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JULIE

I don’t know what hell I signed up for, but it definitely wasn’t this one, where my shoes are plotting against me and the ground makes wet farting noises when I walk.

Groth leads me past the construction fence like a troll-shaped GPS, and every step feels like a betrayal. My boots—I thought they were rugged—are about as useful here as high heels in a bog.

“This isn’t swamp,” Groth says, voice gravelly and way too smug. “It’s engineered sediment. Natural drainage field.”

“It’s moist soup,” I reply, doing a little skip-hop to avoid sinking deeper. “A field of soup.”

He grunts, amused. “Bet your resume doesn’t say ‘terrain tactician,’ huh?”

“No, but it does say ‘fluent in three scheduling apps and capable of hosting a Zoom call during a fire drill,’” I mutter.

“Useful out here.”

“I’m wildly underqualified for nature.”

He gestures to the half-framed bath house ahead. “Boss says you’re project-side now. I figured it’s time to teach you where not to step.”

“I feel like this whole zone is a big screaming NOT HERE sign,” I say, eyeing the ground suspiciously like it might lunge.

Groth chuckles like a garbage disposal swallowing gravel. “You’ll get the hang of it. Or you’ll lose a shoe. Either way, you’ll remember.”

And like some backwoods prophecy coming to life, that’s exactly the moment my foot sinks. Deep. With a sound that can only be described as a burp from the devil himself.

“No. No-no-no—ugh!”

I try to yank my foot back, but the mud isn’t having it. My boot stays behind like a soldier fallen in battle, and I stumble backward, arms windmilling, now wearing one sock that instantly absorbs swamp juice.

Groth doubles over laughing. Not even politely—he’s wheezing like someone who swallowed a kazoo.

“You said I’d remember!” I shout, stabbing a finger at him. “You didn’t say I’d need to file a missing persons report for my footwear!”

He wipes his eyes, face red. “City girl down. Swamp: one. Secretary: zero.”

I fish around for the boot, but it’s hopeless. The mud has claimed it. It is mud now.

Groth offers me a hand, which I don’t take, and I slosh out onto semi-dry land, one foot squelching loudly with every step like I’m part of some demented children’s puppet show.

“This was not in the job description,” I grumble.

“Sure it was,” Groth says. “Fine print. Right next to ‘diplomatic wrangler of picky elves’ and ‘orc babysitter.’”

“You are a troll,” I declare.

He grins. “Technically, goblin. Troll’s are much taller. But I’ll take it.”

We head toward a tarp-covered bucket labeled WASH STATION (PROBABLY NOT CURSED) . I eye it like it might bite.

“You gotta dunk the foot,” Groth advises.

“Can’t I just… let the mud dry and flake off?”

“Sure. But then the pixies might think you're trying to summon their god.”

“Oh good. Pixie curses. Can’t wait.” I roll my eyes and do as I’m instructed.

The water in the bucket is freezing. Like, hello, my soul just left my body cold. I dunk my foot in, yelping like a kicked kettle.

“You okay?” comes a familiar voice behind me.

I turn—awkwardly, still balancing on one leg—and find Torack standing there, arms crossed like he just stumbled upon a sitcom and isn’t sure if he’s amused or horrified.

“I lost a shoe,” I say flatly.

He looks down at my sad, muddy sock, then up again. “Battle scar.”

“I feel like the terrain’s fighting dirty.”

He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifts. It counts.

“Groth took you through the drainage zone?” he asks.

I sigh. “I think he was hoping I’d fall in and get swallowed completely.”

“Sounds like Groth,” he replies, a hint of humor in his tone.

“He also told me salamanders hold grudges.”

“They do.”

I blink. “Wait, really ?”

Torack shrugs. “One bit me in ‘98. Still won’t look me in the eye.”

I pause, staring at him. “Are you joking?”

He shrugs again.

“Oh my god, you’re not joking.”

He moves closer, picking up my abandoned boot from the ground like it’s a crime scene artifact. “You’ll need new ones. Those aren’t built for mountain soil.”

“I got them on sale,” I mutter.

“They lied to you.”

I sigh, then finally plop down on a flat rock and start wringing out my sock.

“You’re not quitting, are you?” he asks after a beat.

“Over a boot?”

“Over a swamp. Over Groth. Over… this.”

I glance around. At the piles of lumber, the buzzing of saws, the distant sound of Lillian shouting something triumphant to a squirrel.

“No,” I say. “I’m not quitting. I came here to prove myself, and I haven’t even had the chance to break a printer yet.”

Torack raises a brow. “You’re waiting to break office equipment?”

“It’s a rite of passage.”

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. Progress.

“You’re more stubborn than you look,” he says.

“Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Both.”

I smirk. “I’ll take it.”

Across the field, Lillian is crouched in attack mode behind a tree, holding out what I think is a granola bar to a butterfly.

“She told me it’s a dryad in disguise,” Torack says when he sees me watching.

“Honestly? I believe her.”

“She’s either going to rule the world or burn it down.”

“She’s already doing both,” I say.

We sit in silence for a minute, the weird, comfortable kind.

“You know,” I say, “this place is a mess.”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s got something.”

He nods slowly. “That’s why we’re here.”

I nudge my boot. “Still gonna need hazard pay.”

“You survive one more walk with Groth and I’ll double your salary.”

“Deal.”

He walks off before I can ask if he’s serious. Probably not. But hey, at least I still have one boot.

I stand, squelch my way back to the cabin, and decide that tomorrow, I’m bringing extra socks. And maybe knee pads. And peppermints for the salamanders. Just in case.

Because this camp might try to kill me—but damned if I’m not gonna outlast it.