Page 58 of Orc Me, Maybe

She goes rigid immediately.

I watch them. The ease, the rhythm, and something tight inside my chest lets go.

When Julie’s done, Lillian hops down and runs to the mirror.

“Best one yet!” she declares, spinning. “Can I sleep in it?”

Julie laughs. “Sure, if you sleep like a statue.” She turns to me. “You want to tuck her in, or should I?”

“Let’s both do it.”

Lillian curls up under her moss-green quilt, the one embroidered with fireflies. Her braid fans across the pillow like a crown. She blinks up at me.

“Are you gonna be home more?” she asks softly.

I kneel beside her bed. “Yeah. I am.”

She nods once. “Good. ’Cause I like it when we’re all here.”

Julie tucks the quilt tighter. And I look at her, really look at Julie Wren.

She’s not just helping me run this camp.

She’s helping me build a life.

CHAPTER 24

JULIE

The morning air smells like pine needles and promise.

There’s dew on the grass, a faint shimmer of ward magic across the training field, and for once—miraculously—I’m not rushing. My mug of tea is still hot in my hands. I haven’t snapped at a single goblin intern. And the schedule for the day is laminated, color-coded, and organized in triplicate. The Julie Trifecta.

I stretch beneath the overhang of the administrative yurt and breathe.

I used to think control was everything. That power came from preparedness and bullet-point agendas and contingency plans labeled A through M. And don’t get me wrong, those still matter.

But now?

Now I know power is also letting go. Delegating. Trusting the people you train to handle it while you enjoy your first sip of green jasmine tea and don’t have to pretend you’re fine through a stress-induced eye twitch.

Across the quad, the early shift is swapping out elemental wards on the west perimeter. Lillian’s chasing a paper charm in her pajamas, barefoot and giggling, her braid swinging behindher like a comet tail. Groth is already yelling at someone in the kitchen—something about “cursed jam proportions” and “if one more sprite eats the butterberries raw.”

All of it hums like music.

And I’m standing in the middle of it, calm as a moonrise.

When I step into the staff meeting fifteen minutes later, three people are already waiting: Orlan with his overstuffed binder, Crisa with her color-coded crystal markers, and young Miri, the new intern who still mixes up teleport runes like a toddler on sugar.

They all turn when I enter.

And somehow, nobody looks surprised I’m the one leading.

“Okay,” I say, smiling as I set down my notes. “Let’s talk about outreach logistics for the Spring Harmony Festival, and then we’ll dive into procurement. We need twenty-five extra sleeping mats, a salt barrier refresh for the fire circle, and someone needs to convince Groth that we don’t need seventeen barrels of turnip cider.”

Crisa raises a hand. “Do we want mead, then?”

“I want fewer sprained ankles. Last time, half the dryads fell asleep on the archery range.” Orlan chuckles.

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