Calla
As we round the corner toward the Guild Hall, I spot Thornak's familiar silhouette near the building's side entrance.
He's unloading split logs from a wooden cart, his movements efficient despite the weight of each piece.
The late afternoon light catches the grain of the wood—rich oak and maple that speaks of careful selection.
"There's Thornak." I gesture toward the hall. "Probably delivering for the festival preparations. They'll need extra wood for the cooking fires."
Brakkor stops walking, his attention sharpening in that way I've learned means his mind is making connections. "That's interesting."
"What? Thornak delivering wood?"
"No." His voice carries a new tension.
His tone makes me look closer at the wood Thornak is stacking.
"What did you see out there today?" I ask, though part of me already knows I won't like the answer.
"Someone's been harvesting trees on his land. Clean cuts, professional work, but not his doing." Brakkor's eyes track Thornak's movements. "He showed me the stumps. Fresh ones."
The pieces click together with an almost audible snap.
"Wait. Thornak mentioned stolen trees a few days ago.
He was talking to Maddie, said someone was taking timber without permission.
I thought it was a separate issue." My mind races through the timeline we've been building.
"But if someone's stealing his trees and selling them... "
"Through Garron Pike." Brakkor's voice holds the certainty of a journalist who's found his thread. "Remember what he said about changing suppliers? New source, better prices, but he didn't tell us where he was getting the wood."
I watch Thornak lift another log, noting the care with which he handles each piece.
He's spent his life protecting these forests, managing sustainable harvests, ensuring the balance between need and preservation.
The idea of someone stealing from his land—selling his trees without permission—makes my stomach clench.
"Garron's been stealing lumber." The words taste bitter. "Using Thornak's own trees."
"Which explains how he's making such a big a profit." Brakkor crosses his arms. "Question is, does Thornak know his wood is ending up in Garron's yard?"
I study Thornak's face as he works. There's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there this morning, and his usual calm demeanor seems strained. "He knows something's wrong. But I don't think he's made the connection yet."
"Should we tell him?"
The question hangs between us, weighted with implications. If we're right, then Garron isn't just part of the supply chain disruption—he's actively stealing from one of the most respected people in town. Thornak's reaction to that betrayal won't be measured or controlled.
"Not yet." I touch Brakkor's arm, drawing his attention back to me. "We need proof before we accuse anyone of theft. Thornak won't take that kind of news lightly."
"Fair point." His gaze returns to Thornak, who's finishing with the last of the logs. "But this changes everything. If Garron's stealing timber…"
The realization settles over me like a cold weight. All this time, I've been thinking of Garron as another business owner being manipulated by outside forces. But if he's stealing goods, using them to undercut legitimate suppliers and drive them out of business...
"He's not just complicit," I murmur. "He might be the key to the whole operation."
"We need to get to the bottom of this and get some real answers."
Brakkor's voice carries that familiar edge of determination that means he's done circling around the problem. I glance once more at Thornak, who's now securing his empty cart, then nod.
"Garron's place is two streets over."
We find him in the shed behind his modest stone cottage, the sound of steady hammering echoing through the evening air.
He's bent over a half-constructed festival stall, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool temperature.
Wood shavings curl around his boots, and the sharp scent of fresh-cut timber fills the space.
"Garron." I step into the doorway, Brakkor a shadow beside me.
He looks up, hammer suspended mid-swing. His weathered face shifts from concentration to wariness as he takes in our expressions.
"Evening, Calla. What brings you by? Ready to talk about that renovation?"
"We need to ask you something directly." I keep my voice level, professional. "Have you been stealing wood from Thornak's land?"
The hammer clatters to the workbench. Garron's face flushes red, his jaw working as if he's chewing something bitter.
"What the hell kind of question is that?" He straightens to his full height, which still leaves him looking up at both of us. "You think I'm some kind of common thief?"
"Someone has been poaching trees from Thornak's property." I cross my arms, maintaining eye contact. "Clean cuts, professional removal. And suddenly you have a new supplier offering quality wood at better prices?"
Garron's mouth opens and closes like he's struggling to find words. The indignation in his expression seems genuine, but there's something else there—a flicker of understanding that makes my pulse quicken.
"If anyone other than us knew about this connection," I continue, "accusations would be laid at your feet. Your timing looks suspicious, Garron."
"I would never—" He slams his palm against the workbench, making tools jump. "Thornak's been nothing but decent to me. You think I'd steal from him? From anyone in this town?"
Brakkor leans against the doorframe, his presence quiet but commanding. "Then explain the coincidence."
Garron runs a hand through his graying hair, frustration radiating from every line of his body. "There's no coincidence because I'm not stealing anything. I switched suppliers because Selwyn Trask approached me with a better deal."
I exchange a glance with Brakkor, whose expression has sharpened with interest.
"Selwyn Trask?" I keep my voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah, works the supply routes between here and the eastern settlements.
" Garron gestures toward his lumber stacks.
"Came by about six weeks ago, said he'd restructured his sourcing and could offer premium wood at twenty percent below my usual cost. Quality's been excellent—good as what I was getting before. "
"Where does he source from?" Brakkor asks.
"Didn't ask specifics. Figured it was his business." Garron's defensive posture wavers slightly. "Look, I run an honest operation. Always have. So don't come here with accusations."
"You're right, Garron. I apologize." I let my shoulders relax, allowing the tension to drain from my voice. "That was unfair of me to jump to conclusions."
His scowl softens slightly, though wariness still lingers in his eyes.
"You know how protective this village gets over each other," I continue, gesturing toward the evening light filtering through his workshop. "When someone we care about gets hurt, we start looking for threats everywhere. Sometimes we see them where they don't exist."
Garron's weathered hands uncurl from the fists they'd formed. "Aye, well. Can't fault you for looking out for Thornak. Man's been good to all of us."
"He has." I glance at the quality of his work—the precise joints, the careful sanding. "Your craftsmanship speaks for itself. I shouldn't have questioned your integrity."
"Appreciate that." He picks up a piece of sandpaper, rolling it between his fingers.
Brakkor shifts beside me, and I catch the subtle tension in his posture. He's filing away every detail, every name, building his mental map of connections.
"Well, we'll let you get back to your work." I step toward the doorway. "Festival preparations won't finish themselves."
"Right then." Garron nods, already turning back to his project.
We make it three steps into the evening air before his voice calls after us.
"Calla. Brakkor."
We turn back to find him standing in his doorway, the warm light from his workshop creating a halo around his stocky frame. His expression carries the gravity of someone who's spent the day thinking about reputation and rumors.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this conversation to anyone." His voice drops lower, almost conspiratorial. "Don't need folks thinking I'm some kind of thief, even if it gets cleared up later. You know how talk spreads in a place like this."
The vulnerability in his request catches me off guard. This is a man who's built his livelihood on trust, who depends on his neighbors believing in his honesty. Even the suggestion of theft could destroy decades of careful reputation-building.
"Of course not." I smile, making sure he can see the sincerity in my expression. "I would never spread rumors or slander someone's character like that. What we discussed stays between us."
Relief floods his features, the deep lines around his eyes easing. "Thank you, Calla. That means more than you know."
"Your reputation is safe with us, Garron."
He nods once, a sharp gesture of gratitude, then retreats into his workshop. The sound of his hammer resumes, steady and purposeful against the backdrop of evening crickets.
We walk in silence for several moments, our footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. The village settles into its evening rhythm around us—windows glowing with warm light, the distant sound of laughter from the tavern, the comforting scents of dinner preparations drifting from various chimneys.
"So." Brakkor's voice breaks the quiet. "Are we going to look into this Selwyn character?"
"Without a doubt."