Page 61 of Built Orc Tough
She raises one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Well. That was more entertaining than anticipated.”
Laughter rolls through the crowd, and Mina’s voice softens just a fraction. “Normally, we judge on structure. Tradition. Historical elegance. But every now and then, something takes root that refuses to be confined by old rules.”
She looks at Ivy.
“First place goes to Ivy Marlowe, for reminding us that beauty isn’t about order—it’s about truth.”
Cheers break loose again, and Ivy turns to me, eyes wide with disbelief. I take her hand and raise it like we’ve just won a war, because in a way, maybe we have.
“Don’t let this go to your head,” she mutters.
“I already live in your greenhouse. I think it’s too late.”
She squeezes my hand.
And this time, I don’t let go.
—
By the time the sun dips behind the mountains, the crowd’s thinned and the square looks like the aftermath of something holy—ribbons stuck in tree branches, confetti crushed into cobblestones, and a few children chasing each other barefoot while their parents trade stories over cider. Gorran and I walk hand in hand through it all like we belong here now—like we’ve always belonged here, even when we were too stubborn to admit it.
We reach the front of the shop just as the last slant of golden light hits the old wooden sign. “Petal & Thorn,” it still reads, a name I slapped up in a moment of manic optimism when I moved to Elderbridge thinking I could outpace my grief with color and caffeine.
I stop in front of it, squint up at the faded lettering, and cross my arms.
Gorran glances down at me. “What?”
I nod at the sign. “It’s wrong.”
His brow lifts. “Bit late to be questioning your branding.”
“It’s not just mine anymore,” I say, turning toward him, grinning now. “We’re co-designers, remember? In life and in florals.”
He makes that low grunt that means he’s trying not to smile and failing miserably. “You want to rename the whole shop?”
“I want toreclaimit,” I say. “Thorne & Bloom. Equal parts bite and beauty. Like us.”
He blinks once. Then nods. “Alright.”
That’s it. No protest. No overthinking. Justalright.
We rummage through the back, dig out leftover paint—deep moss green and copper-bronze—and climb up to paint over the old sign ourselves, still in our festival clothes, still smelling like sugar and sweat and something that feels suspiciously like hope.
By the time we finish, “Thorne & Bloom” gleams proudly against the fading sky.
We stand back and admire it, shoulder to shoulder.
“This feels permanent,” I murmur.
“It is,” he replies.
And I believe him.
CHAPTER 29
IVY
Sunlight warms the dirt on my bare feet as I kneel beside the newly planted moonflower seedlings. The garden behind Thorne & Bloom hums with afternoon heat, fragrant with lavender and the warm earth scent of unburied secrets. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades.
