My voice comes out sharp, carrying enough edge to make Maddie's eyes widen in alarm.
"I thought you knew," she stammers, clearly recognizing that she's just dropped information I wasn't prepared for. "A raven delivered a letter to Calla yesterday. Warning her to stop investigating."
The bakery tilts around me. The warm, yeasty air suddenly feels thick and suffocating. My tusks catch my lower lip as my jaw clenches involuntarily.
"What kind of warning?"
Maddie's freckled face pales. "I don't know the exact words. She came over last night after she got it, asking for help. Something about calling it off or the harvest would fail."
Blood pounds in my temples. While I've been keeping my distance, playing the professional colleague and pretending that night in her kitchen meant nothing, someone's been threatening her. Calla received a direct threat, and I wasn't there.
My hands shake as the full implications crash over me.
"Thanks for the croissant."
The words come out clipped, mechanical. I set the pastry on the counter without taking a bite.
"Brakkor, wait?—"
But I'm already pushing through the bakery door, the brass bell clanging harshly against the frame. My boots strike the cobblestones with purpose as I stride toward the Whistle building, each step driven by a fury that's been building since Maddie's words hit me.
Someone threatened Calla. While I've been nursing wounded pride and maintaining professional distance, someone sent her a warning designed to make her back down.
The Whistle's front door bangs open under my palm.
"Morning, Brakkor! Guess what?—"
Jamie's cheerful greeting dies as I blow past his desk without acknowledgment. Sarah's delicate pixie wings flutter nervously as she looks up from her lifestyle column draft.
Calla's office door stands slightly ajar. I push it open without knocking and step inside.
She sits behind her desk, reviewing a stack of correspondence with that careful precision I've come to recognize. Her dark hair is pulled back in its usual sleek bun, not a strand out of place despite whatever stress she's carrying.
"Show me the letter."
Her head snaps up. Those sharp brown eyes widen before narrowing into the controlled expression I know means she's calculating her response.
"Good morning to you too." She sets down her quill with deliberate calm. "I assume Maddie filled you in on things that aren't your concern."
"The letter, Calla."
I step closer to her desk, my voice dropping into a register that brooks no argument. The professional distance I've been maintaining for days crumbles completely.
"It's handled. You don't need to worry about?—"
"Damn it, Calla!" My palm slams against her desk, rattling the inkwell. "Someone threatened you, and you think that's not my business?"
Her composed facade cracks slightly. "Maddie had no right to tell you. This is my problem to manage."
"Show. Me. The letter."
Each word carries the weight of every instinct screaming that I should have been here, should have known, should have been the one standing between her and whatever's escalating.
Calla's jaw tightens. For a moment, we stare at each other across the desk—her control warring against my demand. Finally, she opens the top drawer and withdraws a folded piece of parchment.
The paper feels expensive under my fingers, heavy stock with crisp edges. But the message is brutal in its simplicity:
Call it off, or the harvest fails with you.
