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He lowers into a crouch. “Are you keeping them all in line?”

“Obviously,” she says, arms crossed. “But they need backup.”

“Lead the way.”

She grabs his hand, tugging. He goes with her, and something in my chest loosens—like I’ve been clenching a fist I didn’t know was there.

I return to the event perimeter, checking in with volunteers, answering questions, calming one frantic dad who thought rune paint might permanently stain his toddler’s skin (it doesn’t, unless you activate it).

I’m in my element. Halfway between panic and purpose.

An hour later, as things start to wind down, I find myself at the lemonade stand, sipping a cup that tastes like victory and maybe a hint of lavender.

The sky’s gone golden, and the shadows stretch long.

The town delegation is still lingering, chatting with parents, swapping recipes, holding enchanted bracelets like they’re considering belief once again. And across the lawn, Torack is talking with one of the local dads.

Not glaring. Not grunting. Talking.

The dad claps him on the back, and Torack doesn’t flinch.

I don’t think he knows I’m watching. But I don’t look away. Because this was the whole point. Not just surviving scandal or neutralizing Renault or winning over funders.

This is healing.

I believe it’s possible.

I tell myself to focus.

There’s still tear-down to coordinate. Thank-you bags to pass out. Someone needs to collect the enchanted ducklings from the sensory garden before they unionize.

But my eyes keep drifting toward him.

Torack stands near the now-empty snack tent, talking to the dad who brought three kids and left with two hand-craftedshields and a questionable wand permit. They shake hands. The dad smiles. And Torack—gods help me—almost smiles back.

I take a breath and cross the lawn. My heart beats faster with each step.

Not because I’m nervous.

Because I want to be seen. And he sees me.

The second I’m in his periphery, his shoulders shift like he’s already read the thought behind my approach.

“That looked civil,” I say.

“It was.”

“Did you lose a bet?” His tusk tips with a half-smirk.

“He complimented the obstacle course. Asked about sending his son next season.”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“His exact words were ‘I didn’t expect my kid to get along with a troll, but here we are.’”

I laugh. “Progress.”

“Small miracle,” he mutters, but he’s watching me now. Really watching. It does things to me.