Page 16

TORACK

M ornings hit different out here.

Not like in the city, where dawn chokes through diesel fumes and half-baked ambition. Out here, it’s clean. Raw. Honest.

Birdsong cuts sharp through the trees like a thousand conversations happening all at once, most of them loud and useless—just like the board meetings. The mist burns off slow across the lake, curling off the water like a shy lover, reluctant to leave.

This is my time.

Before the chaos. Before the fires I didn’t start need putting out by hands that are already too full.

I take my first lap around camp with coffee in one hand and a checklist in the other. Black. No sugar. Same mug every day. It says “Don’t Make Me Use My Orc Voice.” Julie added it to the break room shelf two weeks ago, and nobody’s had the guts to use it but me.

Smart.

Groth passes me on the trail, nodding. “Boss.”

“Groth.”

“Scare off the troll scouts?” he asks. I chuckle.

“They learned to knock.”

He snorts.

“I’ll have your punch list by lunch.”

“Make it ten. We’re tightening rotations.”

“Something wrong?”

“Not yet.”

He frowns, then jogs off toward the new staging platform. The goblin crew is already arguing about whose turn it is to enchant the rivets.

I keep walking, boots crunching over pine needles, gravel, and the occasional broken crayon. Kids drop things. Staff forgets. Nature reclaims.

It’s a cycle.

And every day, I try to keep it balanced.

Lillian’s voice floats through the treetops as I round the corner near the dining tent—bright, chattering, entirely too early for anyone not hopped up on sugar cereal.

She’s with Julie.

Of course.

They’re knee-deep in glitter and some kind of monstrous arts-and-crafts explosion.

A half-finished structure that looks like a shrine to chaos and shiny trash.

Lillian’s got a crown of moss and beads on her head.

Julie’s got paint on her neck. Neither of them looks remotely sorry. And somehow... it works.

They work.

I start to turn toward the rigging zone, but my steps slow. Something in my gut twists. A warning I don’t have words for yet.

Something’s off today.

Too still.

Too bright.

Like the forest is holding its breath.

Like the wind knows something I don’t.

I finish my coffee, crush the cup, and slide it into the recycle bin by the gate before heading toward the east tower.

A bead of sweat rolls down my spine as I cross the clearing. The sun’s not high yet, but the heat’s already building. Magic always runs hot when it’s been disturbed.

I don’t run, but I do move faster. Something’s wrong, and I need to find out what before something irreversible happens.

Boots strike the ramp. I take the stairs two at a time. At the top, everything looks normal—ropes coiled, safety spells humming faintly.

I crouch beside one of the main support brackets.

And that’s when I see it: a shimmer.

Not strong. Not glowing.

Wrong.

My heart slows as I test the bolt. It comes loose too easily. Too fast. Too clean.

And that’s when the slow burn in my chest catches fire. “Groth!” I shout down. “Shut it down. All lines. Now!”

His head pops up a moment later. “What? Why?”

I hold up the bolt. “Sabotage. Magical.”

His face darkens, then disappears as he barks orders. Goblins scatter. Ropes are yanked down. Harnesses dumped. A few choice curse words float up the tower.

I slide the bolt into my pocket and take the stairs down two at a time. My jaw is tight, tusks grinding. I can feel blood pumping through my temples as the worst possible scenarios keep running in my mind.

This wasn’t an accident, this was a message.

And I know damn well who sent it.

Renault.

He’s been pushing since he slithered his way onto the board. Wanted to “optimize programming,” which is rich coming from someone who once suggested we rebrand the goblin obstacle course as “low-stakes spiritual therapy.”

I storm across camp, past the main trail, through the trees. I need answers. Fast.

I round the bend and there she is: Julie. Still in the clover patch with Lillian, bent over what I now realize is either a fairy trap or an avant-garde compost heap.

They’re laughing.

It guts me.

Because this is what’s at stake. Right here. Joy. Safety. A future that smells like sunscreen and pine sap instead of sterile boardrooms and risk reports.

“Wren,” I call.

She looks up. Her whole face changes.

“Something’s wrong,” she says immediately.

“Sabotage,” I grunt. “Zipline gear. Magic-weakening charm.”

Her eyes go sharp. “How bad?”

“Would’ve snapped under full weight. Could’ve killed a kid.”

Lillian’s smile vanishes. A smile I would kill to protect.

I crouch beside her. “You’re okay, baby. But I need your help. Groth needs backup at the equipment shed. Think you can give orders without yelling?”

She nods seriously. “I’ll try really hard.” Then she bolts off before I can say another word. Julie’s already standing, eyes narrowed. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “It was cast to fracture but look like standard wear. Sloppy spellwork, but intentional.”

“Renault.”

“Who else? He’s pushing for a breakdown. A reason to suspend me. Maybe get emergency powers through the board.”

Julie’s pacing now, hands clenched. “He’s got interns on-site. One of them’s his nephew. I’ve seen him loitering around gear areas with no assignment.”

“You think the kid’s doing it?”

“No. He’s nowhere near practiced enough to cast that kind of magic. But I think he’s covering for it. Or being used.”

I watch her think. It’s like watching a fire map itself.

“We need him to talk,” I say.

“I’ll get him,” she says. “If I push too hard, he’ll fold.”

“I don’t like you in the line of fire.”

She stops. “You trust me, don’t you?”

I do. That’s the problem. “You’ve got an hour,” I mutter. “I’ll prep for fallout.”

She brushes her fingers against my hand. Just once. Barely a whisper. “We’ll stop him,” she says. “We’ll save this place.” For the first time all morning, I believe her.