Page 62 of Till Orc Do Us Part

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The city hums beyond glass walls, alive and endless.

But I am thinking of the sea.

I step into the small executive lounge—empty at this hour. No eyes here but mine.

I sink into a leather chair near the window.

And I pull the compass from my coat pocket.

Cass’s voice is still clear as salt in my veins:

"North doesn’t always mean right."

I turn the worn brass in my palm. The cracked glass glints faintly in the dim light.

The needle spins lazily.

Unmoored.

I tighten my grip.

I have fought my whole life to rise. To conquer boardrooms where no orc had ever been welcome. To build a company no rival could unseat.

I built it by being harder. Sharper. Colder.

Now—this.

A boardwalk. A woman with ink-stained hands. A child’s story folded in my wallet.

I am a fool.

The fightfeelsworthy.

Not for power.

For home.

A place that holds memory as tightly as it holds tide. A place where stories matter. Where a green giant can fix the sea with a wrench and a wish.

My brother would have laughed at me.

Or perhaps not.

"Some things are worth bleeding for."

I rise slowly.

Pocket the compass.

I will not run.

I will fight.

And not to own this place—but to stand beside it.

To preserve what should not be lost to men who count worth in gold alone.

The thought settles deep in my chest, firm as stone.

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