“You don’t get to waltz in here like some oversized solution and act like you care.”
His head tilts, slow and dangerous.
“I don’t care,” he says, voice low. “But I respect effort. You’re fighting something you don’t have to. That means something.”
I step forward, the snow crunching under my boots. “I’m not fighting. I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a heartbeat.
“I know.”
I can feel the air between us shift. It’s not just cold anymore. It’s electric, charged, the kind of silence that wants to bend into something else. I take a breath that hurts on the way down.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you think this is inevitable.”
His jaw tightens. “It might be.”
I want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or scream into the wind until this pressure in my chest breaks into something I can understand.
Instead, I grab the string of lanterns from his hand, loop it onto the hook myself, and turn away before I do something irreparable.
“We’re done here,” I say, trying to sound steady. “Thanks for the help. I don’t need more.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he replies.
“No, you won’t.”
He doesn’t argue. Just leaves, boots crunching in rhythm until I can’t hear them anymore.
I stand alone in the square for a while after that, watching the lanterns sway in the snow, glowing like tiny suns against the storm that hasn’t quite begun.
My heart’s still racing, and I don’t know if it’s from anger or something worse.
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.”
