Page 2 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"I understand eating apples. Growing them is much more complicated." She waves toward the door. "Go get settled. We'll see each other for dinner tonight, and I'll introduce you to everyone properly."

The afternoon light has shifted to deeper gold by the time I climb back into the wagon. My mare snorts, clearly unimpressed with the brief stop, but she moves forward willingly enough when I click my tongue.

The orchard sits at the town's edge where cobblestones give way to packed earth paths. Ancient apple trees stretch in neat rows, their branches heavy with fruit that catches the fading sunlight. I park the wagon near what must have been the old farmhouse—now just a foundation and a few standing walls, but the well still looks functional.

Perfect.

I walk the perimeter first, my practiced eye cataloguing what my bees will find here. The apple blossoms are long past, but wild clover carpets the spaces between trees. Lavender grows in untamed patches near the old garden plot, and I spot the telltale purple spikes of wild bergamot closer to the forest edge.

The bees will be happy here. More than happy—they'll thrive.

I venture toward the tree line, drawn by a flash of what might be wild asters. The forest feels different here than back home—older, wilder, like it's been watching the town grow around it rather than being tamed by it.

The flowers are exactly what I hoped—late-season blooms that will give my honey a complex, almost mysterious undertone. I kneel to examine them more closely, already planning where to position the hives for optimal foraging.

Something cracks behind me.

I freeze, still crouched among the asters. The sound came from deeper in the woods—too heavy to be a squirrel, too deliberate to be a falling branch.

When I look up, I realize I've wandered much farther than intended. The orchard is barely visible through the trees, and shadows have grown long between the trunks.

Another crack. Closer.

I stand slowly, every instinct screaming that I'm being watched. The tracks in the soft earth around me aren't deer prints—they're too large, too rounded, with claw marks that gouge deep into the soil.

The growl starts low, rumbling from somewhere behind a massive oak. Then it steps into view, and my blood turns to ice.

The creature is unlike anything I've ever seen—part wolf, part something else entirely. Its shoulders reach my chest, and its eyes gleam with an intelligence that makes my skin crawl. Saliva drips from teeth designed for tearing, and those claws that left the tracks flex against the forest floor.

It positions itself directly between me and the path back to town.

CHAPTER 2

DRAVEN

The tracks cut deep into the forest floor—four massive paws with claws that gouge trenches in the soft earth. I crouch beside the clearest print, measuring it against my palm. Twice the size of a normal wolf, with the distinctive rounded pad of a morrow wolf.

Shit.

The trail leads southeast, directly toward Harvest Hollow's outskirts. I follow the path of broken undergrowth and torn bark, my boots silent against the forest floor despite my size. Years of hunting have taught me to move like shadow through these woods.

The scent grows stronger as I track deeper—musk and wet fur, tinged with the metallic edge of a predator that's tasted blood recently. Morrow wolves don't usually venture this close to settled areas. Something's driven this one from its territory.

The tracks veer toward Thornak's acres, where the forest grows thick with old-growth timber. Perfect logging trees that he's been carefully harvesting for as long as any of us can remember. I pause, listening for the rhythmic bite of an axe or the crash of falling wood.

Silence.

Good. The last thing we need is Thornak stumbling across a morrow wolf while he's focused on tree work. Even with his size and strength, those creatures fight dirty. Even better—I won't be running into him.

I don't like being this close to town. The familiar weight of isolation sits heavier when I can almost smell the bakery's cinnamon and hear distant voices carrying through the trees. Better to find this beast quickly and retreat to my cabin before anyone notices I'm here.

The trail grows fresher with each step, the evidence of the creature's passage becoming impossible to miss. Broken twigs still weep amber sap that catches the filtered sunlight, their fresh wounds glistening like tears against the bark. The disturbed leaves haven't had time to settle into the natural patterns the forest prefers—they lie scattered and crushed, some still trembling from the beast's recent passage. The metallic scent of blood grows stronger, mixing with the rich loam and the green sweetness of moss. I'm close now, close enough that my skin prickles with the awareness that comes before a hunt reaches its conclusion.

A low growl echoes through the trees ahead, rumbling like distant thunder through the cathedral quiet of the old-growth forest. The sound vibrates in my chest, primal and threatening. It's followed immediately by something that makes my blood freeze in my veins—a sharp intake of breath. Human. Female. The sound carries fear but also control, the kind of restrained terror that speaks of intelligence rather than panic.

I abandon stealth for speed, my careful hunter's approach dissolving into urgent movement. The growling intensifies, becoming a continuous snarl of aggression that sets my teeth on edge. Through the gaps between the massive trunks of ancient oaks—trees that have stood sentinel here since before Harvest Hollow was even a dream—I catch sight of the scene that confirms my worst suspicions.

The morrow wolf stands with its back to me, easily four feet at the shoulder and built like a siege engine wrapped in midnight fur. Its hackles rise in a threatening ridge of coarse black hair, each strand bristling with barely contained violence. Saliva drips steadily from fangs designed by nature to crush bone and tear flesh, the droplets catching the dappled light as they fall to the forest floor. Every muscle in its massive frame coils with predatory intent, the creature's entire being focused on the prey before it with the single-minded hunger of an apex predator.