Page 29 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"Oh, that." Maddie waves her hand dismissively, settling back into her chair. "I told Thornak to mind his own business. Big grump thinks he knows everything about everything just because he figured out how to be happy."

She leans forward, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually ends with someone married or thoroughly embarrassed.

"Besides, Thornak and I will make ourselves scarce. Give you two the whole evening together, completely uninterrupted."

The promise hangs between us like honey from a spoon—golden, tempting, and slightly dangerous. My fingers trace the edge of the paper, imagination already spinning pictures of candlelight and quiet conversation without the weight of town gossip pressing down on us.

"What if he doesn't come?"

"He'll come." Maddie's grin could power every lantern in Harvest Hollow. "That orc would walk through fire if you were the one who asked him."

I pick up the pencil, its weight somehow heavier than it should be. The words come slowly at first, then faster as warmth spreads through my chest.

Draven—

I hope you're safe and that the situation is resolved. Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? I promise good food and better company.

—Isolde

I hesitate over the signature, then add a small heart beside my name. Simple, honest, and terrifying in its vulnerability.

Rolling the paper into a tight scroll, I'm about to ask Maddie about delivery when a shadow passes across the window. A raven perches on the flower box outside, coal-black feathers gleaming in the morning sun. Its intelligent dark eyes seem to peer directly at us through the glass.

"Well, would you look at that." Maddie rises and opens the window, extending her hand to the bird. "Perfect timing, friend."

The raven hops onto her wrist with surprising gentleness as she secures my letter with a bit of string from her apron pocket.

"Deliver this to Draven Drenhal," she instructs, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed by both customers and wildlife.

The raven caws once—a sound that might be agreement—and launches itself from the window sill, my heart's confession tucked safely against its breast.

CHAPTER 18

DRAVEN

The wolf's tracks cut deep into the muddy earth between two ancient oaks, each pawprint the size of my fist. I crouch lower, fingertips tracing the ridged edges where claws gouged furrows in the soft ground. Fresh. Maybe two hours old, if that.

My knees protest the position—I've been moving through these woods for thirty-six hours straight, following a trail that keeps doubling back on itself like the beast knows it's being hunted. Dirt cakes under my fingernails, and my leather vest sticks to my back with dried sweat and forest grime. The taste of stale water and jerky coats my tongue, but I push the discomfort aside.

Sarah's wing was bent at an impossible angle when I found her yesterday. The memory of her small body crumpled against the cobblestones drives me forward when my muscles scream for rest.

The tracks veer north toward the deeper forest, away from Harvest Hollow's borders. Good. The farther this thing runs, the less chance it has of circling back toward populated areas. But moore wolves are cunning predators—they don't flee in straight lines unless they're leading hunters into traps.

I straighten slowly, scanning the canopy overhead for movement. Nothing but autumn leaves rustling in the wind and the distant call of a hawk. The forest feels wrong, though. Too quiet. Even the insects have gone silent.

My hand finds the hilt of my hunting knife as I step over a fallen log, following the wolf's path deeper into the undergrowth. Broken branches mark its passage—snapped twigs hanging at odd angles, bark scraped raw where it brushed against tree trunks. This isn't the careful movement of a creature trying to hide. It's the reckless flight of something wounded.

The realization stops me cold. I examine the tracks again, noting details I missed in my exhaustion. The left rear paw drags slightly, leaving a smeared impression in the mud. Dark spots stain the leaves—not much blood, but enough to confirm my suspicion.

"Wounded and desperate," I mutter to the empty forest. "Perfect."

A moore wolf with nothing to lose is twice as dangerous as a healthy one. They'll turn and fight when cornered, using their last reserves of strength to take down whatever's pursuing them. I've seen them take on entire hunting parties and leave half the hunters dead before finally falling.

But this one made a mistake when it attacked Sarah. It brought the hunt to my doorstep, and I don't stop until threats to Harvest Hollow are eliminated. Period.

The trail leads down a steep embankment toward a creek that cuts through the forest like a silver scar. Water would mask the wolf's scent and wash away blood—a smart move if it's thinking clearly. But the dragging paw print tells me pain is clouding its judgment.

I slide down the muddy slope, boots finding purchase on exposed roots and stones. The creek bubbles over smooth rocks, maybe three feet wide and shallow enough to cross without getting my gear soaked. On the far bank, crushed reeds show where something large crashed through the vegetation.