Page 20 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

I ’ve always been a solitary bastard. Comes easy when you’re built like I am, big enough to block the sun if I stand just right. Folk learn quick to keep their distance—most days, that suited me fine. Even out here, where the trees do more talking than people ever could, I never felt much lonely.

But now the silence bites.

The forest around my cabin’s dressed in its full autumn glory, leaves blazing gold and ember-red before dropping like confetti across my yard.

Squirrels skitter through the underbrush, little brown tails flicking, and birds chatter overhead.

It should feel peaceful. Instead it feels like the whole damned wood is watching me, waiting for me to stop being a stubborn fool.

I don’t. I stay inside most days, nursing the last of the fire through the mornings, carving half-finished scraps I never intend to give away.

Anything to occupy my hands so they don’t remember what it was like to hold her—soft waist under my palms, delicate fingers threaded through mine, her heart racing just as hard as mine when she’d curl against my side at night.

I tell myself I’m doing right by her. That by staying away, I’m sparing her worse down the line.

Because all those bright looks she gives me?

They’ll fade. One day she’ll wake up, realize I’m nothing but rough bark and scar tissue, and she’ll mourn the years wasted before she goes chasing something safer, shinier. Better.

I’d rather cut that wound early—while it’s still shallow enough she can stitch it up with a bit of pie dough and laughter.

But it doesn’t sit easy.

Especially not on the day of the orchard festival.

I hadn’t planned to go anywhere near it.

Even packed up my tools at dawn, marched deeper into the timberline with the excuse of hunting storm-split branches.

But by afternoon, my feet betray me, dragging me down the ridge until I’m close enough to hear the music—pipes and fiddles winding through the trees like bright little spirits.

Curiosity, that old traitor, pulls me closer.

I stop just beyond the last stand of oaks where I’ve got a clear view of the clearing.

Lanterns bob on strings overhead, casting everything in soft honey light.

Booths line the walk, dwarves hawking spice bread, elves selling filigree jewelry that glints even in the dusk.

And there she is.

Maddie’s laughing with a cluster of village women, her curls piled up in a loose knot that’s already tumbling free. She’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen—rust red with tiny gold leaves stitched at the hem—and it suits her so well my chest tightens painfully.

She turns to one of the stalls, sampling a piece of sugared nut brittle, and for just a heartbeat the bright mask slips. Her smile goes small, soft, almost sad. She glances sideways—toward the shadows where I’m hidden—and for a terrifying instant I think she sees me.

Then her friend Liora loops an arm through hers, pulling her back into the swirl of festival noise, and Maddie’s grin pops back into place. A touch too bright, if you know what to look for. And gods, do I ever.

I stand there rooted like one of the ancient trees, hands curled into fists. Part of me wants to storm right in—scoop her up, press my mouth to that little freckled nose, promise I’ll try to be enough for her if she’ll just let me.

But I don’t. Because the other part of me—older, meaner, scarred deep—says it would only make it worse when she changes her mind. When she starts to wonder why she ever tied her heart to something that looks more at home with an axe in his grip than a bouquet.

I turn back for home as the sun sets, the lanterns behind me blurring in my eyes. By the time I reach my cabin, the world’s gone dark enough that I nearly trip over the loose stone at the path’s edge. I curse under my breath, shove inside, and slam the door hard enough to rattle the latch.

The place feels cold. Not from the fire—it’s still got a good bed of coals—but from something hollow I can’t patch up with kindling.

I slump at my worktable. It’s cluttered with half-finished figures: a fox whose tail I never finished carving, a tiny owl missing half a wing. All of them abandoned, same as I’ve abandoned everything else these past weeks.

Then my eye catches on a curl of parchment shoved under a block of wood.

I pull it free, fingers clumsy. It’s the engagement contract—creased, a bit smudged from when we signed it over mugs of hot cider. Her neat little scrawl sits beside my clumsy block letters. A joke at the time, almost. Just a clever ruse to keep her orchard, my forest. Nothing more.

Except it became more. Somewhere along the way, I forgot it was a shield and started pretending it was a promise. That it meant she was mine in truth.

I clutch the paper so hard it crinkles, wishing like hell it was something more binding. More sacred. Something that could hold her to me even when she starts doubting. Even when the world gives her prettier options.

My chest goes tight, breath coming in rough pulls.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, pressing the contract to my forehead like I can force the memory of her into me deeper—her laughter, her hands in my hair, the way she says my name all soft and wondering like she can’t quite believe it’s hers to speak.

“Stars help me, Maddie,” I whisper into the quiet, voice cracking worse than I’d ever let anyone hear. “If you’re gonna stop loving me, do it quick. Don’t let me rot waiting.”

The only answer is the low pop of the fire, the night wind pressing gentle fingers against the cabin walls.

I sit there long after the coals burn low, still clutching that foolish piece of paper like it’s the only thing tethering me to her.

And maybe it is. Because right now, I can’t bring myself to walk back to her door, not when I’m still half-convinced the best way to protect her is to keep my distance.

Even if it tears me apart in the process.