Page 55 of Built Orc Tough
I start pulling blooms I’d never normally combine—bleeding hearts, snapdragons, and fennel for courage. I find some lemon verbena and twist it in with freesia. I grab two stems of forget-me-nots and a ridiculous tuft of sage.
It’s not pretty. Not the way the old judges like.
It’s bold. It’s messy. It’s chaotic. It’s me.
I find a spool of indigo ribbon shoved in a drawer, one I’d hoarded months ago for something “important.” I cut it without ceremony and bind the bouquet tight, letting the stems stick out a little crooked, letting the lavender and the rosemary jut where they want.
And when I finish, I stare at it.
My hands are trembling—not with sadness this time.
With certainty.
Because this isn’t about proving I belong.
It’s about planting myself like a damn tree and daring anyone to try and move me again.
CHAPTER 26
GORRAN
By the time I get home, the sky’s already fading into bruised purples and charcoal grays. There’s a chill in the air, not enough to bite, but enough to make me pause at the gate and brace myself for what’s inside. The house is quiet—too quiet. Like even it knows something’s missing.
The bench I carved for her still sits beneath the window, untouched. It’s right where I left it two weeks ago after sanding it down for the fourth time and lining the grooves with gold-dust lacquer she’d left behind from one of her more ridiculous art-meets-floral projects. I’d imagined her sitting there. Laughing. Pulling her knees up and rambling about flower symbolism and why lemon balm was the emotional equivalent of an apology and a stiff drink.
Now it’s just wood.
And it’s mine again.
I stare at it for a long time.
And then I turn away.
There’s a patch in the garden I never finished—a corner I kept wild for no reason I ever wanted to name. Ivy had plans for it. She’d said, “Let’s turn it into something completely unruly.Something that refuses to be tamed.” I’d told her she was talking about herself again. She’d smiled like she knew it.
I head straight for it, rolling up my sleeves, dirt still under my fingernails from the shop. I yank weeds with more force than necessary, fists full of stems and thorns that don’t care about regret. I clear the space with that kind of energy that only comes from knowing you’ve messed something up so thoroughly the only thing left to do is build something from scratch.
I don’t know how long I’m at it when I hear the rustle of boots behind me.
“You starting a grave?” Terra’s voice is dry, but soft.
“Could be,” I grunt without looking up. “Depends how this week ends.”
She drops down beside me with a grunt of her own, hands already reaching for a spade. “If you’re planning to bury your pride, make sure it’s deep. That stuff’s like mint—comes back if you don’t kill the root.”
I huff a laugh. “What are you doing here?”
“Sprout said you came home looking like you’d aged twenty years and fought a ghost. Figured I’d check you hadn’t started talking to your rose bushes again.”
I glance at her. “They were listening.”
She smirks. “Of course they were.”
We work in silence for a bit, turning soil until it’s loose and dark, the kind of dirt that holds onto seeds and secrets alike.
“What are you planting?” she asks.
“A centerpiece,” I say. “For the garden. For... everything.”
