Brakkor
The three of us step out of the Whistle into afternoon sunlight that feels deceptively cheerful given the weight of everything we've uncovered.
Jamie remains behind, already bent over his desk with renewed determination to craft an article that will expose the truth without sending the entire town into panic.
Maddie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving streaks in the flour dust that permanently decorates her fingers. "I have to get back to the bakery. Maybe if I inventory what I actually have left, I can figure out how to stretch it."
"We'll sort this out, Mads." Calla's voice carries the steady conviction that's become familiar to me. "Between what we've learned and what Jamie's putting together, we're close to answers."
"Close doesn't bake bread," Maddie replies, but her tone lacks the despair from moments earlier. "Still, I appreciate you both caring enough to dig into this mess."
Calla turns toward me, and for a moment I expect another strategic discussion about next steps or investigation priorities.
Instead, she steps closer, rises onto her toes, and presses a gentle kiss to my cheek.
Her lips are warm against my skin, the gesture so natural it catches me completely off guard.
"I'll be back," she murmurs, offering me a smile that transforms her entire face. "And thank you."
Before I can formulate any response that doesn't involve stammering, she's already linking arms with Maddie and heading toward the Golden Crust.
I stand there like an idiot, watching them walk away, one hand unconsciously touching the spot where her lips brushed my skin. The simple gesture sends warmth spreading through my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
A throat clears behind me.
I turn to find Mrs. Dalloway watching me with undisguised interest, her wrinkled hands clutched around a watering can.
Across the square, Mr. Penwhistle stops sweetping leaves from his doorstep to stare openly.
Even the pixie children playing tag near the fountain have stopped their game to observe this development with wide, curious eyes.
Perfect. Half the town just witnessed Calla Mercer kiss the outsider orc on the cheek in broad daylight. If my grey-green skin could flush, I'd probably resemble a ripe tomato right about now.
The crash that splits the air saves me from further mortification.
A massive wagon loaded with lumber and metal framework tilts at an impossible angle in the festival square, its rear wheel completely detached and rolling away like an escaped animal. Workers scatter as support beams slide toward the ground with splintering crashes.
"Look out!" someone shouts as a particularly heavy beam swings loose from its restraints.
I sprint toward the chaos, dodging scattered nails and wooden debris. A young man with sandy hair stumbles backward from the collapsing load, his face pale with shock as a metal bracket bounces past his head.
Thornak emerges from the Guild Hall at a run, his weathered boots finding purchase on the scattered materials as he vaults over a fallen beam to reach the boy.
"Timmy!" Thornak's voice cuts through the commotion as he grabs the young man's shoulders, checking him for injuries. "You hurt?"
Timmy shakes his head, though his hands tremble as he surveys the wreckage around him. "I'm fine, just startled. But look at this mess."
I help steady a section of framework that threatens to topple onto the square's carefully maintained cobblestones. "Anyone else under there?"
"No, thankfully," Timmy replies, kicking at the detached wheel with obvious frustration. "I just got the damned thing fixed by Garron yesterday. Paid good coin for a proper repair job, too."
Another connection to Garron Pike, another piece of equipment failing at precisely the wrong moment.
"What exactly did Garron fix?" I ask, crouching beside the broken wheel assembly.
Timmy kicks at the detached wheel again, his frustration evident. "Brand new wheel, that one. Garron promised me it was top quality—said the wood came from his best supplier. Cost me three weeks' wages."
"New wheel?" I examine the splintered remains more closely. The break isn't clean—it's jagged, as if the wood simply gave way under normal stress.
Thornak moves beside me, his weathered hands running along the broken framework. His expression shifts from concern to something harder, more dangerous.
"This wood." His voice carries a growl I haven't heard before. "I know this grain."
"What do you mean?"
Thornak picks up a section of the broken beam, turning it in the light. His jaw tightens as he examines the surface. "See these marks? The way the cut angles? This came from my land."
I think of our conversation in the forest, the clean cuts where trees had been harvested without permission. "You're certain?"
"I know my trees." Thornak's fingers trace the weathered surface. "But look at this—it's been left out in the rain. Waterlogged. Makes it weak."
My stomach drops. "Someone stole lumber from your land, let it deteriorate, then sold it as quality materials."
"And Garron bought it." Thornak's voice turns deadly quiet.
I nod grimly. "Listen, Thornak, there's something you should know. Garron has sourced a new supplier. A guy by the name of Selwyn. I think… I think Selwyn has been stealing your lumber and selling compromised materials to Garron."
Thornak stands abruptly, the broken beam still clutched in his fist. His eyes scan the festival square until they lock onto a stocky figure working on a half-finished vendor stall near the fountain.
"Garron!"
The carpenter looks up from his hammer work, squinting in our direction. When he recognizes Thornak's approach, his expression shifts to wariness.
"You sold my stolen lumber to this boy!" Thornak's voice carries across the square, drawing stares from everyone within earshot.
Garron drops his hammer, hands raising defensively. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"This." Thornak shoves the broken beam toward Garron's face. "Timber from my land, left to rot, then passed off as quality materials. Nearly killed Timmy when it failed."
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't lie to me!" Thornak's control snaps. He grabs Garron's shirt, hauling the smaller man forward. "You've been buying stolen goods and selling them to kids!"
The familiar escalation sends ice through my veins. This is exactly how my last case spiraled—accusations flying, tempers exploding, civilians caught in the middle while the real perpetrator stays hidden.
I step between them, hands on Thornak's shoulders. "Easy. This isn't how we handle it."
"Get off me!" Thornak shoves against my grip, but I hold firm.
"Thornak, stop. Garron's not the enemy here—he's another victim."
Thornak's muscles coil tighter under my grip, rage radiating from him like heat from a forge. "You think I care if he's a victim? Look at this wood!" He waves the broken beam inches from Garron's face. "Any carpenter worth his tools would know this timber's compromised. But he used it anyway!"
"Thornak—"
"He knew!" Thornak's voice cracks across the square like a whip. "Waterlogged, weak, stolen from my land, and he sold it to a kid who could've died when it snapped!"
Garron scrambles backward on his hands, eyes wide. "I didn't know it was stolen! Selwyn said it was surplus—"
"Surplus?" Thornak lunges forward again, and I have to throw my full weight against him. "You've been working wood for thirty years, Pike. You telling me you couldn't see the rot?"
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. Garron's face flushes red, then pale, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
"Maybe I... the price was good, and with festival orders—"
"Get off me!" Thornak shoves against my restraining hands with enough force to make my boots slide on the cobblestones. "I'm done listening to excuses from someone who puts profit over safety!"
"Thornak, stop." I plant my feet and use every ounce of leverage I possess. "Making a scene won't fix what happened."
Around us, the festival square has transformed into an amphitheater. Mrs. Dalloway clutches her watering can like a weapon. Timmy stands frozen beside the wreckage, his face pale.
"Everyone's watching," I murmur, tightening my grip on Thornak's shoulders. "Go cool off before you say something that makes this worse."
Thornak's eyes sweep the gathered crowd, taking in their shocked faces and whispered conversations. His jaw works silently for several heartbeats before he throws the broken beam at Garron's feet.
"This isn't over, Pike."
He stalks away toward the forest road, his heavy boots echoing off the cobblestones like hammer strikes. The crowd parts before him, nobody brave enough to meet his burning gaze.
I extend my hand toward Garron, who's still sprawled on the ground among scattered nails and wood shavings. "Let me help you up."
Garron slaps my hand away, his eyes blazing with humiliation and fury. "Don't touch me! You and Calla promised you wouldn't tell anyone about my business. Said you'd keep things quiet."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Around us, curious faces lean closer, eager to catch every word of this public unraveling.
Garron struggles to his feet without assistance, brushing dirt from his work clothes. "Some promise that turned out to be."
The familiar weight of failure settles on my shoulders like a lead cloak. I've done it again—pushed too hard, moved too fast, let someone else pay the price for my methods. The investigation that was supposed to help people has just humiliated a man in front of his neighbors and customers.
Every face in the square stares at me with a mixture of curiosity, judgment, and wariness. The outsider orc who came to their peaceful town and immediately started stirring up trouble.
I turn and walk away, leaving Garron to salvage what dignity he can from the wreckage.