Page 21

TORACK

L illian tugs on my sleeve for the fourth time. “Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.”

I don’t look up. The schedule in my hands is riddled with notes—volunteer rotations, spellsite maintenance logs, magical inventory tallies that don't match Groth's latest counts. The meeting starts in twenty minutes and we still haven’t figured out who’s warding the west cabins since Renault’s sabotage upended the entire charm crew's rhythm.

“Daddy, look!”

I grunt. “Not now, Lil.”

“But I made a badge for you. Look—‘Best Orc Dad!’ I drew tusks and everything.” She’s holding it up proudly. A slice of cardboard with glitter glue and lopsided writing. The ‘B’ is backwards.

My heart should soften. But it doesn’t. Not yet.

Because my head’s a swamp of deadlines and liability waivers and donors breathing down my neck through Julie’s very polite email chains.

“I’ll look later, I promise.”

“But the staff dinner is now, ” she says. “And you’re supposed to be my guest.”

I finally glance up. She’s wearing a flower crown—probably from the fairy garden—and a sticky grin. Her boots are mismatched. Her shirt’s on inside out.

She’s beaming.

And I?

I can only sigh.

“Lil, I have work.”

“But you said you’d eat dinner with me.”

“I said I’d try. ” My voice comes out harsher than I mean. Her face flickers, just for a second.

She nods, small and quiet. “Okay.”

“Go on ahead,” I say, already turning back to the papers. “I’ll catch up.”

I don’t see her leave. I don’t kiss her forehead or ruffle her hair or check which staffer she goes with.

I just assume.

And that's the thing about assumptions. They don't scream when they're wrong.

—

I’m a warrior. A seasoned businessman. A shining specimen of what an orc male should strive to be.

There are very few things in this world that make me afraid.

Losing my daughter is one of them.

The moment I notice the empty seat at the staff dinner table, my world stops.

Julie’s mid-laugh, Groth is unwrapping a second slice of roast-beast pie, someone’s joking about enchanted compost bins—and all I can hear is the vacuum of space where Lillian should be.

“She was just here,” I say. Then louder: “She was just here.”

Julie looks up. “Torack?”

“She’s not here.”

Groth is already rising. Julie is pushing back her chair. I’m scanning exits, calculating distance to the lake, the trails, the old herb fields.

Julie tries to stay calm. “Maybe she went to the art tent?—”

“She tells me when she goes somewhere.” My voice is hard now. “Every time.”

Groth is already striding to the door. “I’ll check the perimeter.”

I nod. “Get the tower crew. East and west loops. Stagger the rotations. Don’t wait on eyes—move.”

Chairs screech. Staff scatter. Julie's already grabbing a radio from the wall.

“I’ll organize teams. We’ll start with a four-quadrant grid. If she portaled, the residual trail should still be active for at least forty minutes.”

We comb the west trails first, Groth taking the north. Julie’s alongside me, sharp-eyed and pacing every step with quiet desperation.

“She wouldn’t go far without telling you,” Julie murmurs. “But if she thought someone or something needed help?—”

“She’s got a rescue instinct,” I mutter.

Julie nods. “Like someone else I know.”

I grunt, not ready for anything close to endearment.

The woods stretch on, thick with summer’s humidity and the scent of pine resin and old magic. Everything buzzes.

An hour passes. Then two.

I scream her name until my voice is shredded bark. Julie radios out directions, reroutes volunteers, casts three different detection circles, and still manages to keep me from coming apart completely. Then Groth’s call crackles through:

“Found something. North ridge. Near the willow grove.” We run. Boots hammer through the earth. My pulse is a drumbeat of regret.

If she’s hurt—if something happened—I’ll never forgive myself.

Groth’s waiting with her jacket. It’s still warm. Julie spots feathers nearby. Owl feathers.

“The baby owl,” she says. “It was limping in the barn earlier. I told her it’d be fine.”

“She tried to help it,” I whisper. We cut through the grove.

And there, finally.

She’s curled under the weeping willow, holding a limp owlet and whispering soft apologies.

“Daddy!” she cries, leaping into my arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I thought I could help?—”

I clutch her so tightly I feel her ribs move. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Julie crouches beside us, checking the owl. “Just dazed. You did the right thing, Lillian—but next time, bring someone.”

Lillian sniffs. “You were busy. You’re always busy”

“I’ll never be too busy again,” I promise.

Julie touches my arm. Soft, steady.

“You need to mean it this time,” she says.

And that’s what breaks me.