Page 39 of Orc Me, Maybe

Like the wind knows something I don’t.

I finish my coffee, crush the cup, and slide it into the recycle bin by the gate before heading toward the east tower.

A bead of sweat rolls down my spine as I cross the clearing. The sun’s not high yet, but the heat’s already building. Magic always runs hot when it’s been disturbed.

I don’t run, but I do move faster. Something’s wrong, and I need to find out what before something irreversible happens.

Boots strike the ramp. I take the stairs two at a time. At the top, everything looks normal—ropes coiled, safety spells humming faintly.

I crouch beside one of the main support brackets.

And that’s when I see it: a shimmer.

Not strong. Not glowing.

Wrong.

My heart slows as I test the bolt. It comes loose too easily. Too fast. Too clean.

And that’s when the slow burn in my chest catches fire. “Groth!” I shout down. “Shut it down. All lines. Now!”

His head pops up a moment later. “What? Why?”

I hold up the bolt. “Sabotage. Magical.”

His face darkens, then disappears as he barks orders. Goblins scatter. Ropes are yanked down. Harnesses dumped. A few choice curse words float up the tower.

I slide the bolt into my pocket and take the stairs down two at a time. My jaw is tight, tusks grinding. I can feel blood pumping through my temples as the worst possible scenarios keep running in my mind.

This wasn’t an accident, this was a message.

And I know damn well who sent it.

Renault.

He’s been pushing since he slithered his way onto the board. Wanted to “optimize programming,” which is rich coming fromsomeone who once suggested we rebrand the goblin obstacle course as “low-stakes spiritual therapy.”

I storm across camp, past the main trail, through the trees. I need answers. Fast.

I round the bend and there she is: Julie. Still in the clover patch with Lillian, bent over what I now realize is either a fairy trap or an avant-garde compost heap.

They’re laughing.

It guts me.

Because this is what’s at stake. Right here. Joy. Safety. A future that smells like sunscreen and pine sap instead of sterile boardrooms and risk reports.

“Wren,” I call.

She looks up. Her whole face changes.

“Something’s wrong,” she says immediately.

“Sabotage,” I grunt. “Zipline gear. Magic-weakening charm.”

Her eyes go sharp. “How bad?”

“Would’ve snapped under full weight. Could’ve killed a kid.”

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