Chapter 25 Olivia
OLIVIA
Ayear passes, and Walnut Falls still doesn’t make sense. But it’s ours.
If you’d told me twelve months ago that my little town would be hosting an annual “Cryptid Carnival,” I’d have laughed in your face and then poured whiskey in my coffee to dull the absurdity.
And yet, here we are—Main Street strung with fairy lights, food trucks lined up in the square, and half the town walking around dressed like Kursk.
I lean against the library’s brick wall, arms crossed, watching a trio of teenagers stomp past wearing green body paint, tusks made out of papier-maché, and flannel shirts two sizes too big. One of them bellows, “I AM THE ORC OF THE VEIL!” in a voice crack that makes me snort into my cup of cider.
Kursk stands beside me, deadpan. “That is not what I sound like.”
“Oh, it’s exactly what you sound like,” I tease, bumping his shoulder with mine.
He grumbles, tusks catching the glow of lanterns, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Worse still are the Vorfaluka costumes. Some college kids from Albany have draped themselves in black sheets with glow sticks taped to their faces, shrieking in high-pitched falsetto as they chase kids around the carnival games.
One little girl screams, delighted, then pelts them with a candied apple.
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “This is what we survived for?”
Kursk shrugs. “Better than pretending it never happened.”
He’s right. As much as I want to groan at every fake tusk and glittered-up cloak, it’s easier than silence. Laughter beats fear.
Peggy Sue wanders over, cheeks flushed, hand-in-hand with someone I don’t recognize. A tall man in simple linen robes, long hair braided with beads, and an aura of calm that makes the chaos around him look like background noise.
“This is Rowan,” she says, practically glowing. “He’s… a druid.”
“From where?” I ask, sipping my cider.
“Out of town,” Rowan answers smoothly, voice like moss and riverwater. He nods to Kursk. “I’ve heard much of you.”
Kursk narrows his eyes but nods back. Later, when they walk away, he mutters, “If he turns out to be a shapeshifter, I’m gutting him.”
“Romantic,” I say, laughing into my sleeve.
Meanwhile, Burnout has reinvented himself yet again.
He rented the old gym on Oak Street and painted the walls black with silver runes.
The sign outside reads Slayer Yoga: Breathe Loud, Stretch Hard.
I peeked in last week—mats laid out, incense burning, and Burnout leading a class of middle-aged women through downward dog while blasting “Raining Blood.” It shouldn’t work, but the room was packed.
Booger, predictably, is still a menace. Last month he got himself arrested for impersonating a county official—he’d stolen a reflective vest and started directing traffic outside the carnival like he owned the place. The deputy was not amused.
“Do you know who I am?” Booger had shouted as they cuffed him.
“Not a county official,” the deputy deadpanned.
Kursk had to march into the station with me trailing behind. He loomed over the sheriff, staff in hand, and growled, “This fool is under my protection.”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Your what?”
“Orcic character witness,” Kursk declared, dead serious.
Somehow, unbelievably, it worked. Booger walked out free, grinning like a fool. He hasn’t stopped bragging about having an “orc lawyer” ever since.
Now, standing here at the carnival with Kursk’s hand brushing mine, I breathe in the scents of fried dough, kettle corn, and woodsmoke. The sounds of laughter, bad heavy metal covers, and children screaming in joy rise into the night. Lanterns sway overhead.
It’s ridiculous. It’s messy. It’s Walnut Falls.
The hawk comes at twilight.
I’m shelving returns when I hear it—wings like leather drums beating against the air. The sound rattles the panes of the library windows. I step outside into the cooling dusk and there it is, circling low over the roof, its feathers glowing faint silver in the fading light.
Not a real hawk. A spirit one. I know because the air around it crackles, and its eyes burn with embers instead of pupils. It screeches once, sharp enough to make my teeth ache, then dives.
I don’t flinch when it lands on the railing, talons burning faintly without scorching the wood. In its beak, an envelope sealed in wax stamped with the sigil I’ve only seen in visions: the wolf and spear of Chief Rand.
“Message for you?” I ask softly.
The hawk tilts its head, drops the letter into my hand, then dissolves into smoke that smells faintly of cedar and snow.
Inside the cabin, Kursk is oiling the carved staff he’s taken to carrying everywhere, even when we walk into town. He looks up as I enter, sees the letter, and stills. His whole body stiffens.
I hand it to him. “From Rand.”
His tusks click against each other as he breaks the seal. Inside isn’t just a letter, but something heavier that clinks against the table when he empties it.
An amulet.
It’s crude compared to human jewelry—thick iron chain, a pendant hammered into shape like a jagged tooth, runes etched deep into its surface. It hums faintly, and the hair on my arms rises just being near it.
Kursk’s hands shake as he lifts it. His breath goes ragged, not like when he’s angry, but like something inside him is breaking open.
“What is it?” I ask.
His voice cracks. “A bridge. It lets me speak… to them.”
And then, Kursk weeps.
Not silent tears, not hidden ones, but full, unashamed sobs that tear through him like they’ve been waiting years to escape. His shoulders shake; his tusks glint wet. He clutches the amulet to his chest, curling forward as though it might vanish.
I don’t speak. I just wrap myself around him, my cheek pressed to his back, arms locked tight around his middle.
I feel the tremors in him, the weight of everything he’s carried finally breaking.
I whisper nonsense—“I’m here, I’ve got you, it’s alright”—but I know he’s not really hearing me.
He’s hearing them. His ancestors. His blood.
When he finally lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed, the letter is still on the table. I pick it up.
Rand’s handwriting is blocky, deliberate.
Kursk Longstrider. You are not forgotten. You have fought with honor beyond our reach. This amulet carries the voices of those who came before, so you will never walk alone in the World Beyond. Carry them with you. Carry us.
Kursk presses the words into memory, lips trembling, and then he kisses me—desperate, grateful, raw.
That night, the northern lights roll across the sky, ribbons of green and purple twisting like the Veil but not cruel, not dark. Beautiful. Alive.
We spread blankets on the clearing outside the cabin, the ground cold but the air crackling with magic. Kursk wears the amulet; it glows faint against his chest, reflecting in his tears and his tusks.
When he touches me, it isn’t hurried. It isn’t frantic. It’s reverent, like each kiss is a vow, each brush of skin a prayer. My fingers trace the runes carved into his arms, the scars that make up his history. His hands hold me like I am not breakable, but sacred.
We move slow, unhurried, as though we have all the time in the world. Above us, the lights shimmer, spilling across his skin in waves of color. I swear I hear faint voices carried on the wind—his ancestors, blessing, witnessing.
“I promise,” he whispers against my lips. “I promise.”
I don’t need to ask what. I promise too, in every breath, every kiss, every press of my body against his.
When it’s over, we lie tangled in the blankets, skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads, our chests rising in sync. The amulet rests between us, warm and steady, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
I rest my hand over it. “They’ll never take you from me,” I whisper.
He smiles, weary, eyes shining with both sorrow and joy. “Not while you hold me.”
The sky above burns with color, shadows long gone from the treeline.
The lights fade from the sky by dawn, leaving only a wash of pale blue and the ache of my body pressed against his. I should be exhausted, but there’s something inside me humming still—like the magic never left, only changed shape.
Kursk lies on his back, arm thrown over his face, the amulet glinting faintly against his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing is steady, but I know when he’s not really sleeping.
“You’re thinking too loud,” I murmur, propping myself up on one elbow.
His tusks part in something that’s almost a smile. He lowers his arm, turns his head to me. There’s a softness there, the kind he only shows when the world’s too quiet for masks.
“Olivia,” he says, voice low, almost hoarse. “Would you… take a warrior’s vow?”
My heart skips. Not marriage, not something human and neat. Something older. Wilder. My throat goes dry.
I swallow. “Only if it involves cake.”
He blinks at me. “Cake?”
“Yes, cake,” I say firmly, fighting a grin. “If I’m going to bind myself to a grumpy orc with a penchant for breaking axes and burning firewood, there better be frosting involved.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, solemn as a priest, he rumbles, “I will build the cake from stone if that is what you require.”
I laugh so hard I have to bury my face in his shoulder. He holds me while I shake, his chest rumbling with something between amusement and sincerity.
When I lift my head again, my cheeks are damp, but my heart is light. “Alright then. Warrior’s vow. Cake optional.”
He nods, eyes shining. “Then it is done. No priests. No banners. No grand stage. Just us.”
“Just us,” I echo, and something inside me clicks into place. No fanfare. No fairytale. Just a pact between souls, sealed in sweatpants and morning breath, under a roof that creaks when it rains.
But something sparks between us again.
Maybe it’s the way his thumb strokes my side.
Maybe it’s the way our legs are tangled together beneath the blanket, or the way the firelight paints gold across his green skin.
Maybe it’s just the unspoken truth that there’s never enough time, and we want to spend what little we have tangled together.
“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re fake-sleeping,” I reply, letting my fingers drag down his chest.
He growls softly. “And you’re irresistible when you talk about stone cakes.”
His cock twitches against my thigh—hardening again, already thickening. I gasp, and his smile turns wicked.
“Need something?” he asks.
I climb on top of him, straddling his hips. “I want you.”
He grabs my hips. “Then take me.”
I reach between us and guide his cock to my pussy—wet, aching, eager for him again.
The first inch stretches me all over again. I hiss, and he grunts, holding still.
“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.
“Better than okay,” I whisper, sinking down further. “You’re so fucking big—so full.”
He groans. “You’re perfect. Tight. Hot. Gods, Olivia…”
I start to ride him—slow, steady, grinding my hips to take him deeper.
He grips my thighs, then my ass, helping guide me up and down his shaft.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, panting. “This… this is our vow.”
I nod, breathless. “I want to feel you come inside me again.”
“You will.”
I pick up the pace. He thrusts up to meet me.
We move like waves—rising, crashing, rolling through one another.
I lean down, kissing him hard, tongue sliding into his mouth. He grips my ass tighter, fucking up into me until I cry out.
My orgasm builds again, wild and electric.
“I’m gonna—Kursk—fuck—”
He growls. “Come for me, fireheart. Drench my cock.”
I scream as it hits me, my pussy clenching around him, milking him.
He follows, roaring, his cock jerking inside me as he fills me.
We collapse together again.
Later, when he falls asleep at last, I sit at the kitchen table with my journal. The cabin smells of burnt bread from the toaster he insists on wrestling every morning, woodsmoke from the dying fire, and the faint metallic tang of the amulet resting by his bedside.
I dip my pen in ink and write:
Love doesn’t always look like a fairytale. Sometimes it looks like an orc in sweatpants burning toast.
I close the book, press my hand against the cover, and smile.
Because that’s enough. More than enough.