Page 10 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

GARRUK

I hear it first in the hush of early evening—two voices drifting from the west porch.

The cadence of Ivy’s voice always smells like storm and cigarette smoke, and Brody’s all bass and brute confidence.

I don’t intend to listen. I’m chopping wood near the eastern grove, trying to keep my hands busy so the memory of last night’s dream doesn’t claw back to the surface.

But then Ivy says my name, and Brody answers—with enough barb in his tone that I can’t pretend they’re talking about anything else.

“You’re not staying because of him,” Brody says, voice low but sharp, “or because you’re too stubborn to leave. You’re staying because he’s here.”

I pause, my axe poised mid-swing. Blood echoes in my veins. Does she believe it?

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Ivy says, “but Garruk took care of this place before I got here. Keeps it breathing. Keeps it safe.”

Brody scoffs. “You defending a giant orc now?”

She laughs, tone dry and cutting. “Yes, Brody. I’m defending a giant orc because he’s the only one who hasn’t tried to sell me over a whittling tool set.”

I set the axe down hard, the blade sliding into the log with a thunk. Wood chips skitter across the dirt.

Then Brody says it: “She talks about him like he’s a story, Garruk—not a person.”

My breath catches. And when Ivy says, “Because he’s the only man I’ve ever met who knows how to keep secrets, and the orchard listens to him,” something unravels inside me. Because for once she’s not mocking me. Not pretending I’m a myth. She sees me.

I stalk toward the shadows of the orchard path between trees knotted thick with age and root. Twilight glow filters through leaves that seem to lean in, hearing us. The air hums faintly.

I enter the clearing softly, and Ivy spins around, startled.

“You’re here,” she says.

We stare at each other. She’s soaked in late-day gold and shadow, blouse damp with sweat from hauling something heavy. Her eyes are clear, steady.

“Why?” she asks. Short word, but weighty.

“Because you said my name,” I growl.

She lets her gaze rest on me. “I meant it.”

I want to say something precious. Something I’ll regret. But before I can, I find my mouth dry.

“Come with me,” I say instead.

A half-hour later, I lead her deeper into the orchard—past the blended scent of rot apples and moss, past trees older than memory, where soil hums underfoot.

The moon is rising, a swollen crimson disk behind the ridge, bleeding light through the branches.

It’s the kind of moon my people used to call blood-binder, dredging something old in the heart.

I bring her to a clearing around a single ancient oak whose trunk is carved in veins of faded glyphs. The lines loop and intertwine. I kneel at the base and begin tracing them with rough fingers, brushing away moss until the symbols shine pale beneath my touch.

“I don’t understand them,” Ivy whispers, stepping closer, voice catching the hush of bark and night. “I always thought they were just decoration.”

“They’re words,” I say, voice taut. “But only you can read them now.”

She crouches beside me, fingers brushing mine, tracing the glyph shaped like a tree root looping into a spiral. Her palm presses the ancient wood.

And then she’s reading, softly: “ Guardian of ancient root, bearer of blood-thread vow, bind the heart to land, keep the promise made. ”

She looks up. Eyes shining.

“That’s you,” she says quietly.

I grit my teeth. “And you.”

She closes her eyes. Moonlight flickers in her lashes. “It’s why I stayed. Even when everything in me wanted to run.”

My chest tightens. The dream returns—her slipping into roots. I nearly tell her I had that dream, but I can’t. Not yet.

Instead, I brush my fingertips over the glyphs, then trail upward until my hand settles at hers.

“We share it now,” I say. “The bond.”

She swallows. “I feel it. When I touched the tree, the orchard sighed—eased, like it recognized me at last.”

I keep my silence, letting the night grow.

The crimson moon inches higher. Breathing feels loud in the quiet woods.

She sits back, pulling her knees close. I stay next to her, grazing the rough bark with my fingers—feeling old magic thrumming beneath skin and sap.

“I’m scared,” she says.

I lift my head. “Of what?”

“Of knowing nothing again. Of trusting something I can’t explain. Of what this means for us.”

“And yet,” I say, soft, “you’re still here.”

She meets my eye. “Because you keep all the silence people expect you to carry. Because you don’t let go. Not me. Not this place.”

That nearly undoes me.

We look at each other in the moonlight. The clearing feels older now, pulsing like it remembers the promise carved into the oak’s heartwood.

I brush a stray curl from her cheek. She doesn’t pull away. She leans forward instead.

Our breaths mingle.

My heart hammers.

Then she retreats, whispering, “I’m not ready.”

I don’t let her pull farther. I cup her jaw, thumb brushing the shift in her expression.

“Neither am I,” I say.

The branches overhead rustle—the orchard’s approval or warning, I don’t know—but the air crackles between us, hot and heavy.

We stay there until the moon slips behind clouds and the glyphs at your feet glow faint in the dark. I hold her hand as we walk out of the clearing, returning to the house in silence that hums louder than any spell.

Our bond deepened. The promise sealed.

And the orchard knows we’re no longer alone.