Page 27 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

Brakkor shifts his weight, considering. "Honestly? Don't know for certain. But in the two years I've been here, I've seen Liora work magic on injuries that should've been permanent. Remember when Garron nearly took his thumb off with that crosscut saw? Or when Mrs. Penwhistle broke her wrist falling off her ladder?"

"That's different. Those were simple breaks, cuts⁠—"

"Pixie anatomy isn't that different from ours, just smaller." Brakkor's tone carries more confidence than his expression. "Liora's got a touch for healing that goes beyond normal herb work. Sarah will fly again."

The wolf tracks lead east, toward the deeper forest where the trees grow thick enough to block moonlight. Smart beast—it knows to avoid the well-traveled paths, stick to shadows. The stride pattern shows confidence, not fear. This isn't some desperate animal driven by hunger. This is a predator testing boundaries.

Testing me.

I stand, brushing dirt from my knees. "The tracks are fresh. Maybe fifteen minutes old."

"You're going after it now? In the dark?"

"Moore wolves don't rest after a failed hunt. They circle back, look for easier prey." I check my knife, ensure the blade sits loose in its sheath. "If I don't end this tonight, it'll be back tomorrow. Maybe next time it won't just clip a wing."

The sound of hurried footsteps echoes off the cobblestones before I see them—Calla's measured stride paired with Liora's lighter step. They round the corner of the road, Liora clutching her leather satchel against her chest while Calla maintains her usual composed urgency.

"I brought her as fast as I could," Calla announces, slightly breathless as she guides Liora toward Sarah's crumpled form.

Liora drops to her knees beside the injured pixie without hesitation, her experienced hands already reaching for the clasps on her satchel. The scent of dried herbs and medicinal oils wafts up as she opens it, revealing neat rows of glass vials and small cloth pouches.

"I didn't want to make it worse by moving her," Timmy blurts out, his voice cracking with guilt. The boy's freckled face twists with self-recrimination. "I thought maybe I should carry her to the apothecary, but what if I hurt her wing more? What if⁠—"

"Timmy." Liora's voice carries gentle authority as she pulls out a small bottle of clear liquid and a roll of gossamer bandaging. "You made exactly the right call. Moving a wing injury without proper support could have torn the membrane completely."

Sarah's glow flickers weakly as Liora begins her examination, those nimble fingers probing the damaged wing with careful precision. The pixie winces but doesn't cry out, her usual bright chatter reduced to shallow breathing.

"The tear isn't as bad as it looks," Liora murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. "Three puncture wounds, but they missed the main wing veins. Sarah, I need you to hold very still while I clean these."

Brakkor shifts his weight beside me, watching Liora work with the same intensity he brings to tracking suspects. Calla stands side him, arms wrapped around one of his, her sharp eyes taking in every detail—the blood pattern, the claw marks on the stone well, the fear still etched across Timmy's features.

The shame burning in my chest flares hotter. While I was lost in Isolde's touch, savoring the taste of her skin and the soft sounds she made beneath me, Sarah was bleeding. Fighting for her life against a predator that should never have gotten this close to town.

I move away from the group, focusing on the wolf tracks that lead into the darkness beyond the eastern treeline. The prints are clear in the soft earth—broad paws, deep impressions that speak of size and confidence. This beast isn't running scared. It's calculating its next move.

Without a word, I step into the forest's embrace, letting the familiar weight of hunt-focus settle over my shoulders like an old cloak. Behind me, I hear Liora's soothing voice explaining her treatment to Sarah, but the words fade as I follow the scent trail deeper into shadow.

CHAPTER 17

ISOLDE

The Harvest Hollow Whistle crinkles between my fingers as I read the headline for the third time, each word stoking the fire building in my chest.

PIXIE ATTACKED: WHERE WAS OUR PROTECTOR?

The article sprawls across the front page in Jamie's typically dramatic style, complete with an illustration of Sarah's crumpled wing and Timmy's wide-eyed face. But it's the subheading that makes my jaw clench: Questions arise about patrol effectiveness as moore wolf breaches town perimeter.

"Young Timmy Brightwater displayed remarkable courage yesterday evening when a moore wolf attacked messenger pixie Sarah near the old well," I read aloud to my empty hive boxes, my voice dripping with disgust. "The young man's quick thinking and brave actions likely saved Sarah's life when our designated forest protector was nowhere to be found during the crucial moments of the attack."

The paper trembles in my grip. Nowhere to be found. As if Draven spends his days lounging in taverns instead of stalking through dangerous territory to keep these ungrateful people safe.

The article continues with quotes from "concerned residents" wondering how such a dangerous predator managed to penetrate so deep into town territory. Mrs. Penwhistle's voice practically leaps off the page: "In all my years in Harvest Hollow, we've never had a moore wolf get past the tree line. Makes you wonder what's happened."

Heat floods my cheeks as guilt and fury war in my chest. What he's been doing with his time. With me. Teaching me to read forest signs, carrying supplies to my apiary, letting me distract him from his duties with questions about bee colonies and conversations about choosing what he wants for himself.

My fingers find the spots on my neck where his mouth had been just hours ago, the skin still tender from his attention. While I was pulling him down into the lavender, begging for his touch, Sarah was bleeding on cobblestones.

But the blame in this article—the casual dismissal of everything Draven does—makes me want to march straight to the Whistle offices and give everyone a piece of my mind. These people have no idea what he faces in those woods. The bears, the dire wolves, the mountain cats that could tear through their cozy village like paper if not for one orc standing guard.