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I study her face, too sharp for comfort and too kind for safety.

I let myself say it.

“I’m proud of you.”

Her breath catches. “You’re not mad?”

“I’m pissed.”

She stiffens.

“But not at you.”

And for one wild second, I think I might kiss her.

But I don’t.

Because there’s still work to do. And she just reminded me that she’s as much a leader here as I am.

CHAPTER 19

JULIE

The first rule of public relations: nothing melts adult skepticism like giggling children with marshmallow-sticky faces and glitter on their shoes.

I didn’t invent the rule, but I’ve mastered it. And today? Today’s the test.

I’m standing near the crafts pavilion with a clipboard in one hand and a damp towel in the other, watching a goblin child—Snitch, who is extremely allergic to rules—happily paint runes on a rock while two human kids from town crouch beside him like he’s showing them how to unlock treasure.

“Yours glows!” one of them exclaims.

“Yours sizzles,” Snitch says smugly. “That’s the good kind.”

I mark it down. Rune painting: successful. No sparks. No property damage. Minor transfiguration risk: acceptable.

I wipe a smear of enchanted paint off the picnic table and glance across the lawn. It’s a full outreach day, and we’ve got every staff member on rotation.

The meadow between cabins has been transformed into a chaotic, colorful mix of game stations, treat tables, spell-safe zones, and folding chairs that absolutely should’ve been replacedlast year. A local vendor is selling pickled troll cucumbers. Another is hawking mood charms shaped like puppies.

But what really matters and what makes my heart clench, is the way the kids look at each other. Not like strangers. Not like enemies. Just like… kids.

“I gave him my wand bracelet,” a young witch whispers to her mom, who stares like her daughter just handed over a loaded gun.

“He earned it,” the girl adds.

I don’t interfere. Some things you let unfold on their own.

Behind me, Groth is very carefully pretending not to hand out caramel apples. His disguise consists of a sun hat that looks like it belonged to a 1950s tourist and a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose like they’re protecting national secrets.

“Don’t say anything,” he grunts as he hands a goblin toddler an apple the size of her head.

“I wasn’t gonna,” I murmur. He grumbles but doesn’t move.

I check my watch.

Torack’s late.

Not surprising. He hates spectacle. Hates optics. Hates anything that smells like performance over purpose.