Page 7 of Built Orc Tough
She nods, slowly, like she’s made peace with it. “Thought so. Glad you’re not anymore. But that poor wolf still limps.”
She leaves with the bottle and a small smile. Doesn’t pay with coin, just a jar of honey and a promise to send her neighbor.
By midday, I’ve had six others.
Word travels fast here. Pain travels faster.
Most of them are older. Stiff joints. Headaches that don’t respond to modern pills. One teenager with anxiety so thick it sat on her shoulders like armor, who left with a lavender balm and eyes less frantic than when she came in. Not miracles—just care.
And not a single one of them asks about the flowers.
Ivy’s voice filters from the front a little after noon, falsely sweet and sharp as citrus. “Thorne doesn’t do bouquets, but I’m happy to make something that doesn’t smell like boiled mushrooms and regret.”
I say nothing, even though I hear the muttered apology one customer gives as they slide past her into my half of the shop. Ican imagine the twitch in her jaw. She’s trying to redirect them with that practiced big-city charm of hers, all gloss and artificial warmth, but people come back to whatworks.
That night, I make a sign.
Chalkboard, simple. Carved border, hand-sanded. Letters clean and straight.
THORNE REMEDIES – Healing by Hand & Herb.
The next morning, I hang it above my counter with quiet satisfaction.
I don’t wait long.
Ivy storms in before my first steep of the day, curls bouncing like a warning flare and a binder under her arm thick enough to choke a small goblin.
“What in the actualhellis that?” she demands, stabbing a finger at the new sign like it insulted her ancestors.
I don’t stop working. Just tilt the kettle slightly. “A sign.”
She narrows her eyes. “Youdon’t get a sign. This isBloom & Vine.That’s the name. That was the name before you came in here with your—your jars and your smells and your mysterious glowering.”
I glance up, slowly. “You labeling everything on my shelf in neon pink didn’t seem particularly brand-consistent either.”
Her nostrils flare. “That wasartistic flair.Yours is false advertising.”
I wipe my hands on the towel slung over my belt. “Nothing false about it. People ask for my remedies by name. They deserve to know where they’re getting them.”
“You don’t get to just start your own store insidemyshop!”
I straighten to my full height, arms crossing. Her eyes don’t waver, but I can see the pulse in her neck ticking fast.
“You want me to take it down?” I ask, voice calm. “Call the town board. File a dispute. See how long it takes for them to care.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
“You’re enjoying this,” she says finally, low and accusatory.
A shrug. “No. But I’m not losing sleep over it either.”
“Iswear,Gorran, if you think this little turf war is going to make me back down, you clearly haven’t met enough pissed-off women who’ve burned their lives to the ground and are trying to start fresh.”
I hold her gaze. Something about her—furious and fierce and three seconds from hurling her clipboard—makes me want to smile. But I don’t. Not quite.
“Start fresh all you want,” I say, voice quiet. “But this soil’s already got roots in it.”
She blinks.
