Calla
Igather my papers more forecefully than necessary, the crisp edges cutting through the silence that's settled over the main floor since Brakkor's arrival.
The familiar weight of Sunday's deadline presses against my shoulders, but today it feels heavier—complicated by the presence of an orc who asks too many questions and sees too much.
"Staff meeting." My voice carries across the room with practiced authority. "My office. Now."
Sarah's wings flutter as she abandons her seating chart, the delicate sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Jonathan closes his ledger with the precise care of someone who treats books like sacred objects, while Jamie practically bounces from his chair, eager as always for whatever comes next.
Brakkor remains seated, his dark eyes following our movement with the calculating gaze of someone who's learned to read rooms before entering them.
"All staff." I meet his stare directly. "That includes temporary assignments."
He unfolds from the protesting chair with surprising grace for someone his size, and follows us into my office.
The space suddenly feels smaller with four people and one orc crowding around my desk.
Sarah perches on the windowsill, her feet dangling like a child's, while Jonathan claims the single chair with fluid elegance.
Jamie leans against the bookshelf, and Brakkor...
Brakkor positions himself near the door, close enough to participate but far enough to escape.
Smart.
"Sunday's edition." I spread the preliminary layout across my desk, each section marked with different colored ink. "Festival special, so we need comprehensive coverage that serves both residents and visitors. Sarah, start with community events."
"Opening ceremony runs from dawn to midday.
" Sarah's voice carries the musical quality that makes even mundane information sound enchanting.
"Granda Oltar leads the harvest blessing, followed by the traditional guild presentations.
Mrs. Clearwater's organizing the children's costume parade, and the Penwhistles are hosting their annual pie contest."
"Vendor participation?"
"Seventy-three confirmed stalls, twelve food carts, and the traveling musicians from Millbrook agreed to perform through Sunday evening.
" Sarah's wings shimmer as she consults notes written in script so tiny it looks like fairy dust. "I've also got interviews scheduled with the prize-winning pumpkin growers and the new textile merchant from Westbridge. "
"Excellent." I make notations in the margins, each checkmark a small victory against chaos. "Jonathan?"
"The Merchant's Guild requested coverage of their new trade agreements with the northern settlements.
" Jonathan's fingers trace patterns in the air as he speaks, a habit that betrays his elvish heritage.
"Apparently, they've negotiated favorable rates for winter grain imports and spring textile exports.
Could be interesting for readers concerned about seasonal pricing. "
"Solid angle. Make sure you include practical information—what it means for local businesses and household budgets." I turn to Jamie, who's practically vibrating with enthusiasm. "Jamie?"
"I've been thinking about the human interest angle." His ink-stained fingers gesture excitedly. "What makes this festival special compared to other years? I could interview longtime residents about traditions, maybe get some stories about how the celebration has evolved."
"Good foundation, but dig deeper. Find the specific details that make this year unique." I pause, watching his face light up with possibility. "What else?"
"Well, there's Mrs. Dalloway's situation."
The words hang in the air like smoke from a snuffed candle. Sarah's wings stop their gentle flutter, and Jonathan's elegant posture stiffens almost imperceptibly. Even Brakkor shifts his weight, though his expression remains carefully neutral.
"What situation?" My voice carries the warning tone that usually stops Jamie in his tracks.
But today, enthusiasm overrides caution. "Her cargo delivery never showed up. She's been expecting a shipment of specialty oils and imported glass for weeks now, and with the festival starting, she's worried about disappointing customers who've placed advance orders. I think somethings going on."
"That's not a story, Jamie." The words come out sharper than intended, but I don't soften them. "That's a rumor."
"But if other merchants are having similar problems—"
"We deal in concrete facts here, not speculation." I lean forward, letting authority fill my voice. "One delayed shipment doesn't constitute a pattern, and certainly doesn't warrant investigation. Mrs. Dalloway's inventory issues are her private business concern, not public interest."
"Concrete facts?" Brakkor's voice cuts through the tension like a blade through silk, his tusks glinting as he smirks. "At a harvest festival? What's next—investigative reporting on the aerodynamic properties of corn husks? Hard-hitting exposés on pumpkin circumference fraud?"
My eyes narrow to slits. The familiar heat of irritation crawls up my neck, and I can feel my carefully constructed professional demeanor cracking at the edges.
I knew this would happen. The moment I saw him standing by that notice board, reading it like it contained state secrets, I knew he'd be trouble.
"Since you find our editorial standards so amusing, Mr. Vane, I'll give you something perfectly suited to your talents.
" I flip through my notes with deliberate precision, searching for the most mind-numbingly boring assignment I can conjure.
"Festival decorations. I want a comprehensive piece on the artistic vision behind this year's autumn display.
Interview the decoration committee, get quotes about color schemes and thematic elements.
Make sure you cover the symbolism of each garland placement. "
Brakkor's dark eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious when it comes to autumn décor.
" The words taste like vinegar, but I deliver them with the same crisp authority I use for budget meetings.
"Our readers deserve to understand the cultural significance of strategically placed gourds.
I trust someone with your investigative background can handle the complexity of ribbon selection and hay bale positioning. "
Sarah's wings flutter nervously, and Jamie shifts his weight against the bookshelf. Jonathan maintains his elvish composure, but I catch a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. The room feels charged, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Brakkor stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Those dark eyes hold something I can't quite identify—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. Maybe both.
"Dismissed." I gather my papers with sharp, efficient movements. "Sunday's deadline waits for no one."
Sarah practically floats from the windowsill, her wings carrying her toward the door with graceful haste. Jonathan rises with fluid elegance, and Jamie pushes off from the bookshelf, all three of them filing out with the practiced efficiency of people who recognize a brewing storm.
But Brakkor doesn't move.
He remains planted near the door, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with that same calculating intensity he'd shown at the notice board. The silence lingers between us, thick and uncomfortable.