"You know how protective this village gets over each other," I continue, gesturing toward the evening light filtering through his workshop. "When someone we care about gets hurt, we start looking for threats everywhere. Sometimes we see them where they don't exist."
Garron's weathered hands uncurl from the fists they'd formed. "Aye, well. Can't fault you for looking out for Thornak. Man's been good to all of us."
"He has." I glance at the quality of his work—the precise joints, the careful sanding. "Your craftsmanship speaks for itself. I shouldn't have questioned your integrity."
"Appreciate that." He picks up a piece of sandpaper, rolling it between his fingers.
Brakkor shifts beside me, and I catch the subtle tension in his posture. He's filing away every detail, every name, building his mental map of connections.
"Well, we'll let you get back to your work." I step toward the doorway. "Festival preparations won't finish themselves."
"Right then." Garron nods, already turning back to his project.
We make it three steps into the evening air before his voice calls after us.
"Calla. Brakkor."
We turn back to find him standing in his doorway, the warm light from his workshop creating a halo around his stocky frame. His expression carries the gravity of someone who's spent the day thinking about reputation and rumors.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this conversation to anyone." His voice drops lower, almost conspiratorial. "Don't need folks thinking I'm some kind of thief, even if it gets cleared up later. You know how talk spreads in a place like this."
The vulnerability in his request catches me off guard. This is a man who's built his livelihood on trust, who depends on his neighbors believing in his honesty. Even the suggestion of theft could destroy decades of careful reputation-building.
"Of course not." I smile, making sure he can see the sincerity in my expression. "I would never spread rumors or slander someone's character like that. What we discussed stays between us."
Relief floods his features, the deep lines around his eyes easing. "Thank you, Calla. That means more than you know."
"Your reputation is safe with us, Garron."
He nods once, a sharp gesture of gratitude, then retreats into his workshop. The sound of his hammer resumes, steady and purposeful against the backdrop of evening crickets.
We walk in silence for several moments, our footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. The village settles into its evening rhythm around us—windows glowing with warm light, the distant sound of laughter from the tavern, the comforting scents of dinner preparations drifting from various chimneys.
"So." Brakkor's voice breaks the quiet. "Are we going to look into this Selwyn character?"
"Without a doubt."
CHAPTER 16
BRAKKOR
We reach the town square before I work up the nerve to say what's been gnawing at me since we left Garron's workshop. The evening has settled into that comfortable quiet that makes words feel heavier, more significant.
"Calla." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. "I need to ask you something."
She stops beside the fountain, lamplight catching the sharp angles of her face. "About Selwyn?"
"No. About dinner."
Her eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across her features.
"The inn serves the same three meals on rotation." I run a hand in my hair, aware that I'm rambling but unable to stop myself. "Mutton stew, roasted chicken that tastes like leather, and something they generously call 'harvest soup' that's mostly water and hope."
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That bad?"
"I've been thinking about that meal you made." The admission comes out rougher than I intended. "The bread, the way you actually seasoned the vegetables. Real food."
She studies my face, and I resist the urge to look away from that penetrating gaze.
