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TORACK

T he blueprint keeps trying to escape like it knows something I don’t. Wind catches the edge again, flapping it like a taunt. I slam my hand down—hard—and pin it in place against the makeshift table.

I’ve had enough of things trying to slip through my fingers lately.

“Right, so you’re saying the fire pit’s going right over the main line?

” Renault’s voice whines to my left. He’s wearing another impossibly crisp jacket, probably elven silk, and adjusting his cufflinks like he’s attending a gala, not standing in a construction zone surrounded by pine needles and sawdust.

“It’s not ideal,” Dena says, tapping the design with a lacquered nail, “but it’s the only viable route with the slope and soil we’ve got. Unless you want to regrade the whole eastern ridge, and we all know the budget’s allergic to that.”

“It’s a logistical compromise,” I add, my voice flat. “Not a flaw.”

Renault scoffs. “It’s a risk.”

I finally lift my gaze to him. “So is letting kids climb trees, and we’re not paving the forest.”

“Trees aren’t plumbing.”

“They both have roots,” Dena offers, almost too cheerfully. Her wings flutter behind her in amusement.

Renault makes a face like he stepped in something. I bite back the urge to tell him he’s welcome to step off the board if he’s that squeamish. But I don’t. Yet.

“I’m only saying,” Renault presses on, “that this camp is meant to be a beacon. A symbol of cultural unity. If it collapses because someone tripped on a pipe?—”

“It won’t,” I cut in. “Because I won’t let it.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of movement—broad shoulders and a sunburned neck approaching with a swagger that means only one thing: more bad news.

“Speak of the devil,” Dena mutters as Groth the goblin contractor stomps up. He’s wearing his usual work belt and a too-small hard hat perched like an afterthought atop his dome-shaped head. He’s chewing something. Loudly.

Groth doesn’t even wait for a greeting. “Torack. We got a problem. West bunk foundation’s a mess. Rock shelf’s closer to the surface than we thought.”

I sigh. “You told me the survey came back clear.”

Groth shrugs one shoulder. “It was clear. Then we started digging.”

I cross my arms. “So you missed it.”

“I’m telling you it shifted,” he insists, wiping sweat from his brow with a sleeve already stained with gods-know-what. “Maybe gremlins, maybe tectonics. You want I should file a motion to the Geomancer’s Guild?”

“Don’t be cute.”

“I’m always cute,” he says, flashing a toothy grin full of fangs and grit.

Renault groans. “Is this the kind of expertise you rely on? Truly?”

Groth turns slowly, dramatically. “Hey, pretty-boy,” he says, “have you ever poured concrete on a floating slab at forty degrees? No? Then shut it.”

I rub my temples. “Groth, go back. Shore it up. Use the tension plates we ordered. If it’s not stable by dusk, I want it leveled and re-framed. No half-jobs. We’ve got kids arriving in less than a month.”

Groth tilts his head, gives me a sideways smirk. “You got it, boss.”

“Not the boss,” Renault mutters.

Groth grins wider. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He stomps off, whistling something that might have once been a tune but now sounds like a banshee being drowned.

Renault folds his arms, his expression tight. “If your idea of leadership is allowing that gremlin’s cousin to chew up our resources?—”

“I don’t allow anyone to do anything,” I say. “I give orders. They follow. Or they’re gone. Groth knows how to build camps that don’t collapse. His attitude’s just extra packaging.”

“I’m beginning to wonder what the actual product is.”

“You invested in this,” I remind him. “You signed the charter. This camp is your name, too.”

His jaw tightens. “Yes, and I’d prefer it not to become a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

I lower my voice, step closer. “Then stop micromanaging the pipe layout and start backing the vision you bought into. Cultural unity. Safe spaces. Kids who’ve never seen anything but city walls or cultural conflict getting a summer to believe in something better.”

Renault doesn’t speak. He looks down at the plans like they might change if he glares hard enough.

“Meeting adjourned,” I say. “Go log your feedback in the contractor tent. We’ll reconvene at sixteen hundred.”

They scatter, all except Dena, who lingers long enough to offer me a knowing look.

“You could try smiling more,” she teases.

“I’ll smile when this place stops needing miracles.”

She flutters off with a laugh.

I step away, toward the ridge. From here, the camp sprawls below like a sleeping giant still waiting for its heart to wake. A gust of wind carries the sound of laughter—my daughter’s—bright and sharp.

I turn to find her climbing a stump like it’s Everest, her little fists in the air. Julie’s trailing behind, carrying a lunchbox, looking out of breath and out of place.

“You’re gonna fall,” I call out.

Lillian ignores me. Of course she does.

Julie catches my eye and waves with a sheepish smile. “We’re back!”

“Where’d she go?”

“Gave me the grand tour,” she pants. “Very exclusive.”

“She’s eight. Not a tour guide.”

Julie laughs. “You’re just mad she didn’t give you one.”

I huff. “She’s supposed to stay on the main paths.”

“She said she’s wilderness certified,” Julie says, air-quoting.

“She says a lot of things.”

“And most of them are brilliant,” Julie says softly.

Lillian jumps off the stump with a loud thud , then scampers off toward the cabins. Julie watches her go, hands still gripping the lunchbox.

“She’s got a lot of energy,” Julie says.

“She’s got too much time to burn,” I correct.

“She misses you.”

I stiffen. “That’s not your concern.”

Julie lifts her chin. “She made it mine.”

I hold her gaze. She doesn’t flinch.

“You know, you could’ve done this in the city,” she says. “It’s safer there.”

“City’s got rules. Too many of them. Too many distractions. Here… here, the world’s still quiet enough for something new to grow.”

She tilts her head. “You ever think you’re trying to fix something out here so you don’t have to fix what’s in there?”

Her eyes flick briefly to my chest.

I say nothing.

She steps back. “I’ll go check on her.”

And she does.

I pull out my phone. Twenty-three unread emails. The contractor’s already called twice. No time for heart-to-hearts, especially not with some upstart secretary overstepping her position.

I swipe to answer the third buzz.

“Torack.”

“Boss,” Groth’s voice comes in crackly, “we got a real problem now.”

I close my eyes, inhale slowly.

Here we go again.