Page 55 of Till Orc Do Us Part
Then I slip it into the inner pocket of my wallet—behind steel cards and signed contracts.
Where it will stay.
Not because it matters to the firm.
Because it matters to me.
And some tides, I will not resist.
CHAPTER 17
ROWAN
If adrenaline were a drug, I’d be high as the moon right now.
I pace the length of the boardwalk, clipboard clutched in one hand, the other tugging at the hem of my battered “Save Our Stories” tee. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, but the air’s thick with warmth and the faint metallic tang of salt.
Lanterns strung from one end of the boardwalk to the other glow like low-hanging stars. Paper ones—soft yellow and pale blue. Some flicker with actual flame, others with magelight charms Liara and a few other local witches whispered over this morning. The whole place hums beneath them—alive.
It’s working.
They showed up.
I can hardly believe it.
I glance around—dozens of locals already filling the folding chairs we begged, borrowed, and stole from every business in town. Vera’s bakery donated pastries. Nate rigged the sound system. Liara charmed the mic so even the shyest voices would carry.
And gods—it’sbeautiful.
Old Man Cass sits in the front row, sipping something suspiciously dark from a battered flask. Mrs. Calhoun has a fresh bouquet of sea lavender in her lap. Teens in vintage jackets lean against the railings, wide-eyed. Parents bounce kids on their knees. A few tourists have wandered in, phones forgotten as they take it all in.
For one night, the boardwalk is what it should be—open, warm, woven with stories.
And I’m holding it all together with duct tape and stubbornness.
“You ready?” Liara sidles up beside me, iced coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other.
I take a steadying breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
She grins. “They’re already in love. Just don’t trip over your tongue.”
“I hate you.”
She winks. “You adore me.”
I roll my eyes but smile.
The mic hums to life as I step up to it, pulse hammering in my throat. The lanterns sway gently overhead, casting soft shadows across familiar faces.
I grip the mic tighter. “Good evening.”
The murmurs fade.
I clear my throat. “Thank you all for coming tonight—for showing up, for bringing your voices, for keeping this place alive. The boardwalk is more than wood and nails. It’sus.Every story, every memory. And tonight, we get to share them.”
Applause ripples through the crowd—soft, warm.
I glance down at my list. First reader—Mrs. Patel, with a poem about the sea at dawn.
