Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs (Harvest Hollow #3)

1. Isolde

ISOLDE

The wagon wheels catch against uneven cobblestones, jolting my sleepy passengers awake with indignant buzzing. I wince at the sound—three days of travel has left both the bees and me frayed around the edges.

"Easy, girls." I murmur to the hives secured behind me. "We're almost there."

Harvest Hollow spreads before us like something from a childhood memory.

Golden afternoon light pools between timber-framed buildings, and hanging lanterns sway gently despite the lack of wind.

Wildflowers climb the sides of homes as if they belong there, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts drifts from somewhere deeper in the town.

I pull the wagon to a stop outside The Golden Crust, my shoulders protesting after hours of guiding the temperamental mare through forest paths. The bakery's windows glow warm against the approaching evening, and through them I catch sight of auburn curls bouncing between customers.

The bell above the door chimes as I push inside, carrying the wooden crate of lavender honey jars. The familiar sweetness of fresh bread wraps around me like an embrace.

"Izzy!" Maddie's voice cuts through the gentle murmur of customers. She appears from behind the counter, flour dusting her apron and a grin splitting her face. "You made it!"

"Barely." I set the crate down carefully. "Your directions were perfect, but my mare has opinions about cobblestones."

"She'll learn to love them. Everyone does." Maddie pulls me into a fierce hug that smells of yeast and vanilla. "I'm so glad you're here."

I squeeze back, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. "Thank you for this, Mad. I know having a displaced cousin and her entire bee colony descend on you wasn't exactly planned."

"Nonsense. You need time to rebuild, and we need your honey for the festival." She steps back, hands still on my shoulders. "Besides, Thornak's been curious about your beekeeping methods ever since I told him about your lavender infusion process."

The door behind me opens with another chime, and I turn to see a figure that makes my breath hitch.

The man filling the doorway is easily the largest person I've ever encountered—dark green skin, long black hair tied back, and tusks that should be intimidating but somehow aren't. His clothes are practical, well-worn, and he carries the scent of pine and fresh earth.

"Thornak, perfect timing." Maddie beams. "This is my cousin Isolde."

He nods once, his dark eyes assessing but not unkind. "Maddie's told me about your bees."

"Only good things, I hope."

"She says they're pickier about their flowers than she is about her ingredients." A hint of humor touches his expression. "That's saying something."

"Hey!" Maddie swats his arm playfully. "My standards are perfectly reasonable."

"You rejected six different flour suppliers last month."

"Because they were subpar!" She turns back to me, eyes bright with mischief. "Don't listen to him. He's just grumpy because I made him help me taste-test fifteen different honey combinations yesterday."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Fifteen? That's ambitious even for you."

"It was research." She waves a hand dismissively. "Speaking of which, you should explore a bit before you get too settled. Harvest Hollow is gorgeous this time of year, and the forest, the leaves..." She gestures toward where the trees press close to the town's edge. "It's something special."

Thornak's gaze shifts between Maddie and me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't look like cousins."

I laugh, the sound echoing off the bakery's warm wooden beams. "That's because we aren't. Not by blood, anyway."

"Izzy's from her father's previous marriage," Maddie explains, wiping her hands on her flour-dusted apron. "He married my aunt when we were little."

"We moved out of Harvest Hollow when I was maybe three years old." I adjust the strap of my traveling bag, memories of this place more feeling than sight. "I barely remember living here, but Aunt Clara used to tell me stories about the orchards."

Thornak nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. "Makes sense. Maddie collects strays."

"I do not collect—" Maddie starts, then stops, tilting her head. "Actually, that's fair."

"Anyway," she turns to me with renewed energy, "you should head to the orchard and make yourself and your bees at home. Grandma's old place has been waiting for someone who actually understands what those apple trees need."

"You don't understand apple trees?"

"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.