Inside, it smells like lemon floor polish and political anxiety. The mayor—Alaric Thorne, elf, eternally forty-something, hair like a shampoo commercial—nods at me from his raised seat. A few other council members give polite smiles. Most are buried in tablets or whispering behind folders.
I find a seat and try not to fidget. I’ve handled twelve fifth-graders on a sugar high. I’ve defused parent-teacher blowouts with nothing but a smile and a stapler. I can survive a town meeting.
The permit discussions drag on; some out-of-towner wants to open a winter axe-throwing bar. Whatever. I’m barely listening until Thorne finally clears his throat and says, “Next, we’ll hear from Miss Clara Wynn, regarding the status of her grandmother’s property.”
I rise, brushing invisible lint off my skirt, and take a deep breath.
“My name is Clara Wynn, and as many of you know, I’ve recently inherited Silverpine Lodge. My grandmother, Margaret Wynn, passed away last week, and I’ve returned to assess the property and honor her final request: that the lodge host this year’s Winter Festival.”
A few murmurs. Some nods. One old man in the back coughs pointedly.
“I understand the lodge is in disrepair,” I continue, “but I believe it can be made safe and functional for the festival with minimal support from the town. I’m not asking for funds, justtime and the town’s continued commitment to using the lodge for the event.”
Thorne gives me a long look. Not unkind. Just cautious.
“Miss Wynn,” he says slowly, “I appreciate your passion. And no one here doubts your grandmother’s legacy. But I’m afraid there’s been... a development.”
My stomach drops.
“What kind of development?” I ask, careful to keep my voice steady.
He sighs, shuffling a few papers. “Several months before her passing, your grandmother quietly sold the land rights beneath the lodge to an outside investor. The deed to the structure is still yours, technically, but the ground it stands on now belongs to?—”
“Me.”
The voice is low. Gravelly. Laced with command.
I turn.
The man standing at the back of the chamber is enormous. Tall enough that he has to duck slightly to clear the doorframe. Broad enough to block half the light from the windows behind him. He wears a charcoal coat that costs more than my car and tusks that gleam like carved ivory beneath a neatly trimmed beard.
Orc. And not just any orc.
Dralgor Veyr.
He steps forward, eyes fixed on mine, as if daring me to flinch.
“I now own the land,” he says, voice smooth as black ice. “And the permits for redevelopment were filed weeks ago.”
I blink.
“No,” I say, louder than I mean to. “No, this has to be a mistake. Gran never would’ve sold the lodge.”
“She didn’t,” he replies, annoyingly calm. “She sold the land.”
“That’s semantics.”
“It’s business.”
“It's my home,” I snap.
A slow, dangerous smile pulls at his mouth. “Not anymore.”
CHAPTER 2
DRALGOR
Her voice is sharp. Not shrill, but edged. The kind of voice that’s used to being heard, not because it shouts over others, but because it carries conviction in every word. Clara Wynn doesn’t flinch when I speak. Doesn’t shrink back like most people do when they realize who I am. She rises, if anything. Her spine stiffens, her chin lifts, and her hands curl into fists at her sides like she’s ready to throw punches instead of arguments.
