BRAKKOR
The morning air is ripe with the scent of dew-soaked grass and something else—something that makes me glance sideways at Calla as we walk up the cobblestone path to Garron Pike's house. She's wearing the same structured blazer as yesterday, the same neutral tones that make her blend seamlessly into Harvest Hollow's careful aesthetic, but there's something different.
Lavender, maybe? Or rosemary? Whatever it is floats between us like a question I don't know how to ask, and I find myself fighting the urge to lean closer just to figure out what's changed.
Focus, Vane. We're here to work.
The Pike house sits at the end of a tree-lined street, its timber frame weathered but solid—the kind of construction that speaks to generations of craftsmanship. Window boxes overflow with late-season flowers, and the front garden shows the careful attention of someone who takes pride in details.
Calla steps up to the front door, her movements precise as always, and knocks three times. The sound echoes hollowly inside, but no footsteps answer.
"Maybe he's already at work," she murmurs, tilting her head to listen.
That's when we hear it—the rhythmic scrape and bite of a saw working through wood, coming from somewhere behind the house. The sound carries a steady, practiced rhythm that speaks to decades of muscle memory.
"Around back," I say, gesturing toward the narrow path that leads between the house and a well-tended herb garden.
Calla nods, and we follow the sound past clotheslines heavy with work shirts and canvas pants, past a chicken coop where three hens scratch contentedly in the dirt. The sawing grows louder as we approach a large shed, its doors thrown wide to let in the morning light.
Inside, bent over a workbench with his back to us, Garron Pike guides a hand saw through a length of pine with the easy confidence of someone who's been doing this since before I was born. Wood shavings curl away from the blade, falling to join the carpet of sawdust that covers the shed floor.
"Garron?" Calla calls out, her voice carrying just the right note of friendly interruption.
He straightens, setting the saw aside and turning toward us with a smile that transforms his weathered features. The permanent scowl I'd heard about melts away completely when he sees her, replaced by the kind of genuine warmth that makes me understand why this town inspires such fierce loyalty.
"Calla, sweetheart." He wipes his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "What brings you by this morning?"
The endearment hits me wrong—too familiar, too comfortable. I know it's probably nothing more than small-town affection, the kind of casual intimacy that comes from watching someone grow up, but something in my chest tightens anyway.
Garron's gaze shifts to me, and the warmth dims slightly, replaced by polite curiosity tinged with the wariness that most people show when they first encounter an orc in their peaceful corner of the world.
"And you must be the new fellow at the Whistle." He extends a work-roughened hand, his grip firm when I take it. "Garron Pike. Welcome to Harvest Hollow."
"Brakkor Vane." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Brakkor's been helping me with some research," Calla says smoothly, stepping slightly closer to me. The movement is subtle, but it shifts the dynamic just enough to make clear we're here together. "Actually, that's why we stopped by."
She clasps her hands behind her back, the picture of casual inquiry. "I've been thinking about redoing some of the office space at the Whistle—new shelving, maybe updating the layout—but I heard through the grapevine that you've gotten really busy recently. Wasn't sure if you'd have time for a small project like that."
Garron chuckles, reaching for a rag to clean the sawdust from his hands. "Word travels fast in this town, doesn't it?"
"You know how it is." Calla's smile never wavers. "Mrs. Dalloway mentioned seeing more deliveries to your place lately. Good for business, I imagine."
Garron's shoulders pull back, the easy warmth in his posture shifting to something stiffer, more defensive. He nods along with her words, but his hands clench the cleaning rag tighter than necessary.
"Oh, I've been busier, certainly." The words come out measured, careful. "But I can always make time for you, Calla. You know that."
Calla's smile brightens, and she turns toward me with practiced ease that implies years of managing conversations. "Ilove supporting the community. Work can be hard to find when you're all the way out in Harvest Hollow, so hiring your friends is the way to do it."
She gestures back toward Garron with genuine affection. "Plus, Garron gets his wood supply from Thornak, the local lumberjack. It's perfect—everything local, everything supporting each other."
The words flow naturally, part of whatever script we'd discussed, but I catch the subtle probing beneath them. She's fishing for confirmation, testing whether the connection to Thornak still holds.
Garron shifts his weight, and that cleaning rag gets another aggressive twist. "Actually," he interrupts, his voice carrying a note of defensive pride, "I have a new supplier now. Really sturdy wood—should hold the Whistle together for the next three generations."
The words hit Calla and apparently knock her speechless. I feel her stiffen beside me, her carefully maintained composure wavering for just a heartbeat. Her smile doesn't falter, but something in her eyes goes sharp and calculating.
The silence stretches a moment too long, and I step into it before it becomes obvious.
