Page 4 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
Inside: a worn compass with a cracked face. Two faded Polaroids—one of the two of us at the lighthouse stairs, one of her grinning, eyes alight, holding a starfish. And a torn corner of a map she’d sketched on the back of a napkin.
My fingers brush the edge of the photograph.
I meant to burn it more times than I can count.
But I can’t.
The clock strikes nine. Time to meet Drokhaz before the boardwalk committee eats itself alive. I snap the tin shut, lock it, and pocket the key.
The wind sharpens as I walk the docks toward the meeting spot—an old maintenance shack near the south end of the boardwalk.
Lowtide Bluffs smells like salt and cedar today, the sky crisp and cloudless.
Perfect weather for a storm beneath the surface.
When I reach the shack, Drokhaz is already there, broad-shouldered and looming in his tailored charcoal coat, arms crossed.
“Thalen,” he rumbles.
“Drokhaz.”
We shake once—firm, steady.
He peers down at me with a knowing look. Orc or not, he reads people better than most humans I’ve met.
“She’s back,” he says flatly.
“I know.”
He studies me a moment. “You look like someone gut-punched you and called it nostalgia.”
I grunt. “Not here to discuss that.”
“No, you’re here to discuss how the council wants us to run a festival without adequate security or structural checks.” His mouth twitches. “I’m an orc, not a miracle worker.”
“They’ve already cut two inspection windows. We’ll run what we can today.”
Drokhaz exhales hard through his nose. “Fine. Rowan’s supposed to rope in extra volunteers. You’ll handle the final load-in logistics?”
I nod. “Schedule’s tight, but manageable.”
He eyes me again. “You sure you’re focused enough for this?”
The steel in my voice surprises even me. “This festival’s getting done, Drokhaz. No matter who’s in town.”
“Good.” His gaze softens—barely. “And for what it’s worth... fifteen years or not, some stories don’t close clean.”
I don’t answer that.
Because he’s right.
By noon, the boardwalk’s alive with motion.
Vendors hammering up stalls. Ropes getting strung with lanterns. Children darting between paint-chipped benches,chasing the scent of fried dough that hasn’t even started cooking yet.
I keep my head down, moving through the crews, voice sharp where it needs to be.
“No, those supports go higher. A storm hit last week—don’t trust old beams.”
