Calla
The morning air promises another unseasonably warm day, and I find myself walking the familiar cobblestone path to The Golden Crust with less enthusiasm than usual.
The yellow shutters gleam in the early sunlight, but even their cheerful brightness can't lift the weight that's settled in my chest since yesterday's confrontation.
The brass bell above the door chimes as I enter, and the familiar warmth of enchanted ovens wraps around me like an embrace. But something's missing from the usual symphony of scents—no lavender threading through the honey and yeast.
"Don't even ask." Maddie's voice carries from behind the counter before I can open my mouth. She emerges from the back room with flour dusting her apron and a rueful smile on her freckled face. "Still no lavender honey. Still no explanation from the supplier."
I settle onto my usual stool at the counter, the worn wood smooth beneath my hands. "How long has it been now?"
"Three days." She wipes hands on her apron, leaving white streaks across the blue fabric. "I sent another raven yesterday, but you know how these things go during festival season. Everyone's scrambling to fill orders."
The disappointment sits heavier than it should. Those scones have been part of my morning routine for two years now—a small ritual that starts each day with something beautiful and sweet before I dive into the controlled chaos of running the paper.
"I'm sorry, Cal. I know how much you love them."
"It's hardly your fault." I force a smile, though it feels brittle around the edges. "What else do you have that might satisfy a woman in desperate need of something with honey?"
Maddie's eyes brighten with the kind of mischievous gleam that usually means trouble. "Actually, I've been thinking this might be the perfect excuse to experiment. I've got some crystallized ginger that's been calling my name, and there's this elderflower syrup Liora brought by yesterday..."
"Elderflower and ginger scones?"
"Why not? Sometimes the best discoveries happen when you're forced off your usual path."
Before I can respond, the bell chimes again, and the entire atmosphere of the bakery shifts.
Thornak fills the doorway, his imposing frame blocking the morning light for a moment before he steps inside.
The weathered lines of his face soften as his gaze finds Maddie, and the transformation is immediate—like watching granite become warm earth.
"Morning, heart." His deep voice carries the rough affection of someone who saves his gentleness for one person alone.
Maddie's face lights up, making me both envious and grateful to witness. "Thorn! You're early today."
He crosses to her in three long strides, his calloused hands gentle as they frame her face. The kiss he presses to her forehead is brief but tender, the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of years together.
"Couldn't sleep." He releases her but doesn't step away, one hand remaining on her waist. "Thought I'd walk you to work before heading up to the northern plots."
But even as he speaks to his wife, I catch the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand keeps clenching and unclenching at his side. Maddie notices it too—her baker's intuition for reading people as sharp as her nose for perfectly risen dough.
"You seem frustrated about something."
Thornak's jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath his weathered skin. "Looks like someone's been taking timber from the back acres without asking."
The casual way he delivers this information doesn't fool either of us. Maddie's hand finds his arm, fingers curling around the thick muscle there.
"Taking timber? You mean stealing?"
"Happens sometimes during festival season." His voice carries the forced calm of a man trying not to worry his wife. "People get desperate for materials, think no one will notice a few trees here and there. I'll take care of it."
Maddie studies his face with the intensity she usually reserves for testing cake batter. "You sure that's all it is?"
"I'm sure." He presses another kiss to her forehead, this one lingering. "Just need to have a conversation with whoever thinks my forest is their personal lumber yard."
The protective edge in his voice makes me glad I'm not the one stealing trees. Maddie seems to accept his reassurance, though I catch the flicker of concern that crosses her features before she forces a bright smile.
"Well, speaking of new faces around town—" Her tone shifts to the conspiratorial register that means gossip is incoming. "Cal's got herself a new writer at the paper. Another orc, actually. Brakkor something-or-other."
Thornak's expression doesn't change, but something shutters behind his eyes. "Not interested in making friends."
"That's probably for the best." The words slip out before I can help them, sharper than I intended. "He seems like an ass."
Maddie raises an eyebrow at my vehemence, but before she can probe deeper, I stand from my stool and smooth down my skirt. "Actually, I should get going. Could I get enough croissants for the whole team? Five should do it."
"Of course." Maddie bustles behind the counter, selecting the golden pastries with practiced efficiency. "These are fresh from the second batch—still warm."
I hand over the coins, the metal warm from my palm, and accept the cloth-wrapped bundle. The croissants radiate heat through the fabric, their buttery scent making my mouth water despite the lingering disappointment over the missing scones.
The walk to The Whistle takes only a few minutes, but the weight of Thornak's news settles heavier with each step. Stolen timber, missing honey deliveries—probably nothing more than coincidental festival season chaos. Still, the timing bothers me in ways I can't articulate.
Jamie's face lights up when I enter the office with the bundle of pastries. "Croissants! You're the best, Calla."
But his expression falls slightly as he peers into the cloth wrapping. "No lavender honey scones today?"
"Still waiting on that honey delivery." I set the bundle on the central table where everyone can reach it. "Maddie's supplier seems to be running late."
Jamie's eyes widen, his pen freezing mid-word over whatever he's been scribbling. "Wait, that could be connected to—"
"Focus on your article." My voice cuts through his speculation like a blade. "Not wild theories."
His mouth snaps shut, but I catch the frustrated gleam in his eyes as he turns back to his work. Good. The last thing I need is him chasing shadows and rumors.
My gaze drifts across the office, taking inventory of my team. Sarah hunches over her desk, silver wings tucked close as she sketches festival layout diagrams. Jonathan types steadily at his enchanted typewriter, the keys glowing softly under his long fingers.
And there's Brakkor, slouched in his chair with an expression of profound boredom as he stares at a blank piece of parchment.
His dark hair falls across his forehead, and those short tusks catch the light as he grimaces.
Even sitting still, he radiates the restless energy of a predator forced into captivity.
Our eyes meet for a split second before I force myself to look away and head for my office.