Page 24 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

T he elevator hums like a distant drum beneath my feet.

I stand alone, tall and still beneath polished chrome and cold steel, the flickering numbers counting toward the top floor like a final summons. Outside the glass wall, the city stretches gray and infinite beneath a heavy rain. Streets gleam with water. Headlights carve paths through mist.

My reflection stares back at me in the metal doors—broad shoulders beneath tailored charcoal, face carved sharper than it was weeks ago.

Hard lines. Harder resolve.

I adjust the grip on the leather portfolio in my hand. Inside:

Jamie’s story, sleeved and weighted with more than words.

The compass from Old Man Cass, its cracked face now bearing Jamie’s crayon-scrawled reminder: “Find your brave.”

And the revised blueprints—drawn with sleepless hands and a heart I have finally chosen to follow.

The doors slide open on a muted chime.

The executive floor breathes cold and sterile. High glass walls throw back fractured reflections of the boardroom beyond. Black marble floors gleam beneath harsh white lights. The scent of leather, steel, and faint citrus lingers in the air—too clean. Too empty.

I walk with purpose.

Each step echoes beneath the silent gaze of the staff who remain—assistants, aides, all schooled in stillness, though I catch flickers of curiosity in their eyes.

They know something is coming.

Ilyana stands outside the boardroom doors, arms folded, jaw tight.

“You understand what they will say,” she murmurs.

I incline my head. “I do.”

Her gaze sharpens. “You will be alone in that room.”

“No,” I say quietly. “Not alone.”

Her brow lifts.

I press the portfolio to my side and step past her.

The doors open at her gesture—silent and smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath.

The boardroom gleams beneath ceiling-suspended light. An obsidian table stretches long and cold, ringed by leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the storm-churned skyline beyond—lightning flickering faint behind sheets of rain.

The room smells of money, cold ambition, and polished power.

Six faces turn as I enter.

Malkor Veyne, seated with fingers steepled.

Anna Quill, her sharp eyes already weighing me.

The others—figures who have watched my rise and now hope to chart my fall.

I take my seat at the head of the table.

The leather is cool beneath my palms.

Anna wastes no time. “You requested this meeting.”

Malkor smirks. “We assume you intend to waste more of our time.”

I unfasten the portfolio. Slide the revised blueprints across the table—one set for each member.

“The revised vision for Lowtide Bluffs,” I say evenly. “A sustainable plan—honoring community legacy, ensuring long-term brand equity, and stabilizing revenue through diversified engagement.”

Anna flips through the pages, brow arching.

“Artisan stalls,” she reads aloud. “Preservation corridors. Sightline restrictions.”

Malkor leans back with a scoff. “You’re proposing we throw away millions.”

I meet his gaze without flinching. “I propose we build something that endures.”

He snorts. “Endures? Nostalgia fades.”

“Trust does not,” I reply. “And neither does identity.”

Anna closes the packet with a sharp snap. “Emotion does not pay dividends.”

I unfasten the next sleeve of the portfolio—Jamie’s story.

I slide it forward.

“This is what the town sees,” I say. “What the next generation believes about us.”

Anna’s lip curls. “A child’s fantasy.”

“A child’s truth,” I correct. “And truth shapes loyalty more than profit.”

Malkor leans in, voice oily. “We are not in the business of bedtime stories.”

“No,” I say quietly. “We are in the business of futures. And this—” I tap the story’s cover “—is the foundation of one.”

The room hums with cold tension.

Anna folds her hands. “The board has voted. One more delay, one more deviation from the approved plan—and you will be removed as CEO.”

Malkor smirks. “You cannot lead with a bleeding heart.”

I let the silence stretch.

Then I reach into the final pocket of the portfolio.

I set the compass on the table.

Its cracked face gleams faint beneath the lights. The words “Find your brave” glow like a quiet dare.

I place the final document beside it—a single folded sheet.

“I anticipated this,” I say, voice low.

Anna’s eyes narrow. “Explain.”

I meet her gaze. “Over the past quarter, I have quietly acquired additional equity. Strategic buybacks. Silent partnerships.”

Malkor frowns. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible.” I unfold the document. “Patient.”

I push it forward.

“Effective this morning,” I say softly, “I hold a controlling interest in this firm.”

The air fractures.

Anna’s knuckles whiten on the table’s edge.

Malkor’s mouth parts in disbelief.

The others exchange sharp, restless glances.

I lean back, and smile.

Silence holds the room in a vice grip.

Anna’s eyes flick from the document to me, calculation flickering in their depths.

Malkor stares, disbelief warping his smug veneer.

“You cannot do this,” he says at last, voice low and hard.

I rise slowly, letting the deliberate movement settle over them like a shadow.

“I can,” I say. “And I will.”

Anna’s jaw tightens. “This is reckless.”

“No,” I say, voice cutting through the tension like tempered steel. “This is right.”

I pick up the compass, weighing its familiar heft in my palm.

“Full demolition is vetoed—effective immediately,” I state, gaze sweeping the room. “The revised preservation-forward plan stands.”

A sharp exhale from Anna. “You’ll cost us millions.”

“We will make more—by building trust, not by tearing it apart.”

Malkor slams a palm to the table. “You are gambling the future of this firm on sentiment!”

I meet his fury with calm clarity.

“We don’t raze what raised us,” I say quietly.

The words land deeper than any argument.

Because beneath the cold calculus of this room, they all know the truth of it. There are things worth more than profit. Roots that anchor more than balance sheets.

I tuck the compass into my pocket, gather the portfolio beneath one arm.

And with my head high, I walk to the door.

“I will send updated execution orders within the hour,” I say.

The room remains frozen in my wake.

As I step into the corridor, the city hums beyond the glass—storm-swept, fierce, alive.

And so am I.