10. Draven
DRAVEN
"This is stupid."
The words echo off the apple trees as I trudge up the cobblestone path, the wooden crate of jars growing heavier with each step. Not because of their weight—the dozen self-sealing containers barely register against orc strength—but because of what they represent.
An excuse. A transparent, pathetic excuse to see her again.
I shift the crate to one arm, running my free hand through my hair.
The logical part of my mind catalogues all the reasons this makes no sense.
I have actual responsibilities. Three more miles of perimeter to check before nightfall.
A report to file with Thornak about the increased predator activity near the eastern boundaries.
Instead, I'm carrying glassware through an orchard like some lovesick farmhand.
The problem started yesterday evening, after our conversation by the hives.
Her voice explaining bee hierarchies with genuine passion, the way her eyes lit up when discussing something she truly understood.
The moment when she looked at me like I was worth listening to, not just tolerated for my usefulness.
I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.
Which is ridiculous. I'm thirty-four years old, not some green boy with his first infatuation. I've lived alone for over a decade, perfectly content with solitude and purpose. I don't get distracted by soft curves in practical clothing or the way someone's laugh makes my chest tighten.
Except apparently I do now.
The orchard gives way to the clearing where her apiary sits in neat rows, the wooden boxes arranged with mathematical precision.
Each hive hums with industrious energy, thousands of tiny lives working toward collective goals.
The sound should be soothing. Instead, it reminds me of her hands gesturing as she explained their complex social structures.
Everything reminds me of her now. It's like I've been cursed.
I scan the area, expecting to find her bent over one of the hives or perhaps tending the wildflower patches she's cultivated nearby. Instead, the space stands empty except for the bees and the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the apple branches.
Disappointment hits harder than it should. I set the crate down beside the nearest hive stand, telling myself this is better. I can leave the jars with a brief note, maintain some dignity, avoid whatever spell she's cast that makes me act like an idiot.
The buzzing grows louder as I approach the hives, drawn by curiosity despite my better judgment.
Through the small entrance holes, I can glimpse the constant motion within—worker bees coming and going with purposeful determination.
The complexity she described yesterday becomes visible in their choreographed movements.
I lean closer, fascinated despite myself by the intricate dance of their society.
"Careful there."
The voice comes from directly behind me, and I jerk backward so fast I nearly stumble over my own feet. My hand instinctively moves toward the knife at my belt before my brain catches up and recognizes the speaker.
Isolde stands ten feet away, and for a moment I forget how to form words.
She wears a sundress the color of fresh cream, the fabric flowing around her curves in ways that make my mouth go dry.
An old canvas apron protects the front, its pockets bulging with small tools and what looks like seed packets.
Gardening gloves cover her hands, dirt smudged across the knuckles, and her dark curls have escaped their tie to frame her face in gentle waves.
She looks like summer itself, warm and alive and completely at ease in this space she's claimed as her own.
"You startled me." The admission emerges before I can help it, heat climbing up my neck. Orcs don't startle. Especially not orcs who've spent their adult lives tracking dangerous predators through hostile territory.
"I noticed." Her smile carries gentle amusement rather than mockery. "The bees can sense sudden movements. They don't like surprises any more than you do, apparently."
I take several deliberate steps backward from the hives, putting distance between myself and hundreds of potential stingers. Her laugh follows me, light and musical, completely lacking the mocking edge I'd expect from anyone else witnessing my retreat.
"I wasn't trying to snoop." The words come out more defensive than intended. I gesture toward the crate I abandoned near the hive stand. "Brought you something. Self-sealing jars for when you harvest the honey."
Her eyebrows lift with genuine surprise as she walks over to examine the containers. She pulls off her gardening gloves and runs her fingers on the glass edges, testing the rubber seals with the careful attention of someone who understands quality craftsmanship.
"I noticed you didn't have any out here yesterday," I continue, fighting the urge to fidget under her scrutiny. "Thought they might be useful."
"These are beautiful." She turns one jar toward the light, watching the afternoon sun filter through the clear glass. Her smile transforms her entire face, reaching her eyes and making something warm unfurl in my chest. "And incredibly thoughtful. Thank you."
I shrug, uncomfortable with her gratitude. Acts of service feel natural, expected—not worthy of special recognition. "When I didn't see you over here, I got curious about the bees. Wanted a closer look at what you described yesterday."
"I've been transplanting flowers." She gestures toward a section of disturbed earth where bright splashes of color create deliberate patterns between the apple trees.
Marigolds, lavender, and something with tiny white blooms I can't identify.
"Trying to help them increase production before harvest season. "
The gloves make sense now, along with the dirt speckling her apron. She's been working in the heat all afternoon, coaxing new growth from reluctant soil.
"The harvest festival is my big chance to prove myself to Granda.
" She sets the jar down carefully and brushes a loose curl away from her face, leaving a faint smudge of earth across her cheekbone.
"I need to show up and show out if I want him to consider a real supply agreement.
I may only be here temporarily, but I want to expand my trade routes. Increase profits while I can."
The word 'temporarily' sinks to the bottom of my gut.
I knew she planned to leave before winter—she'd been clear about that from the beginning.
But hearing her speak so casually about moving on, about treating this place as just another stop in her business expansion, creates an unexpected hollow ache beneath my ribs.
Around her, I feel different. Present in ways I haven't experienced in years of going through familiar motions. The townspeople see me as a useful fixture, reliable and predictable as the sunrise. But when Isolde looks at me, I glimpse someone more complex—someone worth knowing beyond his function.
I don't want her to leave. Don't want to lose this strange new awareness of myself as more than just the town's guardian. If her time here carries an expiration date, then every moment becomes precious. Worth prioritizing over patrol routes and duty reports.
"What if I could help you prepare for the festival?"
The words escape before I can think them through properly. They linger like smoke, impossible to take back. I watch her face for any sign of how they land—surprise, amusement, polite rejection.
Her head tilts slightly, considering. A bee lands on her shoulder and she doesn't even notice, too focused on studying my expression.
"You've probably got your hands full as it is." Her tone carries gentle deflection rather than outright dismissal.
The observation stings because it's accurate. But standing here in her makeshift garden, watching sunlight catch the gold flecks in her eyes, those responsibilities feel distant. Negotiable.
"I can make time." The certainty in my voice surprises even me. "The festival matters to the town's prosperity. If you succeed, everyone benefits. That makes helping you part of my job."
She raises an eyebrow at my rationalization, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Very practical reasoning."
"I'm a practical person."
"Are you?" The question carries layers I don't know how to unpack. Her gaze holds mine with unsettling directness, like she can see through the logical justifications to whatever truth lurks beneath them.
Heat builds in my chest under that scrutiny.
I've spent years perfecting a mask of controlled competence, but something about the way she looks at me makes those defenses feel paper-thin.
Like she's cataloguing details other people miss—the tension in my shoulders, the careful way I position myself to seem less threatening, the way my hands clench when I'm fighting internal battles.
Her eyes drop from mine, and electricity shoots through my nervous system when I think her attention might be fixing on my mouth.
The possibility sends my pulse hammering against my throat.
Does she wonder what it would feel like to kiss someone with tusks?
Most humans find them intimidating at best, repulsive at worst.
But then reality reasserts itself. She's probably just noticing how prominent they are, how they mark me as fundamentally different from her kind. The moment of imagined interest dissolves into familiar self-consciousness.
I clear my throat, stepping back to create more comfortable distance.
"The offer stands if you want it."
She looks up again, and something in her expression has shifted. Softer now, more open.
"I would appreciate the help."
"Great," I say gruffly. "Let's get to it."