I force the familiar grin, the one that puts humans at ease. “We do our best.”
He points at a small furnace, with orcs grouped around it. “Do all orc wedding receptions include tattoos?”
Normally I’d launch into a story about the history of orc tattoos, perfectly sanitized for human consumption. Then maybe I’d tell the one about the commune in Russia that prepared for the wrong celebration date, two hundred orcs standing in rows wondering why the sun hadn’t aligned with the sacred stones. It always gets a laugh. “It’s traditional, yes.” My voice sounds flat even to my own ears. “Excuse me. I need to check on something.”
The human looks confused as I walk away. I don’t blame him. I’m never short with anyone.
Three days ago, I got a call from the State Department. Sloane Barrett, investigative journalist, missing for six days. Believed taken by the Reyes cartel in Colombia. Three days ago, my world stopped.
I find a quiet spot near the tree line and let myself really think about her, without the defenses I’ve been building for weeks.
I was coordinating media for Anna’s story going public. Sloane’s name came across my desk as a journalist requesting access. I prepared my usual approach, all my talking points ready. Charming-but-professional demeanor locked in place.
My first video call to her was supposed to be fifteen minutes. It lasted an hour.
She appeared on my screen with curly dark hair pulled back messily, glasses, tired hazel eyes that lit up when she talked about the story. From what I could see through the screen shelooked curvy and big-boned. And the sound of her distinctive, husky voice was very alluring.
She wasn’t what I had expected.
And she didn’t fall for my orc charm. She saw right through my veneer in about thirty seconds. “You’re good at this,” she’d said, amused. “The smooth orc media handler. But I’m not here for soundbites, Jonus. I want the real story.”
No one had ever called me out like that. I found myself... intrigued.
She was smart and relentless. Sloane asked questions no one else thought to ask. She didn’t try to flatter me or laugh at jokes that weren’t funny. She treated me like an equal, not like a novelty or a source to be managed. At some point during that first call, she laughed at something I said, something genuinely funny, not my usual polished material. I loved the sound of her sultry laugh and I leaned in closer, gazing at her lips.
I told myself what I had was simply professional interest.
The weeks that followed proved me wrong.
We exchanged dozens of calls and hundreds of texts. I learned she drinks too much coffee and stays up too late chasing leads. She’s brilliant at her job but gets passed over for on-camera work because she doesn’t “look the part.” That made me angry in a way I didn’t expect. Who cared what she looked like on camera? She was the one breaking the stories.
And I learned she was engaged to a human male named Ryan who didn’t seem to appreciate what he had.
Two weeks before she left, we had our last real conversation. She was excited, practically vibrating through the screen. “The money trail leads straight to a cartel, Jonus. I believe Aldridge was laundering money for the Reyes organization. If I can prove the connection, the whole conspiracy unravels. Not just the American politicians, but the international network that fundedthem. My editor’s nervous about the expense, but I’m working on getting approval to go to Colombia myself.”
“Sloane, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. This is a dangerous story. Cartels don’t negotiate with journalists. They make them disappear.”
“I’ll be careful. I’ve got local contacts, a security protocol, check-ins with my network.” She waved off my concern like it was nothing.
“Sloane—”
“Ryan thinks I’m crazy too.” She rolled her eyes. “He wants me to drop it. Says I’m obsessed.”
I bit back what I wanted to say. I felt strongly that Ryan didn’t know her and didn’t understand she could never walk away from a story like this. But in this instance, he was half right. This storywasdangerous. But Sloane is a professional who had done reporting like this many times before. “Just be careful,” I responded. “The humans connected to that money have already killed to protect themselves. They hired a team of mercenaries to storm our commune. Aldridge is the only one who is slippery enough to have avoided arrest so far, and he would certainly try to harm you too, if you got too close to something that could bring him down.”
She smiled, soft and real. “I’m always careful.”
I wanted to say more, but I didn’t. I assumed her employer had enough safety measures in place.
Three days ago, I learned how wrong she was.
“Mr. Irontree,” a representative from the State Department said. “We understand you’ve been in contact with Sloane Barrett, an investigative journalist with the Washington Post. You’re listed as her first emergency contact.”
She listed me. Not Ryan. Me.
“Ms. Barrett traveled to Colombia twelve days ago. Six days ago, she missed a scheduled check-in with her network. Webelieve she was taken by individuals connected to the Reyes cartel.”
For once in my life, I had no smooth response. No charming deflection. My world just stopped. “What about her fiancé? Ryan Mercer?”
