12. Draven
DRAVEN
We settle the last hive into position as the afternoon light begins to slant golden through the apple trees. My shoulders ache from the lifting, but it's the satisfying burn of work well done. The expanded apiary spreads before us in neat rows, each box angled to catch the morning sun just right.
Isolde disappears into her small storage shed and emerges with a clay jug and two wooden cups. The sweet scent of apple cider drifts toward me as she pours, steam rising faintly in the cooling air.
"Thank you." She hands me a cup, her fingers brushing mine briefly. "I know this isn't exactly your usual patrol duty."
I take a long drink, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The cider tastes like autumn distilled—tart apples, cinnamon, something indefinably golden.
"Most people think I'm a bit odd," she continues, settling onto a wooden crate beside the nearest hive. "Talking to bees, understanding their language, caring more about their wellbeing than making the maximum profit."
Her gaze lifts to study my face, those hazel eyes taking in details most people skip over.
The scar that cuts through my left eyebrow.
The way my tusks have worn slightly at the tips from years of unconscious grinding.
The permanent squint lines around my eyes from tracking movement through dappled forest light.
"I imagine you feel the same way about the forest."
The observation catches me off guard. Not the words themselves, but the way she says them—without judgment, without that careful distance most people maintain when discussing what I do out there.
I shrug, rolling the cup between my palms.
"People don't see the beauty in things they don't take the time to really see." The words come out rougher than I intend, carrying more truth than I usually allow myself to voice. "They want the forest to be simple. Dangerous or safe. Useful or worthless."
"But it's not simple."
"No." I drain the rest of my cider, watching a worker bee navigate between the apple blossoms overhead.
"It's a hundred different ecosystems layered on top of each other.
Deer paths that change with the seasons.
Bird calls that mean rain's coming three days out.
Trees that communicate through their root systems."
The words keep coming, surprising me. I never talk about this—the intricate web of life I move through every day, the subtle signs and patterns that guide my work.
"Most people hear 'forest patrol' and picture me walking in a straight line, looking for obvious threats.
" I set the empty cup beside me. "They don't want to know about reading scat composition to track migration patterns, or how the way moss grows on bark tells you which direction the worst storms come from. "
Isolde nods, understanding flickering across her features.
The sound of crunching leaves and heavy boots cuts through our conversation.
I turn toward the treeline where Thornak emerges from the forest shadows, a leather sack of firewood slung across his broad shoulders.
His axe catches the late afternoon light as it swings from his grip, and dried leaves cling to his dark hair.
He notices us and changes course, boots thudding against the packed earth as he approaches the apiary. I watch Isolde rise smoothly from her crate, already reaching for the clay jug.
"Thornak." She pours a third cup of cider without hesitation, steam curling upward as she extends it toward him. "Perfect timing."
The easy hospitality in her gesture sends an unexpected twist through my chest. Something sharp and unwelcome that I don't care to examine too closely.
"Much appreciated." Thornak accepts the cup but his dark eyes settle on me, heavy with unspoken questions. "Shouldn't you be out on patrol, Draven?"
My hackles rise instantly. The familiar weight of expectation, of being reduced to nothing more than my function.
"I was helping Isolde with her apiary expansion."
"Hmm." Thornak takes a slow sip, his gaze moving between us with deliberate assessment. "Interesting how your patrol routes keep bringing you back here. Maddie mentioned you've been quite... thorough in your security checks lately."
The barb lands exactly where he intended. Heat blooms through my neck as Isolde steps forward, her chin lifting with unmistakable defiance.
"That's my fault entirely. I needed the help and wouldn't take no for an answer."
"Draven's an adult." Thornak's voice carries that particular brand of bluntness that cuts deeper than outright accusation. "He knows what his responsibilities are."
Isolde's hazel eyes flash with something fierce and protective that stops my breath entirely.
"There's no reason for you to be hard on him when he was just being kind.
" Her voice sharpens, each word precise as a blade.
"Draven has dedicated his life to not being seen, not being heard, all to protect this village from predators in the forest who, without his presence, would come into Harvest Hollow, hurt someone, and cause a panic. "
The words hit me hard. Not because they're harsh, but because they're true—and because she sees it. Really sees it.
"He can take a break and help me," she says, "and be heard for a few short moments. Not everyone has a Maddie Quinn to listen to them every night."
Thornak grunts, drains his cup in one long pull, and sets it on the nearest hive box with deliberate care.
"Fair enough." He shoulders his axe and turns toward town without another word, boots already crunching through the fallen leaves.
Isolde sighs and settles back onto her crate, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. The silence lingers between us, filled with the sound of Thornak's retreating footsteps and the gentle hum of bees settling into their evening routines.
Something warm and unfamiliar spreads through my chest—a sensation I can't quite name. She defended me. Stood up to Thornak without hesitation, without calculation, without concern for how it might affect her standing in town.
No one has ever done that before.
Isolde takes a slow sip from her cup, steam curling around her face as she stares out at the neat rows of hives. The bees move in lazy patterns between the boxes, their humming a low counterpoint to the rustle of apple leaves overhead.
"I'm sorry." She doesn't look at me, her voice quiet but steady. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. Thornak was just looking out for you, making sure you weren't neglecting your duties because of me."
Her fingers trace the rim of her cup, a nervous gesture that draws my attention to the small calluses on her hands from years of working with wood and wire.
"He has a point. People depend on you to keep them safe, and here I am pulling you away from that work because I'm too stubborn to accept that I might need help."
The self-recrimination in her tone grates against something deep in my chest. She defended me without hesitation, stood toe-to-toe with Thornak's bluntness, and now she's apologizing for it.
"No problem at all." I lean against the nearest hive box, careful not to disturb the entrance where a few late workers are returning with pollen-heavy legs. "Better your temper than mine."
That gets her attention. Her hazel eyes lift to meet mine, curiosity replacing the guilt that had been clouding her features.
"What do you mean?"
I drain the last of my cider, buying myself a moment to consider how much truth I want to share. The apple sweetness lingers on my tongue, mixing with the scent of lavender and honey that seems to follow her everywhere.
"Thornak's used to people accepting his authority without question. Maddie's the only one who regularly challenges him, and even then, she picks her battles." I set my empty cup beside hers on the wooden crate. "If I'd spoken up the way you just did, it would have escalated into something uglier."
The admission comes easier than expected. Maybe because she's already seen me at my most direct, already proven she won't flinch away from the rougher edges of who I am.
"Orcs don't do subtle when we're angry. We don't use careful words or measured tones." I watch a worker bee navigate the entrance to the nearest hive, her movements efficient and purposeful. "We growl, we bare teeth, we make it clear that pushing further would be a mistake."
Isolde shifts on her crate, turning to face me more fully. The late afternoon light catches the gold in her eyes, making them seem almost luminous.
"And that would have made things worse."
"Much worse." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the leather tie that holds it back at my nape. "Thornak and I have an understanding, but it's built on respect, not friendship. If I'd challenged him directly, especially in front of you, it would have become about dominance instead of duty."
"I see," she murmurs. Then she smiles brightly and says, "Then better mine than yours."