumbles from somewhere behind my ribs.

“Funny,” I say, slow and deliberate, “how folk with so little to feed their bellies always manage to stuff their mouths with smug opinions. Seems to me you’d be better off tasting before flappin’ your jaws.”

Their eyes widen. The tallest elf’s mouth snaps shut, a faint green tinge creeping up his throat. One of them clears his throat, mutters something about “provincial amusements,” and they scatter down the cobblestones so quick I might’ve laughed if I wasn’t still seething.

Maddie stands there blinking at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. Her cheeks are flushed, her hands twisted up in her apron, eyes shining so bright it punches straight through my irritation.

“Thornak,” she breathes, voice soft and wobbly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I grunt, shifting my weight. “Yeah, well. I did.”

She just looks at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face, like she’s trying to decide if she’s about to scold me or throw herself into my arms. Then—gods help me—she beams, and it’s like the entire street gets warmer.

“You’re… you’re something else, you know that?”

“Careful, sunshine. Folk’ll start thinkin’ you’ve lost all your sense.”

Her laughter spills out, light and sweet, chasing off the last of the elf stink.

Later, we walk back toward the orchard together.

She’s got her hand looped through the crook of my arm, even though the road’s wide enough she doesn’t need to cling.

Her thumb rubs slow little circles against my sleeve—over that new flannel she gave me—and it’s doing things to my chest I’d rather not name.

She chatters about how much cider they sold, how the dwarves ordered three extra crates for the winter stock, how Mrs. Tallow’s cat finally caught the mouse that’s been stealing scone crumbs from her porch.

I grunt responses where I can, trying not to notice how nice it feels to have her tucked up against me.

Then she tilts her head, looks up at me with those wide eyes, all candlelight and curiosity. “Can I ask you something a little personal?”

I sigh. “Reckon I can’t stop you.”

She grins, undeterred. “Has anyone ever made you treats just for you? Like… not part of a festival or village feast. Just because they wanted to?”

The question’s so soft, so genuine, it stops me dead in my tracks.

I stare out over the orchard, moonlight spilling silver across the rows of trees. The breeze rattles the leaves, sending a faint scent of apple and earth drifting by.

“No,” I say finally, rougher than I mean to. “Can’t say anyone’s bothered. Not much use pamperin’ an orc who’s more comfortable chewin’ jerky by a stump than sittin’ down to fancy tarts.”

She goes quiet, her thumb still tracing that slow path over my arm. Then she whispers, “Well… I think that’s wrong. Everyone deserves to be thought of. Deserves someone to make them things just because.”

I want to tell her she’s naive. That the world’s never been kind like that, not to folk like me. That it’s better not to expect sweetness, better to keep your claws out and your heart hard.

But instead I just grumble, “That why you keep pushing pastries on me?”

“Maybe,” she says, smiling up at me like she’s got a secret, all sunshine and soft freckles. “Or maybe I just like seeing you eat something that makes your eyes go a little squinty with pleasure.”

My ears go hot. I grumble something noncommittal, start walking again, and she gives my arm a playful squeeze.

When we reach her porch, she pauses, tugging me to a stop. “Thank you again. For earlier. I know you didn’t have to. And for what it’s worth… I like knowing you’ve got my back. Even if you do it all scowly and growly.”

“Scowlin’ keeps idiots away,” I mutter.

“Mmhm. Well, I’ll just keep ignoring it.”

She stands on tiptoe like she’s considering pressing a kiss to my cheek, then seems to lose her nerve. Instead she pats my chest—right over where her flannel lies warm against my skin— then hurries inside, leaving me alone on the porch with my heart thudding far too hard.

The walk back to my cabin is quiet. I watch the moon rise through the branches, smell the rich mulch of fallen leaves, listen to an owl hoot somewhere off near the creek.

And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel entirely like a thing apart. Like maybe there’s someone who sees more than tusks and scars and muscle meant for hauling logs. Someone who looks at me and thinks, he deserves sweetness too.

It’s dangerous. Foolish. Probably doomed from the start.

But damned if I don’t let myself hope anyway.