Brakkor
The morning air carries the aroma of baking bread and cinnamon as I make my way down the cobblestone path toward the Golden Crust. My stomach growls in protest at the meager inn breakfast I've been enduring—watery porridge and stale bread that tastes like it was baked during the previous harvest season.
I fish a handful of copper coins from my pocket, the metal warm from my body heat. The familiar weight reminds me of simpler transactions, before everything became complicated by feelings I don't want to examine.
The warmth inside hits me immediately—not just from the ovens, but from the golden light that seems to emanate from every surface. Flour dust dances in the air like tiny sprites.
Maddie stands behind the counter, but something's wrong. Her usually bright demeanor has dimmed to something frazzled and uncertain. Auburn hair escapes from her messy bun in wispy strands, and flour streaks her apron in patterns that speak of hurried, distracted work.
"Everything alright, Maddie?"
She looks up from the tray of pastries she's arranging with less than her usual care. Her smile appears but doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Oh, Brakkor. Just the usual pre-festival madness, you know how it is."
But I don't know how it is, and her deflection feels hollow. The display cases that are usually overflowing with golden breads and decorated pastries look sparse. Several shelves stand completely empty, their glass surfaces reflecting nothing but absence.
"You sure?" I lean against the counter, studying her face. "What's going on?"
Maddie's shoulders sag as if my simple question has punctured whatever facade she's been maintaining. She sets down the tray with a soft thud.
"I'm panicking, honestly. The festival's only days away, and I'm supposed to provide enough baked goods to feed half the valley.
" She gestures helplessly at the depleted shelves.
"Look at this place. My storage room's practically empty.
I'm out of vanilla extract, low on sugar, and I haven't seen a proper flour delivery in over a week. "
The coins in my palm suddenly feel heavier. "I'm sure it'll work out. These supply hiccups always sort themselves eventually."
"Will they, though?" Maddie's voice cracks slightly. "This is my livelihood, Brakkor. If I can't deliver what I've promised for the festival, my reputation crumbles. People depend on the Golden Crust for their celebrations."
I select a cream-filled croissant from the display, its golden exterior still warm from the oven. The pastry feels substantial in my hand—real, immediate, unlike the abstract threats I've been chasing.
"This looks perfect. Whatever you're worried about, you're still making magic happen."
Maddie accepts my coins but shakes her head. "It won't matter if I can't make enough. I need ingredients, not compliments." She pauses, flour-dusted hands gripping the counter edge. "Especially now that Calla's been threatened to stop looking into the botched deliveries."
The croissant nearly slips from my grip as my ears begin to ring with a high, sharp note.
"What?"
My voice comes out sharp, carrying enough edge to make Maddie's eyes widen in alarm.
"I thought you knew," she stammers, clearly recognizing that she's just dropped information I wasn't prepared for. "A raven delivered a letter to Calla yesterday. Warning her to stop investigating."
The bakery tilts around me. The warm, yeasty air suddenly feels thick and suffocating. My tusks catch my lower lip as my jaw clenches involuntarily.
"What kind of warning?"
Maddie's freckled face pales. "I don't know the exact words. She came over last night after she got it, asking for help. Something about calling it off or the harvest would fail."
Blood pounds in my temples. While I've been keeping my distance, playing the professional colleague and pretending that night in her kitchen meant nothing, someone's been threatening her. Calla received a direct threat, and I wasn't there.
My hands shake as the full implications crash over me.
"Thanks for the croissant."
The words come out clipped, mechanical. I set the pastry on the counter without taking a bite.
"Brakkor, wait—"
But I'm already pushing through the bakery door, the brass bell clanging harshly against the frame. My boots strike the cobblestones with purpose as I stride toward the Whistle building, each step driven by a fury that's been building since Maddie's words hit me.
Someone threatened Calla. While I've been nursing wounded pride and maintaining professional distance, someone sent her a warning designed to make her back down.
The Whistle's front door bangs open under my palm.
"Morning, Brakkor! Guess what—"
Jamie's cheerful greeting dies as I blow past his desk without acknowledgment. Sarah's delicate pixie wings flutter nervously as she looks up from her lifestyle column draft.
Calla's office door stands slightly ajar. I push it open without knocking and step inside.
She sits behind her desk, reviewing a stack of correspondence with that careful precision I've come to recognize. Her dark hair is pulled back in its usual sleek bun, not a strand out of place despite whatever stress she's carrying.
"Show me the letter."
Her head snaps up. Those sharp brown eyes widen before narrowing into the controlled expression I know means she's calculating her response.
"Good morning to you too." She sets down her quill with deliberate calm. "I assume Maddie filled you in on things that aren't your concern."
"The letter, Calla."
I step closer to her desk, my voice dropping into a register that brooks no argument. The professional distance I've been maintaining for days crumbles completely.
"It's handled. You don't need to worry about—"
"Damn it, Calla!" My palm slams against her desk, rattling the inkwell. "Someone threatened you, and you think that's not my business?"
Her composed facade cracks slightly. "Maddie had no right to tell you. This is my problem to manage."
"Show. Me. The letter."
Each word carries the weight of every instinct screaming that I should have been here, should have known, should have been the one standing between her and whatever's escalating.
Calla's jaw tightens. For a moment, we stare at each other across the desk—her control warring against my demand. Finally, she opens the top drawer and withdraws a folded piece of parchment.
The paper feels expensive under my fingers, heavy stock with crisp edges. But the message is brutal in its simplicity:
Call it off, or the harvest fails with you.
My vision blurs at the edges. The words swim before my eyes as memories surface—another letter, another threat, another time I let someone else handle the danger while I maintained distance.
"This is deliberate escalation." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "They want you scared enough to stop investigating."
"Jamie and I already figured out they're targeting the festival supply chain specifically." Calla's tone has shifted, becoming more businesslike as she recognizes my professional focus.
"No more pulling back." I look up from the letter, meeting her eyes. "No more careful approaches or controlled investigations. We move forward together, and we move fast."
But Calla shakes her head, her brown eyes flashing with something harder than professional disagreement. She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor.
"No. Absolutely not." Her voice carries a brittle edge I haven't heard before. "You don't get to disappear, act like nothing happened between us, and then storm back in here making demands because suddenly you care."
I set the threatening letter down carefully, my hands steadier than they have any right to be.
"Calla, listen—"
"I'm done listening to you." She moves away from the desk, putting distance between us. "You made it crystal clear that whatever happened in my home was a mistake you'd rather forget. Fine. But you don't get to flip a switch and decide we're partners again just because things got dangerous."
Her composure cracks slightly, revealing the hurt underneath. The sight of it makes my chest tighten with something approaching panic.
"That's not what this is about."
"Isn't it?" She crosses her arms, her structured blazer pulling taut across her shoulders. "You've been treating me like a colleague you barely tolerate. Cold, distant, professional. Now someone threatens me and suddenly you're ready to charge in like some protective—"
"Like someone who cares about you."
The words escape before I can stop them, raw and unfiltered. Calla's mouth snaps shut, but her eyes remain guarded.
"You have a funny way of showing it."
I step around the desk, closing the space she's tried to create. She doesn't retreat, but her jaw tightens as I approach.
"You're right. I've been a coward." My voice drops lower, rough with honesty I've been avoiding. "What happened between us scared the hell out of me, so I ran. I convinced myself keeping distance was protecting both of us."
"Protecting us from what?"
"From me ruining everything I touch." The admission tastes bitter. "From getting too close to someone who matters and watching it all fall apart when I inevitably screw up."
Calla's expression shifts slightly, some of the rigid anger softening into something more complex.
"So you decided to hurt me first? Make the choice for both of us?"
Before I can second-guess myself, I reach out and cup her face in my hands. Her skin feels warm against my palms, and for a heartbeat she stiffens, ready to pull away.
Then I kiss her.
She fights it at first—her hands pressing against my chest, her body rigid with resistance. But something gives way, and suddenly she's kissing me back with a fierceness that speaks of days of suppressed frustration and want.
When I finally pull back, I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard.
"I'm sorry." The words come out rough, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry for being a coward, for hurting you, for making you think any of this was your fault."
Her eyes flutter closed, and I feel some of the tension leave her shoulders.
"I won't let that stop me from protecting you. From protecting this town." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. "Whatever's coming for Harvest Hollow, we face it together. No more running."