Page 1 of Built Orc Tough
CHAPTER 1
IVY
There’s a peculiar kind of peace to being up before the town. A hush that settles over Elderbridge like it’s holding its breath. Dew clings to the corners of shop windows, the kind that glistens like hope if you squint right. Birds chirp like they’re trying to impress someone, and even the air smells nicer here—like pine and river and the kind of things I usually kill by accident in little ceramic pots.
I stand in front of my shop clutching the brass key that used to hang around Aunt Maybelline’s neck. My thumb rubs over the grooves of it absently, a nervous tic I picked up somewhere between heartbreak and therapy. Painted on the window in faded pink cursive:Bloom & Vine Floral Studio. It still looks exactly like the photos she used to send me, the same peeling paint on the doorframe, the same rust-stained planter that never grew anything worth bragging about. She always said the shop had character. I say it has commitment issues.
“Alright, Ivy,” I murmur to myself, twisting the key into the lock. “Fresh start. Let’s not screw this one up, yeah?”
The door groans open like it's been asleep for fifty years instead of five months, and I step into the dusty perfume of old roses, sun-warmed wood, and something I can't quite place. Liketea tree oil and—what is that? Sage? No. Something earthier. Deeper. More pungent than a floral shop should smell at seven in the morning.
I pause mid-step, nose wrinkling.
The front counter looks untouched, bless it. A cascade of dried lavender hangs from the overhead beam, and a trail of fallen petals lines the floor like someone tried to throw a party and gave up halfway through. But there’s something wrong. Beyond the curtain that separates the sales floor from the workroom, there's movement. A rustle. A thud. A low grunt.
I freeze.
Either the place is haunted or the world’s dumbest burglar just broke in to steal eucalyptus. And considering this town has fairies and ex-warlocks on the town council, either option is equally plausible.
I drop my suitcase just inside the door, grab the nearest weapon (a spade that’s more decorative than practical), and tiptoe toward the curtain.
Another grunt. Definitely not a ghost.
"Hello?" I call, my voice edged and unwelcoming. "I’ve got a weapon and zero qualms about using it."
The curtain rips open with a startling swish, and suddenly there is alotof orc in my personal space.
He fills the entire doorway like someone decided to build a mountain and give it a pulse. Green skin the color of moss after rain, broad shoulders that have absolutely no business being indoors, and thick, knotted hair pulled back into a low tie at the nape of his neck. His eyes are golden-brown and too calm for someone who just got threatened with a glorified trowel.
He looks at me. I look at him. The spade trembles slightly in my hand.
"You’re not supposed to be here yet," he says, voice low and gravel-thick, like it’s echoing from a cave system beneath his chest.
"Excuse me?" I blink, because that’s my line. "You’re the one squatting in my shop."
His eyes narrow, very slightly. "This half’s mine."
"Half?" I say, voice doing that dangerous pitch thing I get when I’m about to unleash the full wrath of a woman who’s been emotionally and financially scammed by a capitalist cityscape. "What the hell do you mean, ‘this half’s mine’? This ismyflower shop. I inherited it from my aunt. Maybelline Marlowe. Maybe you’ve heard of her. Sweet old lady. Made the best hydrangea corsages in three counties. Definitely not in the habit of signing leases with strange orcs behind my back."
He crosses his arms, a motion that makes his muscles do something I refuse to acknowledge, and jerks his chin toward the back room. "There’s a contract. Shared commercial space. Split lease. I signed six weeks ago."
I shove past him before he can stop me—not that I’d put money on being able to actually move him if he didn’t let me—and make a beeline for the desk.
Sure enough, among Aunt Maybelline’s papers and a thick catalog of seasonal bloom guides, there’s a lease amendment. Dated and signed. My aunt’s wobbly script, his bold, slanted name beneath it.
Gorran Thorne.
I toss the paper down and exhale through my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Sherented out my flower shopto a—” I gesture vaguely at him, “—to aplant man?”
"Herbalist," he corrects, stepping fully into the room. It’s worse when he moves. Graceful. Quiet. The kind of dangerous that’s been trained out of necessity.
I plant a hand on my hip. "Herbalist sounds suspiciously like a fancy term for snake oil peddler."
"Better than overpriced dead things tied with ribbons."
My mouth drops open. "That’s floristry, you absolute wall of compost."
He doesn’t react. Not even a twitch of amusement.
