CHAPTER 29 CALLA
CALLA
The carriages roll into town like salvation itself—four sturdy wagons bearing the Guild's three-pronged seal, their wheels clattering against cobblestones with the most beautiful sound I've heard in weeks.
From my position on the Whistle's front steps, I watch vendors pour from their shops like water breaking through a dam.
"There's Maddie's flour," Brakkor murmurs beside me, pointing to sacks being unloaded from the second carriage.
Relief floods through me so completely my knees nearly buckle. The festival will happen. My town will survive.
Brakkor's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his solid warmth. "You did it."
"We did it."
"No." His voice carries quiet conviction. "This was your choice, your fight. I just followed your lead."
Before I can argue, his mouth finds mine—gentle but certain, tasting of morning coffee and something that might be pride. When he pulls back, his grey-green eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
"Congratulations, Editor Mercer."
"Don't get formal on me now, Vane."
His grin transforms his entire face, erasing the perpetual wariness I've grown accustomed to. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Across the square, chaos unfolds in the most wonderful way.
Mrs. Penwhistle directs two Guild workers toward her fabric stall while simultaneously scolding her husband for getting underfoot.
Pixie children dart between the carriages like excited sparrows, their laughter mixing with the deeper voices of dwarven vendors checking inventory lists.
"Cal!" Maddie's voice cuts through the commotion as she barrels toward us, flour already dusting her apron despite the early hour. "They brought everything! Every last bag of flour, every jar, even the special honey I ordered for your scones."
"Can you manage the festival orders now?"
"Manage them? I'll have enough to feed half the valley." She grabs my hands, bouncing slightly on her toes. "The Guild even included compensation for delayed deliveries. I can hire extra help, extend my hours, maybe even try that cherry cake recipe I've been hoarding."
Her joy radiates outward, infectious and warming. This is why I fought so hard—for moments like this, where my people's faces light up instead of creasing with worry.
"Speaking of which," Maddie continues, "I need to get back. These festival preparations won't handle themselves." She pauses, glancing between Brakkor and me with a knowing smile. "You two should come by later. I might have some leftover celebration pastries that need proper testing."
She disappears into the crowd, already calling orders to the Guild workers unloading her supplies.
"She's going to work herself into exhaustion," Brakkor observes.
"She loves it. The busier she gets, the happier she becomes."
We watch the controlled chaos for several more minutes, vendors checking items against lists, neighbors helping neighbors sort deliveries, the entire town moving with renewed energy.
The festival banners that hung limp and incomplete yesterday now flutter proudly above stalls being rapidly assembled.
Thornak emerges from behind the largest carriage, deep in conversation with a Guild supervisor. Even from this distance, his satisfaction is visible—shoulders relaxed, posture easy in a way I haven't seen since this whole mess began.
"No more stolen lumber," I say, following Brakkor's gaze.
"His land is secure. The town is secure." Brakkor's arm tightens around my waist. "Everything we fought for."
"Everything we chose to fight for."
The distinction matters. We could have walked away, could have let someone else handle the consequences. Instead, we dove headfirst into uncertainty and emerged with exactly what we hoped to protect.
"Extra edition!" Jamie's voice carries across the square as he waves fresh copies of The Whistle above his head. "Festival supplies recovered! Full investigation results!"
I watch from the newsroom window as townsfolk gather around him, eager hands reaching for papers still warm from the press. The headline reads in bold letters: HARVEST DEVELOPMENT GROUP EXPOSED: LOCAL INVESTIGATION UNCOVERS SUPPLY CHAIN SABOTAGE.
Below it, in smaller but equally prominent text: By Brakkor Vane and Jamie Torres.
"You didn't put your name on it." Brakkor stands behind me, close enough that I feel his warmth against my back.
"It's your story. Both of yours." I turn to face him, noting the way his brow furrows. "Jamie spotted the pattern first. You connected the pieces. I just kept you both from getting arrested."
"That's not—"
"Look." I point toward the square where Jamie stands surrounded by neighbors, his usual nervous energy replaced with something steadier. Confidence. "He's not hiding behind my authority anymore."
Mrs. Penwhistle takes a paper from Jamie's stack, scanning the article with sharp eyes before nodding approvingly. "Excellent work, young man. Your mother must be proud."
Jamie's grin could power the festival lanterns. "Thank you, Mrs. Penwhistle. We couldn't have done it without everyone's cooperation."
Brakkor watches the exchange, something shifting in his expression. "I was wrong about you."
"Oh?"
"When I first arrived, I thought you were hungry for control. Micromanaging your writers, keeping them small so you could stay large." He shakes his head. "I figured you'd bury Jamie under busywork forever."
"And now?"
"Now I see you were protecting him. Training him. Making sure he was ready for something like this before throwing him into the fire."
I lean against the window frame, studying his face. "Took you long enough to figure that out."
"I'm a slow learner sometimes." His mouth quirks upward. "Good thing I'm pretty."
"Debatable."
"Hey." He steps closer, hands finding my waist. "I'm admitting I was wrong. That's practically a miracle."
"Is it now?" I slide my arms around his neck, enjoying the way his eyes darken. "And what else were you wrong about?"
"Thinking you'd try to undermine your writers instead of building them up. Assuming you cared more about credit than results. Believing you'd choose safety over doing what's right."
"Quite a list."
"I have excellent instincts about most things." His thumbs trace small circles against my hipbones. "Just took me a while to apply them properly to you."
Through the window, Jamie approaches another group of festival vendors, his posture straight and voice clear as he explains the article's findings. No hesitation, no deference—just solid journalism delivered with growing authority.
"He's going to be good at this," Brakkor observes.
"He already is good at this. Now he knows it too."
"Because you made sure he was ready."
"Because he did the work." I meet Brakkor's gaze steadily. "Just like you did. Just like we all did."
His smile turns softer, more genuine than his usual sharp-edged grins. "Isn't he so glad that he knows better than to doubt you now?"
"Are you talking about Jamie or yourself?"
"Both." He leans closer, voice dropping. "Though I'm particularly glad about my own enlightenment."
"Oh, are you?"
"Extremely." His mouth hovers just above mine. "Want me to show you how glad?"
I laugh against his lips. "In front of the entire town square?"
"They're all reading our article. Excellent distraction."
When he kisses me, it tastes like triumph and something warmer—the kind of certainty that comes from choosing each other repeatedly until it becomes instinct. Outside, the festival preparations continue with renewed energy, but inside this moment, everything feels perfectly settled.
“Besides… I think we could try giving Jamie something good to write,” he teases, “so he can convince you to take The Whisle back to the racy gossip rag it used to be.”
I laugh, kissing him again. “Not like they don’t have enough of that outside of the paper already.”