Page 24

JULIE

T he morning air smells like pine needles and promise.

There’s dew on the grass, a faint shimmer of ward magic across the training field, and for once—miraculously—I’m not rushing.

My mug of tea is still hot in my hands. I haven’t snapped at a single goblin intern.

And the schedule for the day is laminated, color-coded, and organized in triplicate. The Julie Trifecta.

I stretch beneath the overhang of the administrative yurt and breathe.

I used to think control was everything. That power came from preparedness and bullet-point agendas and contingency plans labeled A through M. And don’t get me wrong, those still matter.

But now?

Now I know power is also letting go. Delegating. Trusting the people you train to handle it while you enjoy your first sip of green jasmine tea and don’t have to pretend you’re fine through a stress-induced eye twitch.

Across the quad, the early shift is swapping out elemental wards on the west perimeter.

Lillian’s chasing a paper charm in her pajamas, barefoot and giggling, her braid swinging behind her like a comet tail.

Groth is already yelling at someone in the kitchen—something about “cursed jam proportions” and “if one more sprite eats the butterberries raw.”

All of it hums like music.

And I’m standing in the middle of it, calm as a moonrise.

When I step into the staff meeting fifteen minutes later, three people are already waiting: Orlan with his overstuffed binder, Crisa with her color-coded crystal markers, and young Miri, the new intern who still mixes up teleport runes like a toddler on sugar.

They all turn when I enter.

And somehow, nobody looks surprised I’m the one leading.

“Okay,” I say, smiling as I set down my notes.

“Let’s talk about outreach logistics for the Spring Harmony Festival, and then we’ll dive into procurement.

We need twenty-five extra sleeping mats, a salt barrier refresh for the fire circle, and someone needs to convince Groth that we don’t need seventeen barrels of turnip cider. ”

Crisa raises a hand. “Do we want mead, then?”

“I want fewer sprained ankles. Last time, half the dryads fell asleep on the archery range.” Orlan chuckles.

Miri looks awestruck.

It feels good.

Not just to be seen—but to be trusted.

The first time I sign a requisition order without checking it twice, I know I’ve officially lost my mind—or found it.

Depending on how you look at it.

It’s morning, and the camp is humming. The kind of hum that makes your skin buzz with possibility.

Birds flit between enchanted feeder pods near the dining hall.

A pair of gnomes argue lovingly over how to best stabilize a climbing wall charm.

Lillian streaks past, barefoot and giggling, chased by a sprite with what looks suspiciously like glitter paste in its tiny hands.

Meanwhile, I’m running logistics like I was born doing it.

Torack kept his word. He stepped back—slowly, stubbornly, like a tree unwilling to accept winter, but he did. He checks in during sunrise patrols, reviews long-term plans by the firepit, but the daily stuff? The on-the-ground, do-or-die decisions?

That’s all me now.

And I’m thriving.

Which is strange, because part of me thought that without the pressure of needing to prove myself to him every second, I’d flail. That I was only sharp because I had something to push against. But it turns out I’m sharp because I give a damn.

Because this place matters.

And because it feels like home.

Even if my cabin still leaks when it rains and someone in the fishfolk dorm insists on using my favorite shirt as a napkin.

I’m halfway through reorganizing the supply chain schedule when Torack wanders into my makeshift office—read: a table under a magically air-cooled awning—with two cups of strong black coffee.

He hands me one without a word.

I take a sip. “Still brooding in silence as your primary form of support?”

“It’s efficient.”

I smirk. “You’re lucky I like brooding.”

“Is it brooding if I brought caffeine?”

“I’ll allow it.”

He leans against the support post, arms folded, watching the younger staffers wrangle a trio of teleport-happy goblin twins.

“You’ve changed things,” he says.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s a compliment.”

I look up. “Really?”

He nods once. “People laugh more. Problems get solved before they become crises. You even got Groth to use a spreadsheet.”

I gasp. “You said you’d never tell.”

A flicker of a smile. Barely there. But real.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs.

“You belong here.”

Something warm curls in my chest. “Thanks. That means… yeah. Thanks.”

The last investor is a problem.

Not because she’s mean. Or skeptical. Or hates goblins—which, believe me, we’ve had that.

No, Faelin Strongreed is just… precise. She’s been watching the camp’s progress for weeks from afar, and now she’s finally come to see if it’s worth the pledge she’s been holding back like a carrot on a stick.

She arrives dressed in crisp linen, with a pen that looks like it could write someone out of existence. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown, either. Just watches everything like she’s seen better and expects worse.

She tours the buildings. Asks smart, brutal questions. Side-eyes a griffin with hay stuck to its tail. Spends exactly five seconds looking at the waterfall meditation deck before turning to me and saying, “You’re new.”

“I’m not new. Just efficient,” I answer, offering my hand. “Julie Wren. I’m the new operations lead.”

She doesn’t shake it. Just raises a brow. “And why should I trust you with my money?”

There’s a pause. The kind of pause that stretches just enough to give doubt a foothold. But I’ve learned something in the last few weeks, something Torack taught me without saying a word. People trust conviction. Not polish.

So I smile. Steady. Sure.

“Because I know what this place can be. And I’ve seen what it was.”

She narrows her eyes. “Go on.”

So I do.

I tell her about the day the storm knocked out the wards and we had to reroute a whole construction crew by torchlight.

About the goblin girl who cried when her dorm got a compostable art supply cabinet.

About how Lillian braided my hair once and then decided I was family.

About Groth crying at the harvest feast because the dryads sang a lullaby from his homeland.

I talk about peace, not as a theory, but as something you build every day with mismatched materials and people who don’t always speak the same language.

And when I finish, Faelin studies me for a long, long moment.

Then she nods once and says, “I’ll triple it.”

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

“My pledge. Tripled. On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you stay in charge.” That night, we light the big central fire. It’s part celebration, part ceremony, part excuse to burn too many marshmallows and let kids sing off-key under a starlit sky. I’m exhausted and covered in paint glitter, but happy.

Genuinely, deeply happy.

Torack finds me leaning against a tree, watching Lillian teach a centaur kid how to play freeze tag with the wisp lanterns.

“You did it,” he says quietly.

“We did.”

He shakes his head. “No. This was you. I was holding on too tight.”

“Because you care.”

“Because I was afraid.”

I turn to him. “Of what?”

“Losing the dream. Again.”

I step closer. “It’s not gone. It’s just… bigger now. And it’s still yours.”

His eyes hold mine. Warm. Steady. “No,” he says. “It’s ours.”

And gods help me, I believe him.