Page 27

TORACK

I wake before the sun.

The camp's still wrapped in that half-silence that only comes just before dawn—too late for dreams, too early for duties.

The fire's out. The kettle's cold. The air holds that hint of woodsmoke and pine and something else I can’t name.

It's not nerves. Not exactly. But it's close.

Lillian snores lightly from her bed in the corner, one arm flung over her favorite stuffed wyrm, the other twitching like she’s mid-battle with imaginary wolves in her sleep. I sit on the edge of my own cot, elbows on knees, fingers threaded together.

Today's the day.

I’ve built empires. Wielded contracts with a single glance. Led men into dangerous territories, rebuilt this camp from ash and memory. But none of it feels like it matters this morning. Not compared to what I’m about to do.

Because today I’m going to ask Julie Wren to marry me.

And that terrifies me more than any battlefield ever has.

Not because I doubt her, or us. But because when you’ve been broken once—and lost someone who mattered more than breathing—you start to believe some things aren’t meant for you anymore.

Then she showed up. With her color-coded binders, her city perfume and inappropriate footwear, and her soft hands that built more than a system—they built a home.

And now she’s leaving, unless I do something about it.

I spend the morning walking the camp. Not because I need to. Julie’s had things running smoother than I ever managed since she stepped up. No, I’m walking because I need to breathe. Because motion is easier than emotion. Because stillness leaves room for doubt.

Groth finds me outside the smithy. He doesn’t say anything at first, just hands me a mug of something hot and foul-smelling that I’m sure he brewed in a boot.

“You look like a man fixin’ to jump off a cliff,” he says.

I grunt. “Maybe I am.”

“You got the ring?”

I pat my pocket.

“She deserves to hear it, Torack. Not just feel it. Not guess it. Hear it.”

“I know.”

Groth nods once and walks off like his job’s done.

He’s not wrong. None of them are. I’ve been walking around with love for Julie buried under years of grief and discipline and pride. But she saw through all of that. She saw me.

And still chose to stay.

Until I gave her no reason to.

Now, I’m gonna fix that.

—

Lillian’s waiting when I get back to the cabin, already dressed, already beaming.

“You ready?” she asks like we’re about to take a hike instead of change all our lives.

“As I’ll ever be.”

She grabs my hand. “You remember what to say?”

I smirk. “I wrote it down.”

She groans. “No! Just speak from your heart!”

I sigh. “That’s the plan.”

We head toward the clearing where I know Julie will be. Where she always goes when she thinks too hard or hurts too deep.

And I carry the weight of this moment like it’s sacred.

Because it is.

Julie’s standing at the edge of the glade, facing the trees like they hold the answers I’ve never been brave enough to say out loud.

Her bag’s slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing that worn camp sweatshirt I know she loves, the one with the fraying cuffs and the glitter Lillian smeared across the hem.

She turns when she hears us. Her expression flickers: hope, pain, resignation, all battling for control.

“You came to say goodbye?” she asks, voice quiet, even.

“No,” I say. “I came to ask you to stay.”

I step forward, slow, every movement deliberate. Lillian’s hand is in mine. I feel her squeezing it, like she’s pouring courage into my veins.

“I thought you made your decision,” Julie says, arms crossed tight.

“I didn’t,” I reply. “I just didn’t say what I should have. Because I’m stubborn. And I’ve already lost too much to know how to ask for more.”

Her eyes glisten. “You think this is easy for me?”

“No,” I say. “I know it’s not. That’s why I’m here now. Doing the hard thing.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the box. It’s plain, no velvet, no gold. Just dark wood and iron hinges. I made it myself, a week ago, when I realized what I couldn’t let go of.

I drop to one knee.

Julie gasps.

Lillian lets go of my hand and stands proudly beside me.

“Julie Wren,” I say, throat tight. “You walked into my world like a storm. And somehow, instead of tearing things down, you built something stronger.”

I open the box. The ring glints, simple and solid.

“You make me better. You make us better.”

Lillian nods, grinning wide.

“I’m not good at this,” I continue, “but I want you to stay. As my partner. As my equal. As Lillian’s… everything. As mine.”

Julie’s already crying. She covers her mouth with both hands, shaking.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” I say, heart pounding. “I just needed you to know—if you want to stay, this is your home. We’re your family.”

She drops her bag.

Falls to her knees.

And throws her arms around both of us.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Lillian squeals. I bury my face in Julie’s neck, breathing her in like it’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to hope.

And just like that… we’re not alone anymore.

We’re a family.

We sit in the grass for a while, the three of us, quiet except for the rustle of leaves and Lillian humming some nonsense lullaby as she braids a flower crown from clover and wild mint. Julie leans against me, her head tucked under my chin, her fingers laced in mine like it’s always been this way.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says after a while.

“I almost didn’t,” I admit. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because I didn’t think I deserved it.”

She lifts her head to look at me. “You’re allowed to be happy, Torack. You’re allowed to want things.”

“I want you,” I say.

“I know,” she whispers.

We make our way back to camp eventually. Slowly. The sun’s higher now, warming the dew off the grass. We pass Groth, who’s chopping wood and pretending not to watch us, but his grin is as wide as his axe swing.

“About time,” he mutters.

Julie squeezes my hand.

By the time we reach the main clearing, half the camp seems to know. Word travels fast when pixies and goblins are involved. There are cheers. Shouts. Someone’s set off a confetti charm that explodes overhead in a puff of glitter and rose petals.

Julie laughs. I don’t even grumble about the glitter.

Later that night, after the fire’s burned low and Lillian’s finally fallen asleep wrapped in a blanket between us, I press a kiss to Julie’s temple and whisper, “Thank you for saying yes.”

She smiles in the dark. “Thanks for asking.”

And for once, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for the next disaster.

For once, I just feel… whole.

Home.