Page 1 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he mic smells like dust and recycled disappointment.

I grip the podium with both hands, knuckles pale against the dark, warped wood, and force myself to breathe.

One breath. Two. The room buzzes like a beehive ready to split—locals squeezed into foldout chairs, shoulder to shoulder, with sweat-damped brows and sunburned arms, murmuring their outrage in wave after wave.

“Ms. Moore?” Councilman Kendrick prompts. He’s wearing his usual smirk, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already picked the winning team—and it ain’t yours.

I clear my throat. My voice comes out rough, too soft.

“I—uh, I wanted to speak on behalf of the Save the Boardwalk initiative.”

Liara, sitting two rows back, gives me a sharp nod. Jamie is at home with my neighbor, coloring sharks and maps and pretending the world isn’t shifting under our feet. I wish I had that kind of magic.

I find my voice halfway through the second sentence. “This boardwalk isn’t just planks and nails. It’s history. It’s legacy. It’s where my son learned to walk. Where I learned how to stand.”

Someone claps. I don’t look. If I look, I’ll lose the thread.

“This proposal? It’s not revitalization. It’s erasure. You want to pave over generations for some rooftop bar and executive condos?—”

A chair squeaks, loud, interrupting me. Everyone turns.

He walks in like a goddamn shadow.

Drokhaz Vellum, CEO of Vellum Ventures. Orc tycoon. Harbinger of glass-and-steel death for everything quaint and handmade. He’s late. He’s massive. And of course, he’s dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my bookstore made last year.

He doesn’t say a word. Just stands in the back, arms crossed, eyes like twin eclipses. Watching.

I swallow hard, pulse thudding in my ears.

“—and I get it,” I say, louder now. “You want something sleek. Efficient. Marketable. But Lowtide Bluffs isn’t some forgotten seaside hiccup on your investment portfolio.

This is home. And homes can’t be bought out and bulldozed just because someone with a marketing team thinks concrete is more charming than creaky wood. ”

Kendrick tries to cut in, but I don’t let him.

“Look, I know I’m not polished. I run a bookstore that doubles as a bake sale half the time. I’ve got a kid who thinks sea monsters are real and a heating system that wheezes like it’s haunted. But I love this town. Every broken bench, every crooked railing. And I’m not the only one.”

I pause.

“Mr. Vellum?—”

His name feels like vinegar on my tongue.

“—you want to make us believe this is progress. But all I see is a wrecking ball in a bespoke jacket.”

The room gasps.

Dead silence.

The kind that makes your skin prickle. Someone coughs near the back. The fluorescent lights buzz louder than my pulse.

I should apologize. I should sit down. I should not—under any circumstances—look at him.

But I do.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t narrow his eyes or grind his tusks. Just stares at me like I’m a riddle someone dared him to solve. Unreadable.

And somehow that’s worse.

The council chair clears her throat, loud and pointed. “Thank you, Ms. Moore. Your time is up.”

I step back, not waiting to be dismissed. Someone claps again—Liara, defiantly—but it dies fast. I walk the narrow aisle between rows of neighbors and strangers, some whispering, some watching me like I just set a match to dry kindling.

Outside, the night air hits like a wave. Salty and sharp and full of noise.

The seagulls scream in the distance, offended by the world.

I lean against the rusted railing at the edge of the community center steps and press a hand to my chest. My heart’s trying to break the cage of my ribs, and all I can think about is the way he looked at me.

Not angry. Not even offended. Just… calm. Like he’d been expecting worse.

The door behind me creaks open. I tense.

“Thought you might need this.” Liara presses a Styrofoam cup into my hand. Coffee. Probably cold, probably awful. I drink it anyway.

“You okay?”

“No.” I sip. “But I’m done letting them think we’ll just roll over and take it.”

She leans beside me, her fox earrings catching the lamplight. “That line though—wrecking ball in a bespoke jacket? Iconic.”

“Too much?”

“Just enough.” She grins. “You shook him.”

“I don’t think he shakes.” I glance back at the door like he might still be there, looming and silent. “He absorbs.”

Liara hums. “Still. You made him pay attention.”

“I don’t want his attention. I want him gone.”

“Too bad. He’s here for the long haul.”

I breathe in slow. The ocean wind tugs my hair out of its messy bun, salt curling the ends.

Liara bumps her shoulder into mine. “You did good.”

“I insulted the man who owns half our town.”

“You told the truth. Loudly. That’s more than most people manage.” She squints toward the boardwalk, the silhouette of it soft in the distance. “Now what?”

I stare out into the dark, past the parking lot, past the lights, past the future someone else is trying to write for us.

“Now we fight,” I say.

And this time, I don’t whisper it.

I don’t realize I’ve walked halfway down the boardwalk until the wind nearly knocks the breath out of me.

The old boards creak beneath my boots, each one echoing louder than the last. I pass the closed-up popcorn stand, its striped awning sagging like it’s given up. A rusted sign creaks against a pole above it—“Lowtide Snacks – Est. 1947.” I slap it gently as I pass, like an apology.

“Damn it,” I mutter, loud to no one. “Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?”

The ocean doesn’t answer. Just keeps crashing against the pilings, stubborn and endless.

I round the corner past Liara’s half-painted mural wall, stopping beside the old fortune teller’s booth. She used to read palms and tarot for tourists until she married a siren and moved inland. The glass is foggy now, but inside the curtain still hangs—a faded blue velvet, stiff with salt.

I stare at my reflection in the glass—wild hair, flushed cheeks, eyes still bright with fire—and I hate how small I feel beneath that man’s gaze.

He didn’t react.

Not to my anger. Not to my words. Not even to the insult that practically peeled paint off the damn ceiling.

Just watched me, cool as driftwood, like I was a breeze against a wall.

I drop onto the photo booth bench, hands in my lap. The whole town probably thinks I lost it. Kendrick’ll use it against me in the next council update. Drokhaz’ll file it away as “local eccentricity.” And Jamie’ll ask tomorrow why Mommy looked like she was yelling on TV.

Great. Just perfect.

I rub my temples, breathing deep. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

“Storm’s coming,” says a voice.

I look up fast. Old Man Cass is shuffling along the planks, cane thudding with each step. He’s wearing that ridiculous waterproof poncho he swears is “enchanted” and smells faintly of fried seaweed and lemon balm.

“You were loud in there,” he says, eyes crinkling.

“I was passionate.”

He nods like it’s the same thing. “You rattled him.”

“No, I didn’t.” I stand again, dusting off the back of my cardigan. “He didn’t flinch.”

Cass shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t get under his skin. Some men bleed quiet.”

I stare out over the railing at the black water. “Maybe. But quiet bleeding doesn’t save the boardwalk.”

He grunts, pulling something from his coat pocket. A small compass, cracked down the center. “Your grandmother gave me this when we first built that popcorn stand. Said it didn’t point north. Said it pointed home.”

I take it. Turn it in my fingers. The needle spins in lazy loops.

“Where’s it pointing now?”

Cass taps my chest with one gnarled finger. “That way.”

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “My heart’s the problem, not the guide.”

He walks off without another word, whistling something old and off-key.

I tuck the broken compass into my coat and make my way back down the boardwalk. Past the benches Jamie and I painted last summer. Past the locked gate at the carousel. Back to the bookstore, where the windows glow faintly, like a lighthouse in a storm.

Tomorrow, we regroup.

Tonight, I’m allowed to fall apart—just for a little while.