Page 18 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he cursor blinks at me like a judgment.

I sit alone in the regional office’s executive conference room, long after the others have left. The city beyond the glass walls is a sprawl of bruised light—windows glittering against a rain-dark sky, headlights slicing through the streets below like restless fish beneath black ice.

Inside, the hum of the HVAC system is the only sound. Even the clock has been silenced here; in this place, time exists only in the mind and on the balance sheet.

I should be reviewing forecasts. Preparing tomorrow’s earnings call. Finalizing the demolition sign-off.

Instead, I stare at the draft proposal glowing cold and bright before me.

Lowtide Bluffs Redevelopment—Vision Revision 4.

I flex my hands once, twice.

They do not tremble. Not yet.

I think of the boy—Jamie—eyes bright as sea glass as he read his story beneath paper lanterns. Of Rowan standing in the glow, gaze fierce and wary, heart beating loud enough I could almost feel it through the air.

I think of a place built from stories, not steel.

And I begin to type.

PROPOSED REDEVELOPMENT—REVISION 4.

Full structural restoration of western boardwalk sector (historic core).

Preservation of love-lock rail, fish-fry stand, select original vendor stalls.

Foundation reinforcement and upgraded safety compliance.

Modernization limited to non-historic segments.

Prioritized leasing to community artisans, local vendors.

Maximum height restrictions to preserve ocean sightlines.

My fingers move faster now, carving a path through the numbers and jargon. My old self would call this weakness—sentiment infecting the clean geometry of profit.

I no longer care.

I glance at the folded scrap of paper tucked in the inner flap of my wallet.

“He used a wrench and a wish. And he fixed it.”

A child’s story—yet it holds more truth than a thousand quarterly reports.

I sit back, reread the draft in its entirety.

It is not perfect.

It is honest.

I save the file and attach it to a message addressed to the board and to Ilyana:

Subject: Lowtide Bluffs—Final Vision.

I hesitate for one breathless beat.

Then send.

The window goes dark.

I lean back, listening to the hollow quiet of this place I built.

And wonder—when exactly did I begin to want things that do not live on ledgers.

The answer comes swiftly.

Less than twelve hours later, Ilyana summons me.

The primary conference room gleams like a blade. Steel and glass, polished wood, chairs arranged like a tribunal.

The board is present—six figures already seated beneath the halo of overhead lights.

I stride in, every motion deliberate, controlled.

The room smells faintly of citrus oil and cold ambition.

Malkor Veyne sits at the end—an elf whose greed runs deeper than any river I’ve charted. Anna Quill, human, sharp-eyed and quick as a hawk, flips through a paper copy of my proposal.

Ilyana stands at the head of the table.

“Drokhaz,” she says without preamble. “We have reviewed your revision.”

She slides the document toward me. Her nails—polished obsidian—click against the paper.

“Unacceptable.”

I fold my hands atop the table. “Explain.”

Malkor leans back, voice like ice cracking. “Sentiment does not drive shareholder value.”

Anna’s gaze pins me. “Your stakeholders expect maximized returns. Your revision reduces net profit potential by 23.6%.”

I say nothing.

Anna continues. “Preserving these… ‘historical elements’ is a liability.”

“They are the identity of the space,” I reply.

“Identity does not appear in quarterly earnings.”

Ilyana’s gaze sharpens. “Drokhaz—this is not the firm we built. You taught us: Clarity. Precision. No weakness.”

I study her. “There is strength in purpose.”

“And there is ruin in distraction.”

The air tightens.

Anna leans forward. “One more delay on this project, and this board will move to restructure leadership.”

A line drawn in steel.

I meet her gaze, steady. “Understood.”

“Good.” She rises. “Meeting adjourned.”

The others file out, suits sharp as blades.

Only Ilyana remains.

She closes the door with a soft click, arms folding.

“You are risking everything,” she says quietly. “For sentiment.”

I glance toward the window—where the city gleams soulless beyond the glass.

I think of Rowan’s voice breaking when she thanked me. Of the way her hands lingered against mine. Of the lanterns swaying above a boardwalk built from more than wood.

“Because it matters.”

Ilyana’s eyes narrow. “You are at a crossroads.”

I nod once. “I know.”

Her voice softens. “Choose wisely, Drokhaz.”

She leaves.

I stand alone in the cold heart of the empire I forged. I want something no empire can buy.

And I will not let it go.

I do not return to my office.

Instead, I take the long way—through the quiet core of the building, lights dimmed to skeleton crews, the floor beneath me gleaming like water in the dark.

The city hums beyond glass walls, alive and endless.

But I am thinking of the sea.

I step into the small executive lounge—empty at this hour. No eyes here but mine.

I sink into a leather chair near the window.

And I pull the compass from my coat pocket.

Cass’s voice is still clear as salt in my veins:

"North doesn’t always mean right."

I turn the worn brass in my palm. The cracked glass glints faintly in the dim light.

The needle spins lazily.

Unmoored.

I tighten my grip.

I have fought my whole life to rise. To conquer boardrooms where no orc had ever been welcome. To build a company no rival could unseat.

I built it by being harder. Sharper. Colder.

Now—this.

A boardwalk. A woman with ink-stained hands. A child’s story folded in my wallet.

I am a fool.

The fight feels worthy.

Not for power.

For home.

A place that holds memory as tightly as it holds tide. A place where stories matter. Where a green giant can fix the sea with a wrench and a wish.

My brother would have laughed at me.

Or perhaps not.

"Some things are worth bleeding for."

I rise slowly.

Pocket the compass.

I will not run.

I will fight.

And not to own this place—but to stand beside it.

To preserve what should not be lost to men who count worth in gold alone.

The thought settles deep in my chest, firm as stone.

I walk from the lounge into the heart of the building I forged.

And I know now, no matter what the board decides, this is a war I will not surrender.