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TORACK

T he shouting starts before breakfast.

I hear it on my walk from the bunkhouse to the admin tent—low, angry voices at first, then louder, sharper, clustered at the front gate like wasps around sugar water.

Groth is already there when I arrive. His bulk blocks the main gate like a wall of granite, arms folded, expression flat.

“Humans,” he mutters. “Local ones.”

I grunt, step up beside him. Beyond the gate, a crowd’s gathered. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Older folks mostly, with picket signs in one hand and distrust in the other. Some of the signs are neat. Most are hand-scrawled.

KEEP MAGIC OUT

As if their technology is any safer.

NO MONSTERS NEAR OUR CHILDREN

As if we ‘monsters’ don’t have children of our own.

WE REMEMBER DARKMOOR

That last one hits.

Darkmoor was two towns over. Twenty years back. Human child wandered into a hexed forest during a game. Didn’t come back.

We’re not that forest.

But to these people? We’re close enough.

I unlock the front gate and step through.

The tension is immediate. Like a rubber band pulled too tight across all their shoulders. Half of them look surprised to see me walk out. The other half look ready to yell louder.

I don’t raise my voice.

Don’t need to.

“State your concern,” I say roughly. I only have so much empathy on a good day, and these people have made this day turn sour.

A woman with cropped gray hair steps forward, eyes blazing. “We heard what happened. About the equipment. The sabotage. That someone could’ve died.”

“That was internal,” I say. “Handled. The threat’s been removed.”

“You expect us to believe that?” a man growls.

“You’ve got orcs and goblins teaching children! You think a few press statements cover that?”

“None of our campers were ever in danger,” I say.

“That’s what that wizard group said too,” another woman snaps. “And now there’s a memorial stone outside the woods.”

I feel the rage rise, tight and sharp at the back of my throat. My hands curl, but I don’t clench them. Not yet.

“We’re not them.”

“But you’re still here. And that’s the problem.”

They want me gone.

Want the camp gone.

And I get it. Humans don’t trust what they don’t understand. We build safe places out here because we’re not allowed in theirs.

But they’re not going to win this.

Not today.

Julie shows up like a lightning strike; clipboard, blazer, fire in her eyes. Her steps crunch gravel as she brushes past Groth and plants herself beside me like she’s always belonged there.

She takes a breath. Then another.

“Hi,” she says, bright but firm. “Julie Wren. Head of operations.”

No one speaks.

“I understand your concerns,” she continues. “And I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending nothing happened. There was sabotage. It was caught. The culprit has been removed, and safeguards are stronger now than ever.”

They bristle. But they’re listening.

She presses on. “This camp serves magical youth from all over the country. And yes, many of them are nonhuman. But that doesn’t make them dangerous. That makes them underrepresented.”

“Easy for you to say,” someone spits. “You’re human.”

Julie doesn’t flinch. “Yes. I am. Which is why I can tell you, as a human, that this camp doesn’t threaten your town. It supports it.”

“How?” someone scoffs. “Your campers don’t shop here. You’ve got your own supply lines. You’ve never invited anyone to see what goes on behind those trees.”

Her eyes flick to me.

Then back to them.

“Because that’s going to change,” she says.

I stiffen.

She smiles tightly. “We’ll open the grounds once a month for local businesses to set up booths. Our staff will shop. Our campers’ families will be encouraged to visit and explore. We’ll offer free enchanted goods to local schools—nonvolatile, of course. Custom garden runes.

Charm-engraved pencils. Wards for the firehouse.”

She’s making promises. And she hasn’t cleared any of this with me.

But damn if she doesn’t have them leaning forward.

“You can boycott us,” she says. “Or you can work with us. Let your economy benefit. Let your kids learn. Let this place prove it’s not a threat.”

Someone whispers to someone else.

Another lowers their sign.

I stare at her.

This woman who walked into my world full of laminated forms and overachiever guilt and has somehow become the one who holds us all together.

The townies start murmuring, not all agreement, but less pure rage.

Then the first voice says, “We’ll think about it.”

And they start to leave.

Not quickly, but they leave.

Groth exhales slow. “That was... something.”

I look at her.

I don’t smile.

But I nod once. “Come with me.”

We walk back to the admin tent in silence. The camp is quiet now, but a wind stirs in the trees like it’s proud of us.

Inside, I close the door. Turn.

“You went off-script.”

She doesn’t look guilty. “I had to.”

“You leveraged services we haven’t even confirmed we can provide.”

“But we will.”

“You’re assuming?—”

“I’m assuming we’d rather make allies than enemies,” she snaps. “They were ready to burn us down, Torack. I gave them a rope to hold onto.”

I step close.

Close enough she has to tilt her chin up.

“You risked a lot.”

“So did you,” she says, quieter now. “When you hired me.”

My throat tightens.

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.