Page 8 of Built Orc Tough
Then she spins on her heel and storms out, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “Rootthis, moss man.”
The sign stays up.
The customers keep coming.
For the first time in a long while, I feel something deep in my chest that isn’t weight or memory or ache.
I think it might be satisfaction.
Or the beginning of a war.
CHAPTER 5
IVY
Iswear on every petal I’ve ever arranged that I am not going to let one six-and-a-half-foot orc ruin my professional comeback. Not today. Not when I’ve got an entire mood board dedicated to the Harmony Festival and a vision of wildflowers cascading from vintage milk jugs that will not be overshadowed by someone whose idea of branding is a chalkboard anda shrug.
I crank open the back window to let in the morning air and try to drown out the scent of whatever fermented root potion Gorran is cooking in his corner. I’m not looking. I’m not engaging. I’m not even acknowledging theabominationof a sign he’s still got hanging above his “healing” counter, even though it’s clearly violating the aesthetic integrity of the shop.
Deep breath. Channeling peace.
Or whatever version of peace I can conjure that doesn’t involve lighting dried lavender on fire in protest.
I plunge my hands into a bucket of hydrangeas and start assembling my trial bouquet for the festival. I’ve sketched it five times already—wild, asymmetrical, playful but elegant. A whisper of rebellion tucked into delicate petals. Something that says,yes, I’m new here, but I know exactly what the hell I’m doing.
Sprout bounces into the workroom, trailed by a ribbon that’s somehow tangled in her hair and a trail of glitter she must’ve picked up from—gods know where.
“Ivy,” she gasps, eyes wide. “Emergency. Town meeting. Miss Lyria’s hosting. Said if you didn’t come she’d ‘pop by’ later with her portable kettle and ‘a few suggestions.’”
I groan. “Tell her I’ve mysteriously come down with ‘Festival Flu.’ It’s highly contagious and 100% fatal to my patience.”
Sprout just grins. “She said you’d say that. Also said to tell you the mayor’s going to be there. Something about event slots and last-minute co-hosting duties.”
Co-hosting.
The word lands like a brick in my stomach.
“Don’t even joke,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. “The last time I co-hosted something, it was a ‘Build Your Own Terrarium’ night in the city, and it ended with someone getting hexed because they confused dragonroot with chia seeds.”
Sprout shrugs, already heading toward the door. “Better come find out for yourself.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m at Town Hall, which is actually just a glorified barn with excellent acoustics and questionable insulation. Miss Lyria is already at the front, wearing her ceremonial shawl (woven with tiny animated blooms that wave like they’re trying to be helpful), and beaming like she’s about to announce everyone’s astrological doom.
“Ah, Ivy,darling,there you are,” she sings, motioning me forward like I’m a prize chicken up for auction. “We’re just discussing Harmony Festival pairings.”
I stiffen. “Pairings?”
“Oh yes,” she says, eyes twinkling. “You know how important it is for this festival to reflectunity across cultures. And what better way to do that than to have co-hosts who representdifferent traditions? Florals and herbs. Art and remedy. Form and function.”
My stomach turns cold.
“Lyria,” I say carefully, “are you volunteering me for something?”
She waves a hand. “Oh no, no, no. I’mvolunteering both of you.”
“Both—”
Gorran steps out from behind a support beam like he’s been summoned by the devil herself.
