Page 59 of Orc Me, Maybe

Miri looks awestruck.

It feels good.

Not just to be seen—but to be trusted.

The first time I sign a requisition order without checking it twice, I know I’ve officially lost my mind—or found it.

Depending on how you look at it.

It’s morning, and the camp is humming. The kind of hum that makes your skin buzz with possibility. Birds flit between enchanted feeder pods near the dining hall. A pair of gnomes argue lovingly over how to best stabilize a climbing wall charm. Lillian streaks past, barefoot and giggling, chased by a sprite with what looks suspiciously like glitter paste in its tiny hands.

Meanwhile, I’m running logistics like I was born doing it.

Torack kept his word. He stepped back—slowly, stubbornly, like a tree unwilling to accept winter, but he did. He checks in during sunrise patrols, reviews long-term plans by the firepit, but the daily stuff? The on-the-ground, do-or-die decisions?

That’s all me now.

And I’m thriving.

Which is strange, because part of me thought that without the pressure of needing to prove myself to him every second, I’d flail. That I was only sharp because I had something to push against. But it turns out I’m sharp because I give a damn.

Because this place matters.

And because it feels like home.

Even if my cabin still leaks when it rains and someone in the fishfolk dorm insists on using my favorite shirt as a napkin.

I’m halfway through reorganizing the supply chain schedule when Torack wanders into my makeshift office—read: a table under a magically air-cooled awning—with two cups of strong black coffee.

He hands me one without a word.

I take a sip. “Still brooding in silence as your primary form of support?”

“It’s efficient.”

I smirk. “You’re lucky I like brooding.”

“Is it brooding if I brought caffeine?”

“I’ll allow it.”

He leans against the support post, arms folded, watching the younger staffers wrangle a trio of teleport-happy goblin twins.

“You’ve changed things,” he says.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s a compliment.”

I look up. “Really?”

He nods once. “People laugh more. Problems get solved before they become crises. You even got Groth to use a spreadsheet.”

I gasp. “You said you’d never tell.”

A flicker of a smile. Barely there. But real.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs.

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