"Every business owner in town will go into a panic, wondering if they're being targeted next. What we have isn't journalism—it's the foundation for mass hysteria."
I sink back into my chair, suddenly drained by the force of my own conviction. "I'll run the soft piece I've been working on instead. Continue promoting the Harvest Festival. Give people something positive to focus on while we figure out what's really happening."
He sighs, but ultimately nods in agreement. "You're right."
The silence hangs between us, heavy with the weight of admissions and shared understanding. Brakkor runs a hand through his dark hair, disrupting the messy strands that always seem to fall into his eyes.
"I get it." His voice carries a roughness I haven't heard before. "Protecting people from the fallout of half-finished stories."
Something in his tone causes me to look up sharply. There's a shadow in his expression, a darkness that speaks to experience rather than theory.
"You've been there before."
"Yeah." He picks up his coffee cup, stares into it like it holds answers. "Different circumstances, but the principle's the same. Sometimes the story you don't publish is the one that saves lives." He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I shouldn't have doubted you."
I laugh lightly and shrug. "Just don't make it a habit, big boy."
His laughter rumbles from his chest, making my heart flutter. Whatever happened to thinking he's a big pain in the ass?
CHAPTER 12
CALLA
Sunday morning arrives with the crisp clarity that only autumn can deliver, and I find myself following my usual ritual—walking the cobblestone path toward The Golden Crust with the latest issue of The Whistle tucked under my arm. The yellow shutters gleam in the early light, promising warmth and the kind of normalcy I desperately need after the week we've had.
The inn door swings open just as I pass, and Brakkor emerges with his characteristic rumpled appearance—dark hair falling into his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw. He carries himself with that quiet intensity that seems permanently etched into his shoulders.
"Morning." He falls into step beside me, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "Heading to your usual Sunday confession?"
"If by confession you mean coffee and pastries, then yes." I adjust my grip on the newspaper. "Though I suspect Maddie's already dissecting every word we printed."
"She reads fast?"
"She reads everything. Twice." The familiar bell above the bakery door chimes as we approach. "Fair warning—she also has opinions about everything. Twice."
We push through the entrance, and the contrast hits me immediately. The Golden Crust wraps around us like a warm embrace—the scent of fresh bread mingles with cinnamon and coffee, while golden light streams through windows that frame displays of perfectly arranged pastries. It's exactly the kind of sanctuary I need when the weight of careful journalism presses too heavily on my shoulders.
Maddie stands behind the counter, auburn hair escaping its messy bun in soft tendrils that catch the morning light. Flour dusts her apron, and she holds our latest issue spread open before her, reading with the focused attention of someone who genuinely cares about every line.
"Cal!" Her face brightens as she looks up, then extends the same warmth to my companion. "And Brakkor! Perfect timing—I just pulled apple turnovers from the oven."
"Please tell me you have thoughts about the harvest festival coverage." I approach the counter, already knowing the answer but enjoying the routine of asking.
"I do, actually." She folds the paper carefully, treating it with the respect most people reserve for important documents. "The piece about the community garden prize competition was lovely. Jamie really captured Mrs. Henderson's passion for those prize-winning squash."
Brakkor moves to examine the pastry display, but I catch him listening to our exchange with that reporter's instinct for gathering information from casual conversation.
"Good morning, all."
Thornak's voice carries from the doorway, deep and measured in the way that makes people turn their heads. He fills the entrance with his solid presence—broad shoulders,weathered hands, and that quiet authority that comes from years of working the land. His dark beard shows streaks of gray that catch the light as he moves toward us.
Maddie's entire demeanor shifts, softening in a way that speaks to years of shared intimacy. "Morning, love. I saved you a blueberry scone."
"Appreciated." Thornak nods to me, then acknowledges Brakkor with the careful politeness of someone still forming opinions.
Maddie's eyes dart between the two orcs with the calculating expression I recognize from years of friendship. She's plotting something.
"Actually, Thorn, I was just thinking—" She wipes her hands on an apron, the gesture casual but purposeful. "Brakkor's been covering local stories, but he hasn't really seen what makes Harvest Hollow special. The forest, the land management, all the work you do to keep everything balanced."
