Page 26 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

T he orchard’s hushed in that near-winter way, bracing for the first proper frost. A low mist clings to the ground, curling around my boots in cool fingers as I step off the path.

The sun’s just started to claw up over the hills, but it’s still lazy, sending out weak, thin rays that cut through the branches in pale gold streaks.

I stand there for a moment, pulling in a long breath, tasting the damp and the faint tang of fallen apples going soft on the ground.

Maddie’s been out here all week, bustling between the trees with little baskets of cloves and dried oranges, stringing up lanterns that twitch and bob with their tiny spells.

It smells more like her orchard than ever—sweet, a little spiced, entirely alive.

And it makes my chest twist, hard enough I have to rub at the ache. Because in all my years living alongside these woods, carving them into everything from cottages to cradles, I never once imagined I’d be standing here with a heart full up of something this bright.

I follow the trail she’s worn through the grass till I spot her.

Maddie’s kneeling by one of the big old oaks, fussing with a bundle of cinnamon sticks and tiny pinecones tied up in twine.

Her breath puffs out little white ghosts as she mutters under her breath, lashes fanned low over her cheeks.

I stand there like a stone idiot for a solid minute just watching her.

Then she looks up. Her whole face lights, warm and startled all at once, like she’s just spotted the sun peeking over a hill.

“Thornak,” she breathes, pushing to her feet and brushing bits of bark off her skirts. “Didn’t expect you so early. I was just—well, obviously—overthinking centerpiece bundles. Again.”

I grunt, shifting from foot to foot, hands digging into my pockets. “Was hoping I might steal you a while.”

Her smile goes soft. “You never have to steal me. I’m yours outright, remember?”

That does something to my ribs—makes them tighten, then loosen all in one painful sweep. “Still... might be best if we walk a little. Away from the fuss.”

She loops her arm through mine without hesitation, leaning close enough I catch the scent of honey and cloves tangled in her hair.

We walk in silence for a bit, past rows of nearly naked trees, down to a quieter corner of the orchard where the grass grows thick underfoot.

It’s peaceful here—like the whole world’s paused to listen.

I clear my throat, which comes out more like a gravelly cough. “Been workin’ on something.”

“Oh?” Her eyes are bright, curious, hopeful in a way that nearly undoes me.

I reach into my pocket and pull it out—a pendant, small enough to curl in my palm, carved from a knot of maple I’d set aside months ago because I thought it was too pretty to burn.

It’s simple, but honest: a tiny pumpkin, vines curling delicate around it, framing a heart right at the center.

I smoothed it till it shone, ran a little leather cord through the top.

When I open my hand, her breath hitches.

“Thornak…” she whispers, lifting her fingers to hover just above it. “It’s beautiful. You made this—for me?”

“For us.” My voice cracks. Damn it. I clear my throat again, eyes darting away toward the trees, because if I look straight at her I might make a fool of myself entirely.

“Wanted somethin’ that tied back to the orchard, to what brought us together.

Somethin’ you could wear right over that big heart of yours so nobody forgets it’s mine. ”

Her eyes go shiny, mouth trembling in a way that just about tears me in two.

I close my hand around the pendant again, holding it tight like I’m afraid it’ll vanish before I finish.

“You’ll keep it, won’t you? Not just for the wedding.

For always. Even when I’m old and half-crippled from splitting wood, or so grizzled the village kids run screaming. Tell me you’ll keep it—keep me.”

She laughs, but it breaks right down the middle, tears slipping free. “Stars above, Thornak, yes. I’ll keep it. I’ll keep you. There’s not a day coming where I’ll ever want anything else.”

I let out a long, shaky breath. Then I press it into her hand, closing her fingers around it, because if I try to tie it on myself my hands might betray me by trembling outright.

She steps close, rests her forehead against my chest. I curl my arms around her, hands splaying over her back like I’m trying to hold together all the cracks in both our hearts.

“You know,” she murmurs, voice muffled by my shirt, “we’re going to have to practice our vows. I can’t stand the idea of stumbling through them and leaving you with nothing but a pile of tears and half a sentence.”

I huff. “Likely I’ll be the one to muck it up. Never was good at speaking pretty.”

“Doesn’t need to be pretty. Just true.”

So under the broad, twisting arms of that oak, with its bark all scarred and mossy, we rehearse.

It’s clumsy. Maddie starts off by bursting into nervous giggles that quickly turn into hiccups. I mutter my lines half under my breath, voice rumbling low enough it spooks a jay out of the branches. But she reaches for my hands, tangles our fingers together, and suddenly it’s easier.

“I promise,” she says, eyes wide and wet, “to keep a pie cooling on the sill for you even if it means I catch the crows stealing them twice over. To be your reckless heart when you think yours has stopped beating brave. To remind you every day that you’re worth all this fuss and more.”

My throat goes so tight I can hardly get words out. “I promise to stand by you, even when my knees give out or my temper flares worse than an autumn wildfire. To build you a home stronger than any storm. And to love you so fierce it’ll scare off anything that dares to try hurting what’s ours.”

She lets out a soft, watery laugh. “That’s perfect. Rough edges and all.”

Then she pushes up on her toes to kiss me, slow and sweet, her lips tasting faintly of apple from where she must’ve sampled the orchard just before I found her. The pendant’s caught between us, warm from her skin. It feels like it’s sealing something right into my bones.

When we finally pull back, the orchard’s gone quiet again, just the faint rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant creak of branches.

She rests her cheek against my chest with a sigh. “It’s funny. I thought love would be fireworks. Big, noisy, showy. But with you, it’s like this—steady and strong and somehow… more.”

I stroke a hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Good. Reckon I was never much for fireworks anyhow. But I’ll give you roots that run so deep no storm could ever tear ’em up.”

We stand there a long while, no hurry to move, the orchard around us brightening by slow degrees as the sun climbs higher. I start to think maybe this right here—her laugh against my chest, our promises still trembling in the air—might be what forever actually feels like.