Page 8 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

I f there’s a hell designed just for orcs who agree to hair-brained schemes with bright-eyed bakers, it probably looks a lot like the village square tonight.

Lanterns dangle from every post and tree, flickering gold and peach in the dark.

Tables creak under the weight of cider jugs and platters piled with roasted squash and glazed pork.

There’s laughter everywhere—humans, elves, dwarves, even a couple trolls from the river market—and all of them gathered under a wash of stars that seems unfairly smug about the whole affair.

And in the middle of it is Maddie, tugging at my hand like a sprite hopped up on honey wine, dragging me toward a circle of people stomping out some lively reel. The fiddles are fast, the drums faster, and the entire square feels like it’s vibrating.

“Come on,” she chirps, eyes bright, curls bouncing around her face like they’re dancing on their own. “It’s tradition! Harvest dance—everyone does it, even stoic forest hermits with tusks and scary growls.”

“Don’t know the steps,” I grunt, trying not to look like I’m digging in my heels. Which I absolutely am.

“That’s fine. Most of them are made up anyway. Just follow me.”

She flashes that grin at me, the one that kicks me square in the ribs every time, and next thing I know I’m letting her haul me into the throng.

The music picks up—wild, tumbling notes that sweep people into twirls and spins.

Maddie grabs my other hand and starts moving in time, feet skimming the worn cobbles.

I try to follow, carefully placing each step like I’m tiptoeing across thin ice.

My boots are big enough to flatten a good-sized pumpkin, and she’s so tiny next to me it’s a wonder I don’t snap her right in two by accident.

“Relax,” she laughs up at me, breathless. “I promise you’re not going to break me. Just… let go a little.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not built like a damned battering ram.”

Her answering giggle goes right to my gut. She squeezes my hands, twirls under my arm, and when she spins back around, her face is all flushed and her smile so bright it might shame the lanterns.

I barely notice my feet anymore. Too busy watching her.

There’s a moment—just a fleeting brush—where she presses close, hand braced on my chest, and the scent of her hair hits me like a slow ambush.

Apples and warm bread, something sweet clinging to her skin.

I glance up, catch a couple of young human lads on the edge of the crowd watching us, smirking to each other, eyes lingering on the way Maddie’s skirts flare around her legs.

A low, dark thrum wakes in me. I don’t much like it. Don’t much understand it either. Just know I want them to look elsewhere.

I pull her a little closer, enough that she lets out a surprised squeak, eyes darting up to meet mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us says a word, the dance continuing around us in a blur of color and light while I anchor her right there against me.

“Uh… Thornak?” she breathes, blinking like she’s trying to figure out which way is up.

“Just makin’ sure nobody tramples you,” I lie badly. My voice comes out lower than I intend, rougher.

“Very protective,” she teases, though her cheeks are pink as cider.

The song winds down, and she finally steps back, chest rising and falling quick. My hands feel strangely empty without hers.

A dwarven elder—Granda Oltar, all silver beard and sharp blue eyes—waves me over next, thumping his cane on the ground. “Ironjaw! You’re built like an ox, lad. Give an old dwarf a hand with these crates, eh?”

I grunt and follow without complaint. Oltar’s got three huge baskets of salted cabbages and pickled beets meant for tomorrow’s fair, all needing hauling to the cellar under the guild hall. I heft two at once, slinging them up onto my shoulders like they weigh nothing at all.

When I glance over, Maddie’s leaning against a nearby post, hands clasped under her chin, looking at me with this soft, starry expression that honestly scares me more than any blade ever could. Like I’ve done something noble instead of just moved a few damned crates.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter as I pass.

“Like what?” she calls after me, voice lilting.

“Like I’ve just handed you the bloody moon.”

Later, after half the square’s emptied out and the musicians have turned to slower, gentler songs, we find ourselves on a bench off to the side.

I’ve got a paper cone of roasted chestnuts in one hand, Maddie curled up right beside me, thigh warm against mine.

She keeps stealing nuts from my cone, popping them into her mouth with little sighs of delight.

“These are my absolute favorite,” she murmurs, eyelids fluttering. “Roasty, sweet, a little salty… perfect. Though honestly you could hand me a charred rock with enough cinnamon and I’d probably swoon.”

I snort. “No argument here. Seen the way you swoon over half-burnt toast.”

She gasps, smacks my arm lightly. “You hush. My taste is impeccable.”

Her head drops to my shoulder not long after, heavy and warm. I stiffen out of pure startled instinct—nobody rests on me like this, like I’m something safe instead of something to steer clear of. But her breath evens, little puffs against my neck, and slowly I let myself ease into it.

I stare out at the lanterns, the winding festival lanes littered with stray petals and bits of confetti. Couples drift by hand-in-hand, the whole night painted soft around the edges.

Maddie makes a tiny content noise in her sleep, snuggles closer.

Something tightens in my chest, low and unfamiliar. Like maybe all the walls I’ve built are less stone than I thought, and she’s out here poking holes in them just by existing.

I reach over, careful as I can, and tug her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders.

“Reckless little sunshine,” I mutter under my breath.

But I don’t move. Don’t wake her. Just sit there with her against me, pretending this isn’t the best damned night I’ve had in longer than I can remember.