Chapter 6
DRALGOR
The restaurant is too warm, the kind of cozy meant to lull small-town egos into trusting people they shouldn’t.
Everything smells like spiced wine and roasted meat, and the fire crackling in the corner hearth has been burning since before lunch, judging by the way the logs have collapsed into glowing embers.
Mayor Thorne is already seated when I arrive, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass in his hand and that ever-present look on his face like he knows something I don’t and finds it amusing.
I nod to the server who shows me to the table, slip off my coat, and take the seat across from him without offering small talk. I don’t waste words on preambles. If Thorne wants this meeting, he’ll open it.
“You’re punctual,” he says, swirling his wine. “I respect that.”
“I don’t tolerate wasted time.”
He smiles like I’ve just confirmed a theory about a species he’s been observing. “Well, let’s not waste any then. You know why I asked you here.”
I raise a brow, just enough to make it clear I’m not here for guesswork.
“You’ve rattled the town, Dralgor,” he says, setting down his glass.
“And I don’t just mean Clara Wynn. The Festival Committee’s divided, the Chamber of Commerce is nervous, and the Historical Preservation Society has started dusting off their by-laws.
I even had to field a call from Pippa this morning, and when the pixies get involved, you know the gossip’s reached critical mass. ”
“I don’t concern myself with local color.”
“You should,” he says, and his tone sharpens just enough to register.
“Silverpine may be small, but it remembers. We don’t forget who showed up when the snow got too deep or who paid for the school roof after that storm five winters ago.
And we sure as hell don’t forget who tries to muscle their way in with bulldozers and contracts. ”
“I’m not here to make friends, Mayor.”
“No, I imagine you’re here to turn a profit.
Build your empire. Make another mark on the world no one can erase.
” He leans in, elbows on the table now. “But you might want to consider whether you’re laying foundation or burning bridges, because right now, you’re not the man in the nice coat.
You’re the villain in the story Clara Wynn is telling. ”
I sit back, fingers steepled under my chin, letting the words settle like ash.
“I’m not interested in stories,” I say.
Thorne doesn’t blink. “But people are.”
The server returns with a platter of roasted venison, potatoes soaked in rosemary butter, and something pretending to be seasonal greens. I barely glance at the plate. Thorne thanks the man by name. Of course he knows the staff.
I eat in silence for a few minutes while the mayor prattles about community investment and historical tax credits and how the lodge sits on one of the oldest parcels of land in Silverpine.
He’s not just buttering me up, he’s trying to remind me that this town has teeth under all the flannel and goodwill.
“You think she’s going to win,” I say eventually.
“I think she already has the town,” he replies. “Whether that translates to a legal win remains to be seen. But public sentiment is harder to shake than a permit. And Clara has it in spades.”
I take another bite, slow and deliberate, chewing while my thoughts run colder than the ice forming on the windowpanes.
I’ve never cared what people think of me.
Reputations are for people who need invitations.
I take what I want, build what I need, and leave behind results that speak louder than any name ever could.
But for some reason, the idea of being the villain in her story sits wrong in my gut.
She looks at me like I’m a hammer aimed at everything she’s ever loved.
Like I’m already breaking things just by breathing near them.
And the worst part is, I can’t tell if that bothers me because it makes her harder to negotiate with, or because somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ve started to believe her.
I finish my meal in silence, wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin, and meet Thorne’s gaze with the full weight of my voice.
“Tell your people I’m not their enemy.”
He studies me for a beat too long. “Then stop acting like it.”
The air bites harder when I leave the restaurant, night already fallen like a thick blanket across the ridge.
I walk, not because I have anywhere to be, but because I need to think, and the cold keeps me sharp.
The streets are mostly empty, save for the flicker of lanterns still swaying from the poles I helped string the day before.
I don’t know why I helped her. I told myself it was logistics. Optics. Leverage. But the truth is, I didn’t like seeing her fail. That’s a problem. I don’t do sentiment. I don’t fix what I didn’t break.
I round the corner by the forge and find Henrik leaning against the post outside, his pipe glowing like a coal in the dark.
“You’ve got heavy footsteps,” he says without looking up.
“You’ve got good ears for a blacksmith.”
“Spent forty years listening to steel scream. You learn things.”
I stop beside him, fold my arms, and breathe in the scent of smoke and old metal. It smells like home, if I still had one. He doesn’t ask me what I want. He just waits.
“I’m not here to relive the past,” I say finally.
“No,” he agrees. “You’re here to bury it.”
I stare out at the street. Snow begins to fall again, soft and aimless, coating the lantern light in a haze.
“You remember what my father said before he died?” I ask.
“I remember everything your father said,” Henrik replies. “He believed in blood. And in fire. And in rebuilding from ash. But you took that to mean burn it all down.”
I don’t respond.
Henrik looks at me then, like he’s measuring whether what he sees now still resembles the boy he once taught to sharpen his first blade.
“She reminds me of your mother,” he says. “The Wynn girl. All thorns and truth. She cuts with it. Doesn’t ask for permission.”
“She thinks I’m the enemy.”
“Are you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t lie. I just look back at the lodge sitting in the distance, dark against the trees, and feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Not guilt or shame. Just uncertainty.
“She’s standing in the way,” I say.
“She’s standing for something.”
I stay until the pipe burns out, then nod once and head back to the inn.
The room feels colder tonight, despite the heater groaning in the corner.
I sit on the edge of the bed, coat still on, staring at the file folder Thomas sent over this afternoon.
Profit margins. Site plans. Potential investors already circling like crows.
The numbers are solid. The plan is sound. The return will be staggering.
But the story’s starting to feel rotten.