Page 22 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

T he forest is caught between seasons today—still clinging to autumn’s dying gold while the breath of winter tests its edges.

Frost curls delicate along the ridges of oak leaves underfoot, catching stray shafts of sunlight so they flash like silver coins scattered in the dirt.

Above, the trees creak and whisper in the wind, dry branches rasping together in low conversations that fill the hush with secrets.

Most days, this is where I find my ease.

Out here in the quiet, where the only judgments are from crows that cock their heads and chitter before leaping into the air.

Where the world is simple—fell a tree, shape it, haul it home.

Where there’s no clever little woman with eyes bright as lantern flame who can look straight through me, see every bruise on my spirit without even trying.

But lately even the woods won’t leave me be. Every breeze feels like it’s carrying her voice. Every patch of sunlight on moss reminds me of the way her hair looks under orchard boughs—bright and wild and warm in a way that makes my chest twist.

I’ve been stubborn. Told myself keeping away was smart. That by staying here, pacing my cabin like some caged beast, I was protecting her from the slow bleed of disappointment she’d feel if she realized forever with me isn’t cider and dances and sweet pie crust.

This morning’s the same. I step outside, breath steaming, jaw tight. I tell myself I’ll go check the traps by the ridge, see if the old doe’s been by with her half-grown fawns again. Anything to keep my feet from wandering toward her orchard, toward her.

Then I see it.

Sitting right there on my top step.

A little wooden box, neat corners joined by tiny hammered pegs.

A cloth draped over it—checkered red and cream, one of the patterns she keeps at the bakery for wrapping pastries.

There’s even a small embroidered swirl at the edge, a shape I realize is meant to be a curling vine, dotted with tiny specks that could be berries. Her doing, no doubt.

I stand there longer than I should, cold nipping at my ears, breath coming shallow. Because some fool part of me’s afraid if I reach down it’ll vanish, a trick of sun on frost.

But it doesn’t.

It stays right there, warm steam curling faint from beneath the cloth. My hands feel clumsy as I pick it up, heavier than its small size should allow. I lift the lid.

The scent hits me first—sweet apples, rich cinnamon, butter so deep it makes my stomach twist with hunger I’ve been trying to ignore.

The turnovers inside are nestled close together, still warm enough to fog the wood.

The edges are crimped into tidy little ridges, dusted with coarse sugar that sparkles like tiny shards of quartz.

And tucked just beneath one fold of the cloth, barely anchored, is a slip of paper.

My hands actually shake as I reach for it. Ridiculous. I’ve held battle axes slick with blood steadier than this. But when I unfold it, her small, looping script is enough to nearly knock me flat.

I miss you. I shouldn’t, but I do. Even if you never come back.

It’s not fancy. Not overwrought. Just true.

And it hits harder than any blade I’ve ever taken. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the note to my forehead, swallowing past a thick knot in my throat that refuses to budge. The cold wind sighs through the pines, stirring the box in my hands, carrying that sweet, warm scent right up into my chest.

I sit down hard on the step, elbows on my knees. The frost soaks straight through my trousers but I barely feel it. I pick up one of the turnovers—still steaming faintly in the morning chill—and take a bite.

Stars above. It tastes like everything I’ve been starving for.

Sweet apple, rich spice, butter melting right across my tongue.

I take another bite, slower, letting it crumble into my beard because I can’t quite bring myself to care.

Each mouthful feels like it’s stitching something raw inside me back together.

By the time the box is empty, I’m no less scared. But I’m… clearer.

I set it aside with care, thumb brushing over the checkered cloth, then haul myself back to my feet. My legs feel heavy, like I’ve been carrying logs half the morning.

Inside, my cabin looks smaller than it ever has.

The hearth’s burned low, embers winking sullen red under a bed of ash.

My worktable’s cluttered with scraps—half-carved animals, bits of knotwork I lost heart on.

The contract sits right at the edge, still folded where I’ve kept it all this time like it’s worth more than it is.

My eyes land on a small block of maple, pale and smooth. I cross the room without thinking, pick up my knife, and start to carve.

It’s slow going. My hands keep pausing, the blade hovering, because I’m trying to get it just right.

A small, round pumpkin first—lines etched carefully down the sides so it looks plump, soft, a little uneven the way hers always are.

Then I add curling vines, tiny leaves that twist together until at their center they knot around a tiny heart.

Not perfect. Never was much for fine art. But it’s honest. It’s me, trying to say all the things my mouth can’t seem to get out.

When it’s done, I sit back, turning it over in my big hands. The little pumpkin warms against my palm, delicate in a way that almost makes me ache. Because this is it. The last piece of running I’ve got in me. If she’ll take this—if she’ll take me —then maybe we can stop pretending.

Maybe we can finally let it be real.

I slip it into my pocket, take a long breath that rattles on the way out. Then I step outside again, pulling the door shut behind me. The cold clamps down quick on my skin, but I hardly notice.

Because all I can see is the orchard ahead through the trees, boughs heavy with dying leaves that drift down like whispered blessings.

I start walking toward her. Every bootstep through the frost feels loud, final, like it’s hammering a promise into the earth.

Because I’ve had enough of half-measures. Enough of pretending keeping my distance is kindness.

If she’ll have me—scars, fear, big rough heart and all—I plan to stay.