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“Not just for paperwork. Not just for efficiency.” I pause, the words scraping out. “You’re part of this place now. You’re part of…”

She swallows, visibly flustered, but she doesn’t look away. “That doesn’t change what’s coming.”

“No,” I agree. “But it changes how we face it.”

CHAPTER 13

JULIE

Torack thinks he's good at hiding.

He’s not.

He wears silence like armor and efficiency like a shield, but his tells are everywhere—tight shoulders, clipped words, the way his jaw flexes when he’s trying not to react. Today, that tension is worse than usual. It follows him like a shadow, coiled and heavy.

And I’m done watching it from the sidelines.

Facing the board’s sabotage together is one thing. Practically a battle; he's more than comfortable fighting it. But after the morning I just had, I have another fight to pick with him.

And I know he doesn’t want to hear about it.

I follow him across the camp, boots crunching quietly over the gravel path. He doesn’t know I’m tailing him. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t want to deal with me. Either way, I’m not backing down.

The trail past the bunkhouses curves sharply into a dense copse of evergreens, where the underbrush is high and wild and the trees block most of the early afternoon sun. There’s still moisture clinging to everything from the storm two nights ago—mossy rocks, tangled brambles, even the air, thick with the scent of pine and something deeper, older.

“Torack!” I call, breath catching.

He doesn’t stop, but his spine stiffens.

I pick up speed, boots slipping a little in the soft earth. “Torack, wait!”

He halts at the end of the old footbridge, hands on his hips. Doesn’t turn.

So I step right up beside him, heart pounding with adrenaline and a whole lot of other things I’m trying not to name.

“You’re doing it again,” I say.

“Doing what?” he growls, not looking at me.

“Carrying the world on your back and calling it a Tuesday.”

His jaw ticks, a storm cloud hovering just behind his eyes. “Julie, I don’t have time for this.”

“No,” I snap. “You don’t have timenotto hear this.”

Finally, he turns toward me, and I meet his stare without flinching.

“You’ve been ignoring her,” I say, quieter now.

His brow furrows. “Who?”

“Lillian.”

I don’t miss the flash of guilt in his eyes.

“She asked where you were three times during the mural session. She painted a sun and left it blank in the middle because she said she couldn’t remember how your eyes look when you’re happy.”

That lands hard.