Page 8 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

GARRUK

I wake up choking.

Not on air, not on smoke—but on earth. Packed tight behind my teeth, up my nose, between my ribs.

In the dream, it wasn’t water that took her—it was roots.

Thorned and furious, twisting up from the orchard floor and dragging Ivy down while I stood there, roaring like a fool, watching her vanish into the soil like she’d never been real.

I claw upright in the straw with sweat slicking my back and my glyphs flaring faint gold against my skin. It’s still night. Still dark outside. The barn is silent save for the wind rattling the eaves and the slow creak of old wood settling.

I sit on the cot with my elbows on my knees and try to breathe through it.

The orchard is stirring louder every day.

Ever since Ivy touched that breath-stone, its hunger has grown.

It reaches for her even in sleep. And it’s not just the land that’s watching her now.

It’s the magic in it—the old pulse, the part that doesn’t care who gets broken as long as the bond is sealed.

I can’t protect her from it—not completely. Not if I keep staying quiet.

So I do the only thing I know how to do when the weight gets too much—I carve.

By dawn, I’ve hauled a cedar branch into the worktable and lit the hearth low. I keep the barn windows cracked so the orchard wind can pass through. It carries the sharp tang of apple bark and leaf rot, but under that is something more familiar now. Her.

I pick up the whittling knife and get to work, shaving slivers from the branch in long, steady strokes.

I don’t use patterns. Don’t draw anything out.

I just let the shape come. The glyphs rise on instinct, following the shape of her name—not the one everyone else says, but the one the orchard whispered to me once, years ago, when I first took the guardian mark.

The talisman takes the form of a leaf at first, but I work in a spiral pattern through its center—a binding weave, meant for grounding, for anchoring the bearer in place.

It hums faintly as I finish the final carving, the grain warm from my touch.

I wrap a bit of leather cord through the hollow stem and knot it three times.

Quiet magic. Old magic. The kind meant to be worn close.

I don’t wrap it. Don’t put it in a box. I just slide it into the small pocket of my jacket and go find her.

She’s behind the house, crouched near the edge of the orchard where the pomegranate trees line the property like sentries. Her curls are a wild halo around her face and she’s squinting up at one of the branches, scowling like it personally offended her.

“Do I want to know what that tree said to you?” I ask, voice still thick with sleep and cedar dust.

She startles slightly but doesn’t turn. “It’s shedding its leaves in heart shapes. I’m deeply suspicious.”

“Maybe it’s flirting.”

She huffs. “I’m not in the mood to be courted by trees.”

“Shame. They’re more polite than I am.”

That gets a snort. She finally turns, brushing her hands on her jeans.

There’s dirt smudged on her cheek, and for a second, I just stare.

I should tell her. About the dream. About the orchard’s hunger.

About how much I want to tear the roots out with my bare hands if it means she gets to walk away clean.

Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the talisman.

“What’s this?” she asks, eyebrows lifting.

“A tether. For protection.”

She takes it, holds it up to the light. “You made this?”

I nod. “Cedarwood from the south grove. It holds glyphs.”

She examines it, tilting it in her palm. “Looks like something I’d find at a farmer’s market between jars of fermented honey and a guy named Rune selling moss art.”

“It’ll keep you anchored if the land tries anything again.”

Her mouth twitches. “So... this is, what? A magic mood necklace?”

“It’s a charm,” I say, gruff. “Not a toy.”

She holds it up, squinting at it. “If I wear it and start speaking in tongues, I’m blaming you.”

“You already talk like someone possessed.”

She smirks, then to my quiet surprise, she lifts the cord and slips it around her neck. It settles just beneath her collarbone, the carved wood warm from my touch and now hers.

“You’re not putting up a fight,” I murmur.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replies. “I just like the craftsmanship. Might even fool someone into thinking I’m one of those nature types with a crystal collection and a tarot side hustle.”

I want to tell her she looks right with it on.

That the glyphs glow faint where they brush her skin, and the land hums softer when she walks now.

I want to tell her I carved it because the dream shook me to my bones, and because the idea of her being consumed by something I was sworn to protect terrifies me more than dying ever did.

But all I say is, “It suits you.”

She stares for a beat too long, then brushes past me with a mumbled, “Don’t go getting sentimental, Thorne.”

And I let her go, watching her walk back toward the house with her spine stiff and her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, the charm swinging lightly with every step like it’s already part of her.

The orchard watches too.

And for once, it doesn’t whisper.