Page 23 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

The whetstone continues its work, each stroke deliberate and precise. I did receive her letter—cream-colored paper with her careful script, folded and sealed like something official. I'd read it once before using it to start my morning fire.

"Got it." I test the blade's edge against my thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. Sharp enough. "Had work to do."

I return to the deer, positioning the knife at the base of the neck where hide meets muscle. The first cut parts cleanly, revealing the clean separation between skin and meat. Behind me, Vaelis makes a small, strangled sound—somewhere between a gag and a whimper.

I bite back a smirk. Refined sensibilities meeting forest reality.

"Many people were expecting you to attend with me." Her voice carries a subtle edge now, disappointment sharpening into something more pointed. "I hate that they were disappointed."

The hide peels away in long strips, exposing the pale muscle beneath. Clean work, efficient. No waste, no unnecessary suffering. Everything here serves its purpose.

"They'd be more disappointed if a bear wandered into their village square."

Vaelis forces out a laugh—thin and brittle as autumn leaves. The sound doesn't carry any genuine humor, just the social obligation to acknowledge what might have been a joke.

I continue working, letting the silence stretch between us. The deer's hide comes away cleanly, years of practice making the work almost meditative. Almost enough to distract from the growing discomfort crawling up my spine.

"Well, that's exactly why I came out here to invite you personally." Her voice brightens with forced cheer. "For the next lunch gathering. I thought perhaps a face-to-face invitation might be more... persuasive."

The knife stills in my hands. There it is—the assumption that's been building for months, maybe years. The expectation that time and proximity will eventually wear down my resistance, that I'll simply slide into whatever role she's imagined for me.

"Busy right now." I resume cutting, not looking at her. "Maybe I'll try to make it."

"Wonderful!" The relief in her voice makes my teeth clench. "I knew you'd come around. I'll tell Alma to prepare an extra place setting."

Her footsteps retreat up the path, lighter now, as if my non-committal response had somehow confirmed her expectations. I listen to her careful progress through the forest until the sounds fade completely.

The silence that follows should feel peaceful. Instead, it presses against my chest like a weight I can't shift. My hands continue their work automatically—sectioning meat, preparing cuts for different uses—but my mind churns with an uncomfortable restlessness.

I need to wash this feeling away. Need to find something real, something that doesn't come wrapped in expectations and assumptions. Something warm and honest and grounding.

I need to see Isolde.

CHAPTER 15

ISOLDE

"Good evening."

The gruff sound of Draven's voice draws me away from the lavender seedlings I've been coaxing into the soil beside my temporary lodgings. I shift on my knees to look up at him, dirt-stained hands still cradling the delicate roots of the plant I was positioning.

He stands at the edge of my makeshift garden, that familiar stillness radiating from his broad frame. The late afternoon sun catches the green undertones in his skin, casting shadows that make his golden-brown eyes seem deeper than usual. Blood stains darken his leather vest—fresh kills, by the look of it.

"Hi." The word comes out simple, but my mind churns with everything I overheard today. Vaelis's melodic voice floating through Alma's shop window, discussing natural matches and inevitable partnerships with the kind of certainty that makes my chest tighten.

His gaze sharpens, those predator's eyes reading something in my expression that I thought I'd hidden better.

"What's wrong?"

I turn back to the lavender, pressing my palms into the cool earth around its base. The familiar scent rises from the disturbed soil—clean and sharp, like the mountain air back home. Nothing like the suffocating weight of village expectations.

"Nothing."

But my hands shake slightly as I reach for the next seedling, and the lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I focus on the delicate work of transplanting, measuring the spacing between plants with more precision than necessary.

Draven's boots crunch against the dry grass as he steps closer. The sound makes my shoulders tense despite myself.

"I can tell you're upset about something."