Page 26

JULIE

I wake up with the kind of dread that hums in your bones.

The sunlight streaming through the canvas wall should be comforting—gentle, warm, laced with birdsong—but today it hits like a deadline. Final. Unforgiving. A reminder.

Today is the end.

My contract expires at sunset.

And the world keeps turning like it doesn’t care.

I lie still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of my tent, hoping the feeling will pass. It doesn’t. It curls tighter in my chest with every passing second, wrapping itself around my lungs, my heart, my spine.

There’s no knock at my flap. No surprise “hey, about that extension” or sudden emergencies to delay the inevitable. Just the quiet certainty that everything I’ve built here might evaporate before dinner.

I finally sit up and swing my legs over the cot, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.

My bag waits at the foot of the bed, half-packed from the night before.

My clipboard leans against the nightstand, lonely.

Lillian’s drawing—me, her, and Torack, all holding hands in front of the camp gates—is still pinned to the post beside my pillow.

I touch it once, gently, like it might disappear if I press too hard.

Then I breathe, square my shoulders, and start folding.

Because that’s what I do.

I fold the chaos. I order the fear. I make myself small and efficient and reliable. Even when it feels like something in me is screaming don’t go so loud it might crack my ribs.

I start with the socks.

Not because they matter most, but because they’re neutral. Safe. Practical. The kind of thing you can roll up and stack without thinking too hard about what they mean. You don’t cry over socks. Usually.

My hands fold out of habit. Left over right, cuff aligned, no loose edges. Like every part of me that’s spent a lifetime trying to be neat and small and unnoticeable. Efficient.

One pair. Then two. Then the shirt I wore the first day here—blue cotton, still faintly stained with troll mud despite three washes and a desperate lemon charm.

Then the camp-issued sweater Lillian decorated with glitter sigils.

Then the clipboard I haven’t let go of since month one, the edges worn soft by grip and worry.

Each thing goes into the duffel like a silent goodbye.

And still, no one’s said anything.

The contract ends today. Not tomorrow. Not in a week. Not metaphorically. Officially. Legally. In real, ink-and-seal, thank-you-for-your-service form.

No renewal. No offer. No request to stay.

Torack hasn’t said a word about it. Not even a grunt of approval or a grunt of dismissal—which, let’s be honest, cover 90% of his emotional vocabulary.

So I’m packing.

Because I’m not the kind of girl who waits around to be dismissed. I’ve worked too hard, proven too much, to beg for scraps of belonging. I saw this coming. Of course I did.

And yet, here I am, blinking way too hard over a pair of rolled-up socks.

The camp is quieter than usual this morning. Not silent—never that. But muffled, like the forest itself knows something’s shifting.

The smell of warded firewood hangs in the air.

Laughter drifts from the mess hall. Someone’s tuning a lute off-key near the dorms. It all feels so normal.

Which makes it worse. Groth finds me hunched over a box of inventory ledgers in the storage tent, furrowed and flustered and pretending I’m just organizing.

“Morning, General,” he rumbles, arms crossed.

I give a half-smile. “Don’t call me that. I’m a civilian now.”

He grunts. “Bull.”

“I’m serious. My contract’s up.”

“You’re really gonna leave.”

“I’m not exactly being asked to stay.”

Groth steps into the tent. His bulk takes up half the space and all the air. “He’s an idiot.”

“I’m not doing this because of Torack.”

“Liar.”

I shut the box a little too fast. “It’s my job, Groth. It’s over.”

“Jobs can change.”

“Not when the person in charge doesn’t say a damn word.”

He watches me for a long moment. “You think he doesn’t want you here?”

I hesitate. “I think… he doesn’t know how to say it. If he does.”

“He knows.”

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?”

“Because he’s scared,” Groth says simply. “Because he lost too much before. Because letting you stay means admitting he wants something he doesn’t know how to keep.”

I swallow hard.

“He’ll let you walk away if that’s what you want,” Groth adds. “But not because he doesn’t care.” The portal stone hums beneath my hand.

One bag slung over my shoulder. One step away from disappearing.

My fingers hover over the sigil that would open the path back to the city. Back to job listings and coffee shops and tiny apartments with too much tile and not enough heart.

Then I hear it.

“JOOOOOLS!”

I turn just in time for a blur of curls and fury to slam into me.

Lillian. Breathless. Tear-streaked. Hands fisted in my sweater like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“You can’t leave!” she yells. “You’re not allowed!”

“Lil—”

“No! You don’t get to go! I didn’t even get to say goodbye!”

My heart splinters. “Kid, I wasn’t?—”

“You were! I saw the bag! I saw you talking to the portal!”

“I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about leaving me!” she sobs.

I drop to my knees and pull her close. She’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, and all I can do is hold her and hate myself.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I whisper. “I just… didn’t know if I was still wanted.”

“You are. You’re wanted. You’re mine!”

I laugh, but it breaks. “I don’t get to stay just because I want to. It has to be right. For the camp. For your dad.”

“He’s dumb,” she mutters. “He thinks too much and talks too little.”

“I’ve noticed.”

She pulls back. “Did he even tell you how he feels?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I will. I love you. Like, for real. Not fake camp love. Real love.”

I hug her tighter. “I love you too.”

She wipes her nose on my sleeve. “So that means you can’t leave.”

“It means… I’m not sure what happens next.”

“You stay. That’s what happens.”

I wish it were that simple.

But maybe… maybe it is.

“Just one more day!” she pleads. “No one else is waiting for that cabin. Please?! Just one more?”

I sigh. How can I say no to that?