Page 1 of Till Orc Do Us Part
CHAPTER 1
ROWAN
The mic smells like dust and recycled disappointment.
I grip the podium with both hands, knuckles pale against the dark, warped wood, and force myself to breathe. One breath. Two. The room buzzes like a beehive ready to split—locals squeezed into foldout chairs, shoulder to shoulder, with sweat-damped brows and sunburned arms, murmuring their outrage in wave after wave.
“Ms. Moore?” Councilman Kendrick prompts. He’s wearing his usual smirk, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already picked the winning team—and it ain’t yours.
I clear my throat. My voice comes out rough, too soft.
“I—uh, I wanted to speak on behalf of the Save the Boardwalk initiative.”
Liara, sitting two rows back, gives me a sharp nod. Jamie is at home with my neighbor, coloring sharks and maps and pretending the world isn’t shifting under our feet. I wish I had that kind of magic.
I find my voice halfway through the second sentence. “This boardwalk isn’t just planks and nails. It’s history. It’s legacy. It’s where my son learned to walk. Where I learned how to stand.”
Someone claps. I don’t look. If I look, I’ll lose the thread.
“This proposal? It’s not revitalization. It’s erasure. You want to pave over generations for some rooftop bar and executive condos?—”
A chair squeaks, loud, interrupting me. Everyone turns.
He walks in like a goddamn shadow.
Drokhaz Vellum, CEO of Vellum Ventures. Orc tycoon. Harbinger of glass-and-steel death for everything quaint and handmade. He’s late. He’s massive. And of course, he’s dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my bookstore made last year.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands in the back, arms crossed, eyes like twin eclipses. Watching.
I swallow hard, pulse thudding in my ears.
“—and I get it,” I say, louder now. “You want something sleek. Efficient. Marketable. But Lowtide Bluffs isn’t some forgotten seaside hiccup on your investment portfolio. This is home. And homes can’t be bought out and bulldozed just because someone with a marketing team thinks concrete is more charming than creaky wood.”
Kendrick tries to cut in, but I don’t let him.
“Look, I know I’m not polished. I run a bookstore that doubles as a bake sale half the time. I’ve got a kid who thinks sea monsters are real and a heating system that wheezes like it’s haunted. But I love this town. Every broken bench, every crooked railing. And I’m not the only one.”
I pause.
“Mr. Vellum?—”
His name feels like vinegar on my tongue.
“—you want to make us believe this is progress. But all I see is a wrecking ball in a bespoke jacket.”
The room gasps.
Dead silence.
The kind that makes your skin prickle. Someone coughs near the back. The fluorescent lights buzz louder than my pulse.
I should apologize. I should sit down. I should not—under any circumstances—look at him.
But I do.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t narrow his eyes or grind his tusks. Just stares at me like I’m a riddle someone dared him to solve. Unreadable.
And somehow that’s worse.
