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Then: “And what about the existing programming? The kids? The veterans? The rebuilding of families?”

“We keep enough to maintain optics. Press-friendly photos. A few scholarships. Maybe a once-a-month campfire memory circle. Everything else pivots upscale.”

Another pause.

“Torack will never agree to this,” Dena says finally.

“Then we make sure he’s too distracted to notice,” Renault replies smoothly. “Let the human keep him occupied. She’s cute. Competent. That clipboard obsession can be weaponized. Keep her pointed at checklists and she won’t see the big picture.”

I feel my face go hot.

And then cold.

My fingers tighten around the edge of my clipboard until the plastic creaks.

They’re not just replacing Torack.

They’re using me to do it.

I back away. One step. Two. My boot scuffs a root, and I freeze. But the voices don’t change. They didn’t hear.

By the time I’m halfway back down the trail, my ears are ringing.

Renault sees me as decoration. A functional, tidy distraction. A tool.

And he thinks Torack is disposable.

I should go find Torack right now. I should tell him everything. But a voice in my head stops me—the same one that’s helped me navigate every deadline, every disaster, every board meeting with landmines.

Be smart first. React second.

I turn down a side path and find myself at the entrance of the old amphitheater. It’s half-eaten by ivy, its stage cracked and warped from disuse. The tarps that half-covered it after last summer’s windstorm are still flapping weakly in the breeze. Nobody comes here anymore. It’s too far from the mess hall, too quiet.

Perfect.

I sit on the edge of the broken bench and stare into the trees.

I thought this place was messy but earnest. A scrappy little camp with soul. Now I wonder if I’ve just been rearranging the chairs on a sinking ship, pretending my little systems could float us all.

I want to cry.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let the fury settle in. Because itisn’t true.

The camp is messy, yes—but it’sworking. The kids are thriving. The staff are rebuilding lives, not just resumes. Groth taught a dryad to use budgeting software last week. Lillian made friends with a shy minotaur kid yesterday. This placematters.

And Renault wants to slice it up like a real estate parcel and sell it back to the fae and elven elite for twice the price.

Not on my watch.

I stand up, suddenly too full of energy to sit. I pace the overgrown stone steps, breath fast and sharp. My mind’s racing now—thinking in logistics, in plans. Not just reactive. Strategic.

I have eyes on every system in this place. I know who’s loyal. Who’s struggling. I’ve fielded more questions from the counselors and kitchen staff than the board ever has. I know how to organize resistance. Quietly. Cleanly.

I can rally the staff. Get ahead of Renault’s pitch. If we move now—before his proposal goes to vote—we can make it too messy, too public for him to steamroll through.

And if Torack doesn’t believe me? I’ll show him. I’ll put the truth in black and white, line and column, with footnotes and fire.