Page 17 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Acts of service feel natural, expected—not worthy of special recognition. "When I didn't see you over here, I got curious about the bees. Wanted a closer look at what you described yesterday."

"I've been transplanting flowers." She gestures toward a section of disturbed earth where bright splashes of color create deliberate patterns between the apple trees. Marigolds, lavender, and something with tiny white blooms I can't identify. "Trying to help them increase production before harvest season."

The gloves make sense now, along with the dirt speckling her apron. She's been working in the heat all afternoon, coaxing new growth from reluctant soil.

"The harvest festival is my big chance to prove myself to Granda." She sets the jar down carefully and brushes a loose curl away from her face, leaving a faint smudge of earth across her cheekbone. "I need to show up and show out if I want him to consider a real supply agreement. I may only be here temporarily, but I want to expand my trade routes. Increase profits while I can."

The word 'temporarily' sinks to the bottom of my gut. I knew she planned to leave before winter—she'd been clear about that from the beginning. But hearing her speak so casually about moving on, about treating this place as just another stop in her business expansion, creates an unexpected hollow ache beneath my ribs.

Around her, I feel different. Present in ways I haven't experienced in years of going through familiar motions. The townspeople see me as a useful fixture, reliable and predictable as the sunrise. But when Isolde looks at me, I glimpse someone more complex—someone worth knowing beyond his function.

I don't want her to leave. Don't want to lose this strange new awareness of myself as more than just the town's guardian. If her time here carries an expiration date, then every moment becomes precious. Worth prioritizing over patrol routes and duty reports.

"What if I could help you prepare for the festival?"

The words escape before I can think them through properly. They linger like smoke, impossible to take back. I watch her face for any sign of how they land—surprise, amusement, polite rejection.

Her head tilts slightly, considering. A bee lands on her shoulder and she doesn't even notice, too focused on studying my expression.

"You've probably got your hands full as it is." Her tone carries gentle deflection rather than outright dismissal.

The observation stings because it's accurate. But standing here in her makeshift garden, watching sunlight catch the gold flecks in her eyes, those responsibilities feel distant. Negotiable.

"I can make time." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "The festival matters to the town's prosperity. If you succeed, everyone benefits. That makes helping you part of my job."

She raises an eyebrow at my rationalization, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Very practical reasoning."

"I'm a practical person."

"Are you?" The question carries layers I don't know how to unpack. Her gaze holds mine with unsettling directness, like she can see through the logical justifications to whatever truth lurks beneath them.

Heat builds in my chest under that scrutiny. I've spent years perfecting a mask of controlled competence, but something about the way she looks at me makes those defenses feel paper-thin. Like she's cataloguing details other people miss—the tension in my shoulders, the careful way I position myself to seem less threatening, the way my hands clench when I'm fighting internal battles.

Her eyes drop from mine, and electricity shoots through my nervous system when I think her attention might be fixing on my mouth. The possibility sends my pulse hammering against my throat. Does she wonder what it would feel like to kiss someone with tusks? Most humans find them intimidating at best, repulsive at worst.

But then reality reasserts itself. She's probably just noticing how prominent they are, how they mark me as fundamentally different from her kind. The moment of imagined interest dissolves into familiar self-consciousness.

I clear my throat, stepping back to create more comfortable distance.

"The offer stands if you want it."

She looks up again, and something in her expression has shifted. Softer now, more open.

"I would appreciate the help."

"Great," I say gruffly. "Let's get to it."

CHAPTER 11

ISOLDE

We work in comfortable rhythm, moving the hive boxes to catch better morning light patterns. Draven lifts each wooden structure like it weighs nothing, following my directions about placement with the same focused attention he probably gives to tracking predators.

"A little more to the left," I call out, kneeling to check the angle. "The bees prefer southeast exposure for their morning flights."

He adjusts without question, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he settles the hive into position. For someone so imposing, he moves with surprising gentleness around the colonies.