Page 43 of Orc Me, Maybe

Don’t need to.

“State your concern,” I say roughly. I only have so much empathy on a good day, and these people have made this day turn sour.

A woman with cropped gray hair steps forward, eyes blazing. “We heard what happened. About the equipment. The sabotage. That someone could’ve died.”

“That was internal,” I say. “Handled. The threat’s been removed.”

“You expect us to believe that?” a man growls.

“You’ve got orcs and goblins teaching children! You think a few press statements cover that?”

“None of our campers were ever in danger,” I say.

“That’s what that wizard group said too,” another woman snaps. “And now there’s a memorial stone outside the woods.”

I feel the rage rise, tight and sharp at the back of my throat. My hands curl, but I don’t clench them. Not yet.

“We’re not them.”

“But you’re still here. And that’s the problem.”

They want me gone.

Want the camp gone.

And I get it. Humans don’t trust what they don’t understand. We build safe places out here because we’re not allowed in theirs.

But they’re not going to win this.

Not today.

Julie shows up like a lightning strike; clipboard, blazer, fire in her eyes. Her steps crunch gravel as she brushes past Groth and plants herself beside me like she’s always belonged there.

She takes a breath. Then another.

“Hi,” she says, bright but firm. “Julie Wren. Head of operations.”

No one speaks.

“I understand your concerns,” she continues. “And I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending nothing happened. There was sabotage. It was caught. The culprit has been removed, and safeguards are stronger now than ever.”

They bristle. But they’re listening.

She presses on. “This camp serves magical youth from all over the country. And yes, many of them are nonhuman. But that doesn’t make them dangerous. That makes them underrepresented.”

“Easy for you to say,” someone spits. “You’re human.”

Julie doesn’t flinch. “Yes. I am. Which is why I can tell you, as a human, that this camp doesn’t threaten your town. It supports it.”

“How?” someone scoffs. “Your campers don’t shop here. You’ve got your own supply lines. You’ve never invited anyone to see what goes on behind those trees.”

Her eyes flick to me.

Then back to them.

“Because that’s going to change,” she says.

I stiffen.

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