Page 42 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

It's not a request. The old dwarf's deep-set eyes hold mine with the kind of authority that comes from decades of watching towns rise and fall. Behind us, the fractured crowd continues their heated discussions, voices rising and falling like competing melodies.

I follow him past the edge of the square, away from the festival chaos and toward the quieter streets that lead to the Guild Hall. My boots scrape against the cobblestones, each step carrying me further from where Isolde walked away.

"You think I'm going to reprimand you for what just happened," Granda says when we're out of earshot of the crowd.

"Aren't you?" My jaw clenches as I remember the shocked faces, the way the crowd fractured when I spoke the truth about Vaelis. "I disrupted your festival. Made a public spectacle. Failed to maintain the peace you hired me to protect."

The dwarf's beard twitches—what might be amusement on a face that rarely shows emotion.

"This is exactly what I hoped for when I offered you that cabin twelve years ago."

I stop walking. "What?"

"Someone strong enough to eventually stand apart from the town, not be consumed by it." He turns to face me fully, his heavy brows casting shadows over his eyes in the fading light. "Someone who would serve faithfully until they learned to choose for themselves."

The words seem impossible. Everything I thought I understood about my role, my purpose, shifts beneath my feet like loose shale on a mountain path.

"I don't understand." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "You brought me here to protect the town. To serve."

"I brought you here because you were a young orc with no direction, running from whatever violence shaped those scars on your arms." His tone carries no judgment, just fact. "You needed purpose. The town needed protection. But I never intended for you to lose yourself in the role."

A merchant's cart rumbles past on the main road, wheels creaking under the weight of festival supplies. The mundane sound feels surreal against the conversation that's unraveling everything I thought I knew about my place here.

"You've served faithfully," Granda continues. "Too faithfully. The town leaned too heavily on you because you allowed it. Because saying no felt like abandonment."

"It is abandonment." The protest escapes before I can stop it. "They depend on me."

"They depend on your skills, not your sacrifice." His weathered hands clasp behind his back as he studies my face. "There's a difference between serving and surrendering yourself entirely."

The festival music drifts on the evening air, cheerful and oblivious to the weight of this conversation. Children's laughter mingles with the distant sound of heated discussion from the square.

"Choosing for yourself is not abandonment," Granda says quietly. "It's balance. A man who has nothing of his own to protect cannot truly protect others."

"I'm proud of you, Draven." Granda's weathered hand briefly touches my shoulder before he steps back. "For the very first time in twelve years, you chose yourself over what others expected."

He turns toward the festival lights without another word, his measured steps carrying him back to the fractured crowd. The silver threads in his beard catch the lantern glow as he disappears around the corner, leaving me standing alone in the growing darkness.

Heavy footsteps approach from behind. I brace for another lecture, another demand to explain my public outburst or justify disrupting the town's carefully maintained order.

"Before you start," I say without turning around, "I'm not apologizing for what I said about Vaelis."

"Good." Brakkor's gruff voice carries none of the criticism I expected. "About time someone called that out."

I spin to face him and Thornak, both orcs standing with crossed arms but wearing expressions I can't quite read. Neither looks angry.

"We owe you an apology," Thornak says bluntly.

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

"We've been idiots," Brakkor continues. "Pushing you in different directions, giving you conflicting advice. Acting like we knew what was best for you when we should have been supporting whatever you decided."

Thornak nods, his massive frame shifting uncomfortably. "The only thing Vaelis was right about tonight is that we're orcs. We should be having each other's backs instead of judging each other's choices."

The festival music drifts between us, incongruously cheerful against the weight of their admission. A child's delighted shriek echoes from the square, followed by adult laughter.

"No more isolation," Brakkor adds. "We need to support each other, not tear each other down because we handle things differently."

My throat tightens, the words catching somewhere between my chest and my mouth. Twelve years of standing apart from everyone, of handling every threat and responsibility alone while they lived their comfortable lives in town, and now they're offering—what? Partnership? Brotherhood? The concepts feel foreign, almost dangerous in their simplicity.