Page 2 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

GARRUK

I watch her from the shadows, where the orchard thickens and light doesn’t quite settle right. The space between trees warps in quiet ways most folks overlook—leaves that turn toward her before the wind catches them, vines that slither closer when she walks past like they remember the shape of her.

Ivy Morrell doesn’t belong here anymore.

She walks like she’s afraid to be claimed, chin high and shoulders set like armor, her sharp mouth loaded with barbs.

But the land disagrees. It’s been restless ever since the letter came announcing her father’s death—roots turning underfoot, petals blooming in the dead heat of fall, dreams that don’t let me sleep clean. This place knows its own.

And Ivy’s more of this orchard than she’ll ever admit.

I lean against the gnarled base of the old ash tree, arms crossed, muscles twitching from a morning spent hauling fence rails no one will ever see.

She doesn’t see me yet, not until she slams the car door and starts muttering under her breath like the weeds offended her personally.

She’s all dust-smeared jeans and scuffed boots and that same damn scarf knotted up in her hair like she’s trying not to look like someone who used to belong here.

But she did. Once.

She moves with the same wary grace I remember from years ago, all those hidden glances and half-spoken things hanging in the orchard air between us.

She was sixteen then—brighter, younger, still full of that big city hunger.

I turned her down and told myself it was the right thing, the only thing.

Orcs like me don’t get the girl, especially not the one who dreams in daylight and bleeds stubbornness.

But watching her now, I can’t shake the sense that I made the wrong choice. Maybe I’ve been making it every day since.

I step out from under the tree, boots silent against the carpet of fallen leaves. She startles when she sees me, scowl already in place like she was waiting to be pissed off.

“Thorne,” she says, voice flat as a shovel blade. “You haunting the gate now or just lurking for fun?”

“You’re early.” I don’t bother softening it. She never liked when I played polite.

Her eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, death doesn’t run on a tight schedule. I came to sort the will, not make new friends.”

I glance past her at the orchard. The trees lean in, just slightly, toward her. “You planning to sell it?”

She snorts, brushes a leaf off her jacket like it’s insulted her. “You think I came here to rediscover my roots? This land’s a cash pit wrapped in ghosts. I’d rather torch it than sleep here a week.”

My shoulders stiffen. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You worried the trees’ll cry?” She waves an arm at the tangled rows beyond the house. “They’re half-dead already.”

“They’re listening.”

She barks a laugh, hard and bright. “Of course they are. Maybe next they’ll start gossiping about my haircut.”

I step forward, boots crunching soft earth, and she stops short. Her sarcasm dies on her lips when she sees my face.

“The orchard bloomed last night,” I say.

She blinks. “It’s October.”

“I know. But the south row had blossoms. The old tree too—the one your father said stopped blooming after your mother passed.”

Her mouth parts, just slightly. I see the flicker of unease, even if she masks it quick with bravado. “Probably some fungal freakshow. This place is ancient.”

“It’s reacting to you.”

“Garruk.” Her tone is low now, a warning. “I’m not here for this. I don’t want weird magic. I don’t want cryptic conversations with the guy who once looked me dead in the eyes and said ‘we’re too different.’ I want a signature, a check, and a one-way ticket back to normal.”

“You won’t find normal here.”

“I don’t want here!” She snaps the words like a whip, and the wind rises, sharp and sudden. Branches creak. A dozen dry leaves spin loose and scatter around us in a swirl. The orchard reacts, and I feel it like a pulse beneath my skin. I feel her.

She sees it too, the way the grass bows toward her feet, the way the sun shifts through the clouds and strikes the exact spot where she stands. Her fingers tremble before she folds them into fists.

“You don’t get to judge me,” she says, voice raw now. “You didn’t come after me. You didn’t say a damn word when I left. And now you wanna talk about fate like it’s some kind of inheritance?”

“I stayed because your father asked me to. Because someone had to keep this place from rotting under the wrong hands.”

“You mean like mine?”

I don’t answer that. The orchard shifts again.

Somewhere deeper in the grove, a low creak echoes like something ancient just turned in its sleep.

Ivy hears it too, because her posture stiffens, her mouth drawing into a thin line.

She glances over her shoulder at the path that winds into the trees, then back at me.

“I’m staying until the festival,” she says finally. “That’s it. If the town wants to make a real offer, they can pitch in. Otherwise, it’s getting sold. Condos. Parking lots. I don’t care.”

“You’ll care,” I say.

She steps close, eyes flashing. “You don’t know what I care about.”

“I know you used to love this place.”

“That girl’s gone.”

“No.” I lower my voice. “She’s buried here, under every damn tree that still calls your name.”

Her breath catches. For a second, the fight drains out of her.

And then she’s walking away.

She doesn’t look back.

But I stand there long after she’s gone, with the wind rising in the branches and the orchard groaning low in my bones.

Because if she really means to sell this land—if she really walks away again—then everything we’ve kept sealed under root and soil is going to wake up.

And this time, I might not be enough to stop it.