Brakkor
The Guild Hall's heavy oak doors swing shut behind me with a satisfying thud that drowns out the memory of Calla's sharp intake of breath when I touched her collarbone. The scent of aged wood and parchment fills my lungs—clean, uncomplicated smells that don't carry traces of rosemary and warm skin.
Focus. Work. The investigation.
Garron's ledgers wait on the central table where he left them yesterday, thick volumes bound in cracked leather that speak of years of meticulous record-keeping. I settle into the carved wooden chair and flip open the most recent volume, grateful for something concrete to occupy my hands.
Numbers don't lie. Numbers don't look at you with dark eyes that see too much, don't whisper your name like it means something sacred.
The entries march down the pages in Garron's careful script—dates, quantities, delivery routes.
Standard construction supplies mostly, but as I scan deeper into the festival preparation section, a pattern emerges.
Multiple deliveries marked for festival stockpiles: lumber for vendor stalls, clay for temporary ovens, decorative materials for the harvest displays.
All perfectly normal. Except for the secondary seal stamped beside each festival entry.
The secondary seal blurs as my vision shifts, unfocused. The careful lines of Garron's handwriting dissolve into something else entirely—the curve of Calla's spine as she arched beneath me, moonlight painting silver across her bare shoulder.
My throat constricts. The memory hits like a physical blow: her fingers threading through my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me growl against her neck.
The way she whispered my name—not Brakkor, not the formal distance she maintains during the day, but something breathless and desperate that made my chest crack open.
The sound she made when I traced the line of her hip with my thumb. Low, needy, like she'd been holding it back for weeks and finally couldn't anymore.
Goosebumps race across my arms despite the Guild Hall's warmth. My hands shake as I grip the ledger's edges, knuckles white against the worn leather.
Stop. Focus on the work. On the numbers.
But my body betrays me, remembering the weight of her against my chest afterward, how she fitted perfectly in the space between my arm and shoulder. How natural it felt to wake with her hair tickling my jaw, like we'd been doing it for years instead of crossing a line we can never uncross.
The ledger snaps shut under my grip.
No. I can't let myself want this. Can't let myself believe that something good might actually last instead of exploding into pieces that cut everyone nearby. Every time I've let someone close, every time I've thought maybe this time would be different—
I push back from the table, chair legs scraping against stone. The festival entries can wait. The investigation can wait. Everything can wait except this crushing need to put distance between myself and the memory of Calla's laugh when I kissed the spot behind her ear that made her squirm.
Before I ruin her too.
Refocusing, I lean closer, studying the small impression pressed into the parchment beside Garron's signature. Three curved lines arranged like a leaf—or perhaps a trident. The same mark appears on every festival-related shipment, but nowhere else in the ledger.
"That's an interesting discovery."
I glance up to find Granda Oltar approaching, his weathered hands clasped behind his back.
The dwarf elder moves with the deliberate pace of someone who's earned the right to take his time, his silver beard braided with small copper rings that catch the light filtering through the Guild Hall's tall windows.
"This seal," I tap the page with my finger. "It's only on certain entries."
"Aye, I noticed that myself when Garron brought the books by." Oltar settles into the chair across from me, the wood creaking under his compact frame. "That's the mark of Harvest Valley Transport Company."
The name sends a jolt of recognition through my chest. "The delivery company that's been having all the routing issues."
"The very same. Though 'issues' might be putting it mildly." Oltar's keen eyes study my face. "You're the journalist, aren't you? The one who's been asking questions about missing shipments."
"Among other things." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "What can you tell me about Harvest Valley Transport?"
"Used to be run by a gnome—Henrik was the name, I believe. Reliable as sunrise, that one was. Been handling deliveries for the valley towns for near forty years." Oltar strokes his beard thoughtfully. "But Henrik sold out some weeks ago."
Interesting. Right around the time the supply issues started appearing in Calla's carefully buried stories. The timeline fits too neatly to be coincidence.
"Who bought it?"
"Fellow named Selwyn. Selwyn Trask, I believe." Oltar's expression grows thoughtful.
I flip through more pages, counting the festival seal marks. Dozens of them, all within the last three months as festival preparation ramped up. "What else do you know about this Selwyn?"
"Not much personally. But I did some checking after the complaints started piling up." The dwarf's voice drops slightly. "Harvest Valley Transport is now listed as a branch of something called Harvest Development Group."
That brings me to a pause. Development groups don't usually buy transport companies unless they're planning something bigger than moving packages.
I close the ledger, my mind already racing through connections.
Festival supplies controlled by a mysterious development group.
Missing shipments creating financial strain on local businesses.
Land purchases under shell companies. The pieces form a picture I've seen before—corporate takeover disguised as market disruption.
Oltar gathers the ledgers with care, his weathered hands treating the books like sacred texts. "I'll be in the archives if you need anything else. The raven logs are in the courier station—just through that door."
The courier station occupies a narrow room lined with perches and message tubes.
Dozens of ravens flutter and caw in their alcoves, their intelligent eyes tracking my movement as I approach the central desk.
The delivery logs stretch back months, bound in oiled leather to protect against weather damage.
I flip through recent entries, scanning for anything marked with festival priority. There—page after page of rerouted deliveries. "Priority festival goods" stamped in red ink, all bearing the same notation: "Delivered by Harvest Valley Transport Company."
The pattern emerges like ink bleeding through parchment.
Shipments originally destined for Harvest Hollow's vendors, suddenly diverted to unnamed collection points.
Materials for booth construction, decorative elements, even basic supplies like rope and canvas—all redirected through Selwyn's network.
One entry catches my attention: "Lavender honey crate - rerouted to Forest Marker 7."
Forest Marker 7. I memorize the designation and head for the door.
The forest path winds through ancient oaks whose canopy filters the afternoon light into dancing patterns. I follow the courier route markers, small stone posts carved with directional runes, until the maintained trail gives way to rougher ground.
The air shimmers ahead—a subtle distortion that makes the trees beyond appear slightly blurred. Illusion magic. I've seen it before in places where people want to hide things that shouldn't be hidden.
I push through the magical barrier and feel the familiar tingle of enchantment dissolving around me. On the other side, fresh wagon tracks cut deep grooves into the forest floor, leading away from what I now recognize as the edge of Thornak's property.
The tracks follow an overgrown route that parallels the main road but stays well out of sight. Broken branches and scattered leaves mark where heavy loads passed through recently. These aren't the careful paths of legitimate forestry work—this is theft, plain and simple.
The trail leads to a clearing where a weathered stone marker rises from the earth like an accusation. The same three-curved-line sigil from the ledgers is carved deep into its surface.
This isn't random disruption or opportunistic theft. Every missing shipment, every diverted delivery, every supply shortage—they're all connected to this. Selwyn isn't just stealing supplies; he's systematically stripping away everything the town needs for its most important celebration.
Without the harvest festival, Harvest Hollow's economy will collapse. The seasonal vendors who depend on festival sales, the businesses that rely on increased autumn trade, the community bonds that strengthen during the celebration—all of it will crumble.
And that, I realize with cold certainty, is exactly what Harvest Development Group wants.