The tracks follow an overgrown route that parallels the main road but stays well out of sight. Broken branches and scattered leaves mark where heavy loads passed through recently. These aren't the careful paths of legitimate forestry work—this is theft, plain and simple.
The trail leads to a clearing where a weathered stone marker rises from the earth like an accusation. The same three-curved-line sigil from the ledgers is carved deep into its surface.
This isn't random disruption or opportunistic theft. Every missing shipment, every diverted delivery, every supply shortage—they're all connected to this. Selwyn isn't just stealing supplies; he's systematically stripping away everything the town needs for its most important celebration.
Without the harvest festival, Harvest Hollow's economy will collapse. The seasonal vendors who depend on festival sales, the businesses that rely on increased autumn trade, the community bonds that strengthen during the celebration—all of it will crumble.
And that, I realize with cold certainty, is exactly what Harvest Development Group wants.
CHAPTER 19
CALLA
Jonathan's article sprawls across my desk—three pages of meandering prose about the upcoming apple harvest that somehow manages to avoid mentioning apples for the first two paragraphs. I grip my editing quill tighter than necessary, scratching through another flowery description of "autumn's golden embrace."
The morning light streams through the Whistle's tall windows, casting geometric patterns across the parchment. I focus on each word with deliberate intensity, as if Jonathan's overwrought metaphors might somehow drown out the persistent ache in my chest.
Brakkor hasn't appeared this morning. His desk remains untouched, yesterday's notes still scattered exactly where he left them. The coffee I brewed sits cooling in his usual mug—a foolish gesture I refuse to acknowledge.
"The orchards whisper secrets of harvest abundance," I read aloud, my voice dripping with disdain. "Jonathan, for the love of?—"
A sharp rap against the window interrupts my editorial massacre. A large raven perches on the sill, its obsidian feathers gleaming in the sunlight. Ravens deliver messages throughoutthe valley, but they usually go to the courier station. This one taps the glass with its beak, fixing me with an intelligent stare that suggests it won't be ignored.
I cross to the window and push it open. The raven hops onto my desk without invitation, scattering Jonathan's pages with an imperious flutter of wings. A sealed letter is tied to its leg with crimson ribbon—expensive parchment, the kind used for formal correspondence.
"Well, aren't you particular about your delivery methods."
The raven cocks its head, watching as I untie the ribbon. The moment the letter comes free, the bird settles onto my inkwell like a feathered gargoyle, clearly intending to wait until I read whatever message it's carried.
The parchment crackles as I break the wax seal. No identifying mark, no family crest or business sigil. Just smooth red wax pressed with what looks like a leaf pattern.
Inside, a single line of text written in careful script:
Call it off, or any chance of a harvest will fail with you.
My blood turns to winter water. The letter trembles in my grip as I read it again, hoping the words might rearrange themselves into something less threatening. They don't.
The raven caws once, sharp and grating, before launching itself through the window and disappearing into the morning sky.
I sink into my chair, the letter still clutched in my hand. This isn't about missing shipments anymore, or even the systematic financial pressure we've been tracking. Someone knows about our investigation—and they're threatening the harvest festival itself.
The festival that employs half the town's seasonal workers. That brings in merchants and visitors from across the valley. That provides the economic foundation for Harvest Hollow's entire autumn season.
Without the festival, businesses like Maddie's bakery won't just struggle—they'll collapse entirely. The vendors who've spent months preparing their wares will lose everything. The community bonds that strengthen during our most sacred celebration will fracture.
My father's voice echoes in my memory:The paper is the town's shield, Calla. Never forget that.
But how do I shield against something I can barely see? How do I protect a town from enemies who hide behind shell companies and stolen supplies?
The letter's parchment feels expensive between my fingers, too fine for random threats. This came from someone with resources, someone who understands exactly how much damage they can inflict.
I fold the letter with deliberate precision, tucking it into my desk drawer. My hands remain steady, but my pulse hammers against my throat. The crimson ribbon curls like a serpent around my finger before I drop it into the same drawer.
"Jamie!"
My voice carries across the room with enough authority to make Sarah gasp and Jonathan's pointed ears twitch. Jamie's chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he springs up from his desk, nearly knocking over his coffee mug in his haste.
"Yes, Calla?"
