Page 15 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

I didn’t plan to go to the Harvest Festival.

But I’m not one to skip town events when they involve apple pies and cider strong enough to knock the bloom off an orchard.

Against all better judgment—and under the gentle insistence of Brody, who can’t stop pretending this place frightens him—here I am, moving through the festival with my lips barely curving and my heart stretched taut between curiosity and dread.

The main square buzzes like a beehive with old women in straw hats calling out, “Best pies this side of the ridge,” while children dart between hay bale forts, faces smeared with caramel apple remnants and laughter that sounds like summer in its final gasp.

Lanterns are strung between oaks, glowing pale gold in the late afternoon sun, and the scent of cinnamon-dusted pastries mingles with the whine of nearby cider presses whirring in wooden vats.

Overhead, lanterns sway in the breeze and flicker against the ridge, casting warm pools of light over greasy-spackled picnic benches and festival games that sound like clinking bottles and laughter.

It should feel normal—or at least nostalgic.

But every time I catch a flash of a maple-leaf medallion or hear the punctuated bark of the dunking booth, I feel the land inside me twist, as though even the festival stands are rooted too deep to be tame.

The orchard hums in response, silent and watchful.

Brody is nowhere to be seen, presumably off sampling every cider stand in a radius wide enough to drown regrets.

I’m left hovering near a booth labeled “Embervale Fortune Cookies”—hand-shaped dough stuffed with apple blossom petals and riddles about forthcoming storms and stolen kisses—where the mayor’s wife is insisting they’re "totally wholesome.

" I collect one anyway, mostly because I want something to do with my hands.

“They’re telling your fortune,” the woman croons. I give her a flat look until she rolls her eyes and pulls out a slip of paper.

Your roots will bind more than trees.

She beams, then gestures at an older man behind me inspecting jars of jam. He nods quietly, handing her a jar of spiced quince preserve. Cherry-tinted cheeks, eyes soft and curious.

“Your father would’ve loved that booth,” she says.

“Probably ate the whole display,” I say dryly. The words slip out before I can stop them, but she only smiles and pats my shoulder.

Then whispers start—sharp, sly. “That orc, Garruk, was spotted with Miss Ivy in the orchard dawn this morning.” “Someone saw him carving the Harvest banner last night.” “You think she’s going to stay?”

The gossip hum is low, a current flowing through the festival. I try to ignore it, sipping cider that’s too sweet and grains sharp across the tongue, but every voice feels pressed close, curious, judging—not just who I am, but what I’m doing here, in this town, with that orc.

“Apple bobbing contest at three,” someone calls nearby, and two girls run through the square shrieking with gummy worms wound around their wrists.

The oak-scented wind swirls, scattering leaves and carrying the undertones of cider and autumn.

The town’s warmth feels thin, as if sewn onto me, but just out of reach.

Then comes laughter low and brassy, high pitched and slurred. Brody crashes into view, cheeks flushed deep rose, shirt stained with something sticky.

“Ivy!” He waves a plastic goblet filled with something dark. Cider? Meade? Something strong enough to ease his cynicism into sloppy sincerity. “You look like hell. You deserve better than vines wrapped around your ankles.”

I arched a brow. “Deserve?”

He tips whatever’s in the goblet toward me. “You deserve to be loved, Ivy. Not preserved. Not held behind glass. Not tied to anything greener than you are.”

My throat squeezes. I wasn’t expecting that. And yet—God—why does the wind through the oaks feel like it knows exactly what he means?

Before I can answer, the music surges—fiddle and drum, a fiddle screeching sweet and long.

The mayor steps into a clearing beside a sea of pumpkins, taps the mic, calls for a dance-off.

The crowd surges. People form a ring. I back toward the edge of the square, wine-stained hands twisting the paper fortune in miniature.

Brody leans closer. “I can’t stop thinking you and him?—”

But he stops. Something in his posture shifts like he realized he’s said too much in front of the orchard, like the land itself might snap back if we speak what we feel.

“Brody,” I say quietly. Voice steadier than I feel. “Shut up.”

He nods, slow, face soft as regret. Then spares me a small, sad smile before stumbling with someone else into the dance circle, joining the rhythm reluctantly.

I slip away amid the crowd, weaving past cider stands and jam vendors, pie judges and honey-tasters, toward the orchard. Leaves drift off the ridge, swirling down through the festival glow and pulling me like gravity untethered.

The orchard is quiet when I enter, the canopy above closing around me, petals drifting like light snowfall across the ground.

I press my hand to the bark of the old oak and the world stills.

The festival hum fades to ground hum, the wind sighs low through leaves, and the scent of bloom is dizzying.

So wrong for the season. So beautiful it hurts.

I drop to my knees in the soft grass, clutching my cider-smeared slip of paper. I let myself cry, silent tears that trail down my cheeks, salty and slow. The orchard answers with a gust of wind that rustles branches overhead as though it’s offering symbols for a heretic prayer.

I whisper the words Brody said—words I’ve said back to them more times in my head than I care to admit—but this time they’re strangled with sorrow: I deserve to be loved.

And maybe that scares me, because vale and ridge and root and bloom feel like they’re depending on that truth.

The orchard tilts toward me, branches brushing my hair, petals drifting around my shoulders.

It’s like being enclosed in a delicate fortress made of leaf and bloom and ancient pull.

I close my eyes and feel the forest inhale me.

Hours pass or minutes—I can't measure time here.

Then a breath at the boundary of perception. Soft. Steady. Familiar.

“You okay?” He kneels beside me, shirt damp with dust, boots resting on petals, face drawn.

I don’t answer. I just bury my face in the ankles of his work jeans, cling to them like they’re ground I know I can trust.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulls me close, presses his cheek to my hair like he can breathe me back together. I feel the tremor in his chest through denim, feel the orchard hum settle around us.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice gentle. Regret-laced. “I said things I didn’t mean. But you deserve love, Ivy. Real. Wild. Not just rooted.”

I lift my head, look at him. His eyes dark as bark and deep as night, full of something I can’t name yet but don’t want to let go of.

I whisper, “I don’t trust it yet.”

He nods. “I know.”

We stay there a while in the hush of wind and falling petals, bodies pressed close, letting the orchard cradle us in silence that finally feels safe.

Because maybe it’s not about roots anymore. Maybe it’s about choosing growth amid bloom and fear and all the wild things bound in between.

And in that moment, beneath petals raining slow, I believe that might just be enough.