Page 17

JULIE

M y heels sink into the soil. I told myself not to wear the suede ones.

But “don’t wear suede” somehow lost to “look competent and unbothered in front of magical investors,” and now I’m standing next to a fire pit surrounded by chairs carved from reclaimed oak while my shoes soak up mud like it’s tea time.

Perfect.

Across from me, Renault is holding court with his usual smug tilt, dressed like a budget Bond villain—sleeves rolled, enchanted cufflinks, and a smile that says he thinks he already won.

He doesn’t see the trap yet.

I breathe in through my nose. Count four seconds. Exhale through pursed lips.

This campfire preview is supposed to be a soft launch. Just a low-key meet and greet for the board’s top funders and their family reps.

“No pressure,” they said. Sure. If you ignore the fact that we’re thirty-six hours out from a near-fatal equipment failure and one slippery elf in a power tie is trying to burn this place down from the inside.

I smooth down my blouse and give the clipboard a firm pat. Focus, Julie. Across the fire pit, Lillian sits in her designated “Fairy Queen” chair, blissfully unaware that she’s become my emotional support child. She’s wearing a new flower crown and humming to herself.

The fire crackles between us, a slow dance of orange and blue. The chairs start to fill. One by one, they take their seats—shifting, settling, murmuring.

The rustle of pressed robes, fine leathers, and glimmering personal wards woven into shawls. This is the old-money magical crowd. The kind who fund university libraries just to rename them after themselves.

“Miss Wren.” A board member named Thistle gives me a courteous nod.

“Glad you could join us, Mrs. Thistle,” I say, voice even. “The moonfire cider is just to the left—non-alcoholic until five p.m.”

“I assumed as much,” she says coolly. I smile and mark her as “cordial but judgey.”

Then Renault glides in and my spine tenses. His nephew follows him. I spot the kid lingering near the edge of the chairs, uncertain, pale, a little sweaty. His tie is slightly askew. He avoids my eyes.

Interesting.

The program begins with a welcome song from the campers, followed by a skit involving some extremely enthusiastic sock puppets. I manage a few nods, a couple polite laughs, but mostly I watch Renault.

He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t react. But I can see the tick at the edge of his jaw whenever Lillian shouts something unscripted or when the crowd claps for Groth’s security presentation.

He wanted chaos. But we gave them camp.

And then it’s my turn.

I step forward, clipboard tucked behind my back like a shield. I look up at the firelight flickering across expectant faces. I meet Torack’s gaze across the ring; he’s standing just behind the last row of chairs, arms folded, unreadable. But his eyes are locked on mine. And somehow, that’s enough.

“Good evening,” I start, voice firm. “My name is Julie Wren. I came to this camp as an assistant to oversee some transition paperwork. I expected spreadsheets and spell audits.” A pause. “I didn’t expect to fall in love with the people here.”

A few brows lift. A few murmurs. I keep going.

“This place isn’t just cabins and cauldrons. It’s a sanctuary. For kids who’ve never been believed. For staff who were told they were too strange to succeed. For families who need space to breathe magic without fear.”

There’s a ripple of nods. Even Thistle straightens in her seat.

“And yes, we’ve had setbacks,” I say, gaze flicking to Renault’s nephew. I look at him knowingly, bearing into his soul.Searching for a conscience I know is in there. “But every challenge has made this place stronger. Because leadership doesn’t run from trouble. It owns it.”

That one lands. Renault shifts. And right on cue, his nephew stands.

“Actually,” the kid says, voice shaking, “I have something to say.” Every head turns.

He’s pale. Trembling. But standing tall.

“There’s been tampering,” he says. “With the equipment. The zipline bolts. I—I didn’t know what I was helping with at first. My uncle said it was just a test. A way to monitor resilience. ”

The crowd murmurs louder. “But it wasn’t. He asked me to enchant fasteners to fail under stress.” His voice cracks. “I thought if I didn’t do it, he’d say I was soft. That I didn’t deserve the internship.”

Renault stands too. Calm. Too calm. “That’s quite an accusation,” he says silkily. “And an unfortunate misunderstanding of workplace responsibilities. Nepotism is a tricky line, after all.”

I step forward before anyone else can. “This is a magical confession,” I say. “You’re under ambient binding.”

Renault’s smile twitches.

“Miss Wren?—”

“You knew,” I say. “You orchestrated it. Sabotaged equipment with the intent to frame this camp as unsafe.”

“Prove it,” he says coolly.

Groth appears beside him and silently hands me a folder. Inside is a copied rune map. The enchantment trace from the bolt. The spell matrix signature. I hold it up.

“You signed your work.”

Gasps. Outrage. Torack starts moving, slow and steady like a storm you see coming from miles away. Renault tries to slip out, but Groth blocks him.

“We’ll be submitting this to magical authorities,” I say. “Effective immediately, Renault is to be suspended from all board activity pending investigation.”

The crowd nods. I hear Lillian clap like she’s watching a superhero movie.

And across the fire, Torack’s eyes are still locked on me. There’s something in them I’ve never seen before.

Pride. And something else. Something warmer. Hungrier.

Later, when the crowd has dispersed and the stars are blinking across the treetops, I find myself standing alone near the fire pit. The chairs are half-empty. The cider’s gone warm. He finds me there.

“You handled that,” he says. I shrug.

“Overachiever reflex.” He steps closer. Close enough I can see the firelight in his tusks. “I’m not surprised.”

“I was scared out of my mind.”

“I’m still not surprised.”

I look at him. At the guarded heat behind his eyes. At the gentleness he tries to bury with every gruff word and schedule revision.

“You looked proud,” I say softly.

“I was.”

“And... was that all?”

His jaw clenches. “No.” He reaches up, tucks a curl behind my ear. Then lets his hand linger there, just long enough for me to feel every ounce of tension he’s still holding back.

“I’ve never needed anyone like I need you,” he says quietly. “That terrifies me.”

I step in, press a hand against his chest. “You don’t have to be afraid.” And for once, he doesn’t pull away.