Page 13 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

I wake tangled in warmth that doesn’t belong to me, the sheets tangled like vines around my legs, and the sunlight too bold as it fingers through the slats in the curtain, lighting everything it touches with an unfair sort of honesty.

My body feels both heavy and aching in that afterglow sort of way, every nerve ending tingling like I’ve been stitched back together differently—moved around slightly so that nothing is quite where it used to be.

Garruk is already gone from the bed, but his presence lingers like smoke in the rafters, like the scent of pine crushed under boot, like the weight of someone who doesn’t leave until you say the word.

And I haven’t said anything. Not yet.

The flannel he left behind—his shirt, the one I’d laughed at for being more holes than fabric two nights ago—is slung over the end of the bed, so I pull it on out of reflex, burying myself in the scent of woodsmoke and the sharp clean smell of him that seems to cut through even the stale air of my childhood bedroom.

The house feels like it’s holding its breath.

Downstairs, the boards groan underfoot as if remembering the weight of arguments long settled in silence. I don’t make tea. I don’t make anything. I just open the back door and step out into a world that feels too green for October.

The orchard has exploded.

It’s not just a few wayward buds testing the season.

It’s full, violent bloom—white and blush and deep magenta petals swarming the air, blanketing the ground, clinging to the bark and eaves and fence posts like frost that forgot how to melt.

The air is thick with the perfume of sap and soil, so rich and heavy it makes my stomach twist, and the ground buzzes under my bare feet like it’s exhaling with every step I take.

Something has shifted. That’s clear enough.

And I can’t tell if it’s because of what happened between Garruk and me—or because the land decided it’s finally time to say what it’s been holding back all these years.

Either way, I feel it in my skin, under my ribs, in the way the orchard tilts its silence toward me like a head cocked in recognition.

I want to ask it what it wants. I want to demand that it stop treating me like I’m part of it now.

Instead, I stand there for a long while with one hand curled tight around the porch railing and the other pressed flat against my belly like that’ll steady the wildfire churning beneath my skin.

Eventually, I walk.

Not toward the barn. Not toward Garruk, though I know exactly where he is—probably pretending not to glance at the house, carving something just to keep his hands busy while the orchard flirts with hysteria.

I go into town.

The meeting hall hasn’t changed. Still smells like mildew and old pine polish, still echoes with every footstep no matter how quiet you try to be. The elders sit around the long table in their matching expressions of guarded curiosity, like I’m a riddle they forgot how to solve.

Elva Dunn is already fanning herself with a folder, despite the chill that’s settled in the building. Mayor Riggs offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. And the Valens twins, dressed in their usual matching gray coats, blink in unison but say nothing.

“Ivy,” Elva says. “We were just about to send for you.”

I step inside, not bothering to sit. “You knew the orchard would react.”

Riggs clears his throat. “We suspected.”

“Suspected,” I repeat, biting the word.

“You’ve formed a bond,” Elva says, folding her hands in her lap. “With the land. And with him.”

“I didn’t—” I begin, but falter. “It wasn’t planned.”

“Of course not,” Riggs murmurs. “The land doesn’t ask for permission.”

The Valens twins nod like old clocks ticking in agreement.

I cross my arms. “Then explain why it feels like it’s bleeding magic every time I breathe.”

Elva leans forward. “Because it is. The orchard has been dormant for years. What happened between you and Garruk woke something that’s been sleeping since before your mother left. You’ve rooted yourself. You’ve accepted the land’s claim.”

“I didn’t accept anything.”

“The land disagrees.”

Riggs reaches into a small satchel at his side and pulls out a stone—rough and dark, veined with silver, pulsing faintly under the light.

“This was found at the foot of the eastern tree line,” he says. “It only appears when the bond begins to settle. Breathroot crystal. A sign of permanence.”

My stomach flips. I take a step back. “You’re saying this is my fault?”

“We’re saying,” Elva says gently, “that you’ve always been meant for this place. The bond just reminded the orchard.”

I want to scream. I want to claw the petals from the trees and demand the land let me go. I want to stop feeling like my breath doesn’t belong entirely to me anymore.

But all I say is, “And if I walk away?”

Silence.

Elva’s face softens. “Then the orchard will mourn. And mourning land is dangerous.”

I walk out before they can say anything else.

Garruk is waiting on the porch when I return, arms crossed, brow furrowed, jaw set like stone. The orchard lights him up like a story I haven’t finished reading—too big, too strange, too familiar.

“You went to them,” he says.

“They said it’s real,” I reply, voice hollow. “The bond.”

He nods once. “I know.”

“You’re calm.”

“I’m not,” he says. “But I’m steady.”

I sit down beside him, pulling my knees to my chest. “I won’t be controlled.”

“You’re not. The orchard doesn’t command. It remembers.”

“What if I don’t want to be remembered?”

He turns to me, voice low and certain. “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

And for once, I don’t have a comeback.