CALLA
Istare at Jonathan's festival coverage draft, the elegant elvish script blurring as my concentration fractures for the third time in ten minutes. His prose flows beautifully, but he's buried the essential vendor information under layers of poetic description about autumn's golden embrace.
A sharp knock interrupts my editing. Farrin Stonebrook, the dwarven blacksmith, fills my doorframe with his broad shoulders and soot-stained apron.
"Miss Mercer, got a moment?"
I set down my quill, already sensing this won't be quick.
"Of course. What can I do for you?"
"It's about the iron stock for festival decorations. I put in my order last Thursday, but my forge is still waiting for those materials."
My stomach tightens. Another delivery discrepancy.
"Did you talk to Oltar? Check the Guild Hall storage?"
"Aye, twice now. They insist their records show completion, but I can't forge festival lanterns from thin air.
" His weathered hands gesture toward the window.
"I was just wondering if you knew anything—other than the Guild Hall, most the correspondence comes through here, and I know how you writin' folks collect information. "
I jot down his complaint, keeping my expression neutral despite the growing unease.
"Well, I haven't heard anything, but I'll let you know if I do."
"Much appreciated. Town's counting on those decorations being ready."
Before I can respond properly, Farrin's heavy boots retreat down the hallway. I smooth out his delivery notice, noting similarities to other complaints I've dismissed as routine festival chaos.
Twenty minutes later, I'm methodically reorganizing the growing stack of articles needing edited when familiar footsteps echo in the hallway.
Maddie appears in my doorway, her usual bright smile strained around the edges like fabric pulled too tight.
The late afternoon light catches the worry lines I've never noticed before creasing the corners of her eyes.
"Hey, Cal. Sorry to bother you so late. I just need to vent."
"Never a bother." I stand immediately, grateful for a friendly face after hours of proofreading Jonathan's meandering articles about seasonal crop rotations. The cramped office feels less oppressive with her warm presence filling the space. "Though you look like you could use some tea."
"Actually, I could use some honey." Maddie's laugh sounds forced, brittle in a way that makes my chest tighten. "Still no word on that shipment. I've got festival orders backing up three days now, and people are starting to ask when the lavender honey scones will return to the display case."
She settles into the worn leather chair across from my desk, and I notice flour dusting her sleeves despite the late hour—evidence of another long day spent trying to stretch her dwindling supplies.
Her auburn hair has escaped its usual messy bun in wispy tendrils that frame her face, and there's a smudge of what looks like cinnamon on her left cheek that she hasn't bothered to wipe away.
"I keep telling myself it's just seasonal delays, weather holding up the transport wagons, maybe a merchant falling ill along the route, but...
" Her voice trails off as her gaze lands on the neat stack of delivery complaints arranged beside my ink well.
The papers seem to draw her attention like a magnet, and I watch her eyes narrow as she takes in their number. "What's all that?"
"Just article research," I say, casually sliding a blank sheet over the stack. The gesture feels too deliberate even to my own eyes, but I maintain my composed expression. "You know how thorough Jonathan likes to be with his agricultural pieces."
Maddie stands slowly, her hands pressing against her lower back as she stretches out the knots from another day spent hunched over rising dough and hot ovens.
The movement causes more flour to drift from her apron onto my office floor, small white specks settling between the worn floorboards like snow.
"Right. Well, I should let you get back to some editing.
" She moves toward the doorway with reluctant steps, then pauses with one hand on the frame.
Her fingers drum against the wood in a nervous rhythm.
"Cal, if you hear anything—about the deliveries, I mean—will you let me know?
I'm sure Thornak will be headed home from the forest by now, but maybe tomorrow you could ask around? "
I nod, trying not to let the guilt needle me.
After she leaves, I remain at my desk as evening shadows stretch across the office floor. The delivery complaints mock me from their neat stack, each one a thread in what could be a larger tapestry.
But threads aren't facts. Patterns aren't proof.
I return to Jonathan's draft, forcing myself to focus on comma placement and paragraph flow instead of the nagging certainty that something significant lurks beneath these routine complaints.
The soft rustle of parchment hitting my desk breaks the evening quiet. I glance up from Jonathan's draft to find Brakkor standing in my doorway, his expression unreadable.
"Does this qualify as concrete enough?"
The receipt lies between us like a challenge. I set down my quill and lean forward, studying the document Mrs. Dalloway must have given him. The ink catches the lamplight wrong—too glossy in some places, too matte in others. The seal's impression varies in depth across the wax.
My certainty wobbles for the very first time since this morning.
"You went behind my back." I keep my voice quiet, but irritation bleeds through. "I told you and Jamie to leave this alone."
"I did this alone. Jamie had nothing to do with it.
" He steps closer to my desk, his calloused hands bracing against the polished wooden edge.
The muscles in his forearms flex beneath his rolled sleeves as he leans forward, and I catch a glimpse of old ink stains on his fingertips—permanent marks of his profession.
"You need to look at this instead of ignoring it simply because it wasn't your idea. "
The accusation hits deeper than I'd like to admit. My spine straightens automatically, years of maintaining editorial authority kicking in like armor. "That's absurd."
"Is it?" His voice drops to something lower, more intense, carrying the weight of someone who's spent years digging into uncomfortable truths.
The lamplight casts shadows across his angular features, emphasizing the stubborn set of his jaw and the way his dark eyes refuse to yield.
"Because from where I'm standing, you've dismissed every piece of evidence that's landed on your desk today. "
"You need to leave," I tell him, my voice carrying the crisp authority I've cultivated over years of running this newspaper.
"I'm tired of you stomping in here with your heavy boots and that insufferable attitude, acting like you know better when you clearly don't understand how things work in this town. "
"You're just afraid to work with me, aren't you?
" His laugh is sharp, cutting through the tension like broken glass.
"Afraid to admit that someone other than the almighty Calla Mercer might actually have a good idea for once?
" The mockery in his tone makes my jaw clench.
"I bet you're one of those types who takes credit for everyone else's work, then pretends it was your brilliant editorial vision all along. "
The accusation stings more than it should, hitting against insecurities I thought I'd buried years ago. Heat flares in my chest—part anger, part something I refuse to acknowledge.
He moves around the desk with deliberate steps, his presence filling the small office like a storm front rolling in.
Suddenly he's too close, much too close.
The polished mahogany that usually serves as my protective barrier becomes meaningless as he invades the carefully maintained space I've built around myself.
The distance between us shrinks until I can feel the warmth radiating from his broad frame, smell the complex mixture of ink stains and autumn air that clings to his rumpled clothes.
There's something else too—something distinctly him that makes my heartbeat quicken despite every rational thought screaming at me to step back, to maintain professional distance.
"I'm not afraid of you," I manage, though my voice wavers slightly on the last word.
The words come out steadier than I feel. His greyish-green skin looks almost bronze in the lamplight, and those dark eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Prove it." His voice carries a challenge that sends heat spiraling through my chest. "Work on this article with me, then."
I should say no. I should maintain professional boundaries and proper editorial control. I should remember that he's here because he messed up somewhere else, not because I need his help.
Instead, I hear myself snap, "Fine."
"Fine," he echoes, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays his satisfaction.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest and leap straight into his hands. The receipt lies forgotten on my desk as we stand locked in this moment, the air between us charged with something far more dangerous than professional disagreement.