Page 2 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

T he forest always greets me the same way—like it’s been waiting, breath held, for me to return.

It exhales around me in long sighs of pine and moss, needles whispering overhead, sun shafting down through thick green boughs in patterns that shift as if the whole wood is breathing.

Here, at least, nothing expects me to smile or make polite words.

Trees stand honest in their silence. Roots reach deep, unashamed.

I can be all the rough, scarred weight of myself without worrying I’ll break something delicate.

I grip my axe tight and swing it in a long, arcing stroke. The blade bites deep into the trunk, sending a satisfying tremor up my arms. Sap beads bright against the dark bark. I work with measured care—each strike calculated, never reckless. The forest gives, but only if you take with respect.

When at last the tree groans and tips, crashing through underbrush in a flurry of startled crows, I pause. My breath mists in the cool air. I press a calloused hand to the fresh stump, muttering a quiet orcish thanks. These woods raised me better than any clan ever did.

By late morning, I’ve got a neat pile of trunks ready to haul to the mill.

But my shoulders ache for a different sort of work, something finer than brute force.

I load my pack with rough blocks of wood and head for the glade where I keep a makeshift bench—a sturdy slab of old oak propped on boulders, shielded by hanging branches.

I settle in with my carving knife, drawing slow, deliberate cuts.

The shape emerges like it’s always been there waiting: a squat little bear with stubby paws and a goofy grin.

It’s for Korga’s youngest, who’s been sniffling ever since his older brother bragged about getting a wooden fox last spring.

I smooth the bear’s round belly, imagining the kid’s eyes going wide.

In this small world of knife and woodgrain, I find a kind of peace I don’t let many see. Orcs are expected to be blunt force, not careful hands, and certainly not makers of tiny toys. But the truth is, gentleness lives in me just as fierce as any battle roar.

I’m packing up when a sharp rustle breaks the quiet. A raven flutters down, glossy feathers flashing blue-black, and drops a sealed envelope right at my feet. It hops away with an indignant croak when I grunt at it.

“Bloody fancy messengers,” I mutter, tearing the wax.

It’s from the Hollow’s new development syndicate—long-winded human script, all curlicues and sly threats.

They want more land to clear, specifically these woods.

Their letter is full of polite words that still manage to drip with menace.

Cooperation... incentives... inevitable progress.

I can practically smell the perfume they probably doused it in to cover the stink of greed.

I crumple it in my fist, jaw tightening until my tusks press hard against my bottom lip. Over my cold carcass. These woods are my blood. If they think they can flatten them for a row of glittery vacation houses, they’ve got another thing coming.

When I finally stalk out toward the orchard that borders my stretch of forest, my mood’s foul enough to curdle fresh milk.

I don’t usually bother with human land—it’s all trimmed hedges and pretty fences, nothing like the honest sprawl of untamed green.

But Hester’s orchard had always been different.

She let the wildflowers creep right up to the porch, hung wind chimes from gnarled old trees, left bowls of cider out for wandering sprites.

Except now it’s a mess. Weeds snake through neat rows of apple trees, leaves spot with rot in places, and some fence posts lean drunk against each other. I click my tongue. Humans never know when to leave good enough alone.

I’m about to turn back into my own blessed shadows when I catch a flicker of bright movement near a half-collapsed flower bed.

There she is. The human baker.

Maddie Quinn.

She’s crouched in the dirt, all curls and flowy skirts that billow like she’s part autumn breeze herself.

Her hands are gentle on the tangled vines, trying to untwist them from each other, lips pursed in concentration.

I should look away. I’ve made an art of it for weeks—watching from behind trees or across fences, telling myself it’s just curiosity.

She’s loud, always laughing, always sticky with flour, always surrounded by people who beam at her like she hung the bloody sun.

Not for the likes of me.

But my feet stay rooted, arms crossed over my chest.

A sudden flurry of wings explodes near her elbow—a pheasant, startled out of a nest it built under the overgrowth. Maddie lets out a squeal that somehow manages to sound delighted and horrified all at once, topples onto her rear, and then bursts into peals of laughter.

“Oh stars, I am so sorry little bird—I didn’t mean to ruin your whole morning,” she giggles, brushing leaves out of her hair. Her voice is warm, unselfconscious, full of life.

Something tightens in my chest.

I stand there like a damned stump, hidden by a thick stand of beeches, unable to tear my gaze away. Watching her shake out her skirts, still smiling like she hasn’t a care in the world despite the orchard’s sorry state.

She looks small in all that tangled green, but bright. Like a candle someone forgot to snuff out.

When she finally wanders back toward the farmhouse, humming under her breath, I let out sigh.

Then my eyes drift back to the orchard itself—barren patches, drooping limbs, a fence with new gaps wide enough to drive a cart through. Easy pickings for any developer sniffing around with gold in his eyes and no sense of the land’s slow, deep magic.

I clench my fists. Maddie Quinn’s troubles are none of my business. She’s a whirlwind of human fuss, and I’ve got my own problems—letters from fancy men who want to pave over my entire world.

But even as I turn back toward my forest, my thoughts snag on the way her smile glowed right through the weeds. On the way she murmured an apology to a damned pheasant, like the bird’s morning was worth more than hers.

A low growl rumbles in my throat, half annoyance, half something else.

I sling my pack over my shoulder and head for home, telling myself I won’t get tangled up in her problems. That would be foolish. Dangerous, even.

Still, my feet drag, eyes drifting back over my shoulder to the orchard—her orchard—long after she’s disappeared from sight.