"Right," I say, turning to face both men. "Jamie, I need you to canvas every merchant in the square. Ask about the transport company specifically—Harvest Valley Transport. Find out who else has been affected."
Jamie nods eagerly, already pulling out his leather-bound notepad. "What should I tell them about why I'm asking?"
"Research for a piece on local commerce during festival season. Keep it light, but thorough."
Brakkor adjusts his coat, his grey-green skin catching the filtered sunlight. "And we're following that trail I found yesterday. All the way to wherever it leads."
The shift in my approach doesn't escape me—I'm distributing authority instead of hoarding it, trusting both of them with crucial pieces of our investigation. The realization should unsettle me, but instead, it feels like finally breathing properly.
"Xander will have horses," I say, already turning toward the stables at the town's edge.
Jamie heads toward the market stalls, his blonde hair catching the morning light as he approaches a group of merchants setting up their wares.
Brakkor falls into step beside me as we navigate the familiar streets. The path to Aldric's stables takes us past Maddie'sbakery, where the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread mingles with underlying anxiety.
Xander emerges from the stable as we approach, his weathered hands still holding a curry brush. The elderly man's face creases into a smile that doesn't quite reach his worried eyes.
"Calla, Brakkor. What brings you out here so early?"
"We need to borrow a horse," I say directly. "If you have one to spare, that is."
Aldric nods slowly, understanding passing between us without need for elaborate explanation. "No problem at all. Take Hazel. She's steady and knows the forest paths well."
He disappears into the stable and returns leading a chestnut mare with intelligent dark eyes and a calm demeanor. Her tack gleams from careful maintenance, and she nickers softly as Brakkor approaches.
"She'll serve you well," Aldric says, handing Brakkor the reins. "Just mind the ravine about two miles northeast—the recent rains have made the footing treacherous."
Brakkor swings himself onto Hazel's back with surprising grace for an orc, settling into the saddle before extending his hand toward me. His palm is calloused, warm, and entirely steady.
I grasp his hand and let him pull me up behind him, my arms instinctively circling his waist for balance. The position puts us in unmistakable contact, my chest pressed against his broad back, my hands flat against the worn leather of his coat.
"Ready?" Brakkor asks, his voice carrying a note I can't quite identify.
I nod against his shoulder, aware that anyone watching would see exactly what this looks like—partnership, trust, unity. The careful distance I've maintained between my professionaland personal life dissolves completely as Hazel steps forward, carrying us toward whatever waits in the forest.
CHAPTER 22
BRAKKOR
Hazel's hooves click against the cobblestones as we navigate the festival preparations scattered throughout Harvest Hollow's winding streets. Half-strung banners droop between lampposts like abandoned thoughts, their rich autumn colors muted in the overcast morning light. Empty wooden stalls stand at awkward angles, waiting for merchants who may not have goods to sell.
"Look at that," Calla murmurs against my shoulder, her breath warm through my coat.
I follow her gaze to where a group of pixie children flutter around an incomplete archway, their translucent wings catching what little sunlight breaks through the clouds. They're trying to weave garlands of oak leaves and dried berries, but the materials look sparse—stretched thin to cover gaps that should be filled with abundance.
"They're making do with what they have," I observe, steering Hazel around a cart loaded with half-finished decorations.
"They shouldn't have to make do." Her voice carries an edge I've learned to recognize—the sound of someone watching something precious slip away. "The festival is supposed tooverflow. Tables groaning under the weight of food, stalls bursting with crafts, music spilling from every corner."
We pass a group of dwarven craftsmen attempting to construct what should be an impressive stage for performances. The frame stands solid enough, but the decorative elements—carved panels, painted backdrops, ornate trim—are clearly incomplete. One dwarf holds up a piece of wood, frowning at its rough edges.
"No time for proper finishing," he calls to his partner. "This'll have to do."
Calla's grip tightens around my waist. "This is wrong. All of it."
I guide Hazel toward the forest path, leaving the town's struggling preparations behind. The trees close around us, their ancient presence offering a different kind of peace than the manufactured charm of Harvest Hollow's streets.
"Tell me about it," I say, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear. "The festival. What it actually means."
