Page 27 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

T here’s a particular type of chaos that only exists when you put a dozen children in one room and give them magical responsibility.

It’s not the loud kind, though there is plenty of that—sticky fingers slapping glyph-stamped leaves, giggles that spiral into squeals when someone accidentally animates their own lunch—but the under-the-skin kind.

The kind that hums like static just before a spell goes sideways.

Which is why, naturally, I volunteered for this.

“You’re brave,” Lettie had said when I pitched the idea. “Or stupid. Possibly both. But I like your odds.”

Now, standing in front of a loosely assembled circle of wild-eyed five-to-nine-year-olds, each of them clutching their own carefully scribed leaf ward, I’m starting to wonder if she wasn’t right.

“All right, gremlins,” I say, drawing a chalk rune in the air with two fingers. It glows faintly, settling over the classroom like a polite dome of structure I pray will hold for at least ten more minutes. “Who remembers what we don’t enchant without supervision?”

“Goats!” little Petra shouts, eyes enormous beneath her too-big hat.

“Exactly. And why?”

“Because Brody’s still mad about the floating incident!”

“Correct again. Bonus points for emotional insight.”

They laugh. I smile. It’s not the sarcastic twist of my mouth I usually default to, but a real, open thing I’m still learning how to wear.

The classes started as a side project, a one-weekend-a-month kind of thing to keep the orchard’s magic from slipping back into slumber. But the kids took to it like roots to spring water, and now here I am—three mornings a week, a little under-caffeinated, a little overambitious, and weirdly happy.

Mostly.

That’s when I hear the door creak open and feel the temperature in the room drop three degrees—not literally, but spiritually, like the air just remembered it had something to be nervous about.

Garruk steps inside.

And immediately half the toddlers freeze like startled deer. The other half? They scream.

To be fair, it’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. He’s wearing his softest shirt (still dark and intimidating), his hands are empty (but massive), and his expression is... well, “neutral” for Garruk looks a lot like “furious” to the uninitiated.

“...Ivy,” he mutters, stopping mid-step as three small children scramble behind a bookshelf like they’re avoiding a forest monster. “This was a mistake.”

I bite back a laugh. “No, no, you’re doing great. They’ve only completely panicked.”

“I told you I don’t do kids.”

“You said you don’t like kids. Not that they’d flee at the sight of you.”

“They’re loud. And sticky. And fragile.”

“Kind of like you,” I quip.

He shoots me a flat look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. Barely.

“All right, everyone,” I say, raising my voice over the whispers and shuffling. “This is Garruk. He’s our guest today, and he’s here to show us how to safely strengthen soil bonds with spell layering. Who remembers what layering is?”

Petra, fearless as ever, raises her hand. “It’s when you stack glyphs like pancakes but you don’t burn the orchard down.”

“That’s... a poetic interpretation. I’ll allow it.”

Garruk crouches—slow, controlled, the way he moves when he’s around horses or fire—until he’s almost at eye level with the front row. One brave boy steps forward, jaw clenched in the way little ones try to mimic adults.

“You’re the scary man from the ridge,” he says.

“Yeah,” Garruk replies, deadpan. “But only when people lie to Ivy.”

The kid nods solemnly. “Cool.”

And just like that, the spell breaks.

Garruk talks in short, gruff bursts, demonstrating how to press a ward into soil without cracking the outer membrane, explaining how blood magic leaves a trace even when diluted, how root-glyphs can warn plants of drought before it hits.

The kids eat it up. I watch him from the back, arms crossed, heart doing that annoyingly soft thing where it decides gruff and gentle aren’t mutually exclusive.

By the end, two of the kids are trying to mimic his scowl in the window reflection. Another has climbed onto his boot like it’s a hill.

He glances up at me, eyes faintly panicked. “What do I do?”

“You let it happen.”

“But it’s on me.”

“That’s a compliment,” I say, grinning. “They like you.”

“I hate this.”

“You’re glowing.”

“Ivy.”

“Fine. You’re smoldering ominously. Better?”

He huffs.

Later, once the classroom’s cleared and Petra’s finally stopped hiding in the seed cabinet, I find him outside by the garden beds, rolling his shoulders like he’s survived a battle.

“You were great,” I say, bumping his arm with mine.

“I terrified half the town’s youth.”

“Only briefly. You’re a walking lesson in respect through fear.”

He grunts. “This is your fault.”

“It usually is.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. And you’ll thank me someday. Maybe even smile.”

“I’m smiling now.”

“That’s a grimace.”

“That’s optimism.”

I shake my head, laughter bubbling in my chest. “You should come back next week.”

“To what? Re-traumatize everyone under age ten?”

“They loved you. Petra tried to braid your hair.”

“She had scissors .”

“She was going to trim .”

“I have scars, Ivy. I’ve fought wraiths, banshees, and arc-wolves. But nothing prepared me for that child with craft supplies.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

I lean into him, resting my head against his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Just rests his chin on top of mine, big hands cradling his mug like he’s still figuring out what peace feels like.

“You really were good,” I whisper.

He exhales. “They deserve someone better.”

“No,” I say. “They deserve someone real. And that’s you.”

He doesn’t respond, but I feel the way his breath slows. The way his shoulders settle, just a little. The way his thumb brushes along my hand like it’s a thank-you he can’t say out loud.

We stay there until the sun dips low, and the classroom windows reflect nothing but light.