She's quiet for so long I wonder if she's going to answer. When she finally speaks, her words carry the weight of memory.
"It started as a harvest celebration, obviously. But it became something more—a time when the whole town comes together to share what we've accomplished during the year. Maddie spends weeks perfecting new recipes. The craftsmen create their finest work. Even the children contribute, making decorations and helping with preparations."
Hazel picks her way carefully along the forest trail, her steps sure despite the uneven ground. Calla shifts behind me, adjusting her position as we navigate around a fallen log.
"People travel from other towns to experience it. They bring trade, stories, connections. Harvest Hollow becomes the center of something larger than itself." She sighs, her cheek resting on my back. "Now we're scrambling to create a shadow of whatit should be. The visitors will come expecting abundance and find..." She trails off, but I can hear the frustration in her silence.
"Disappointment," I finish.
"Worse. They'll leave thinking we've lost our way. That whatever made Harvest Hollow special has faded."
The trail curves upward, following the ridge line toward the coordinates I've memorized from yesterday's reconnaissance. Through gaps in the canopy, I catch glimpses of the valley below—patches of cleared land that shouldn't be there, wagon ruts cutting through areas that should be pristine forest.
"I didn't understand," I admit, my voice rougher than intended. "When I first arrived, I thought the festival was just another small-town tradition. Something quaint but ultimately insignificant."
"And now?"
I consider the question carefully, thinking about the pixie children struggling with sparse materials, the dwarven craftsmen settling for substandard work, the weight of Calla's disappointment pressed against my back.
"Now I see what you're protecting. It's not just about commerce or tradition. It's about identity."
"Exactly." Her voice softens, carrying relief that I finally understand. "The festival is when Harvest Hollow shows the world who we are. When we prove that beauty and abundance and community still matter."
The trail crests a small hill, and I pull Hazel to a stop. Below us, partially hidden by a grove of pine trees, sits a ramshackle barn that has no business being in this part of the forest. Wagon tracks lead directly to its weathered doors, and even from this distance, I can make out stacks of crates arranged in neat rows outside.
"There," I say, pointing toward the hidden operation.
Calla leans forward, her chin nearly touching my shoulder as she studies the scene below. "Those crates..."
"Festival shipments. I'd bet my last coin on it."
We watch as two figures emerge from the barn, their movements purposeful and efficient. One carries a ledger, making notes as the other checks markings on the crates. Even from our elevated position, the systematic nature of their operation is clear.
We dismount quietly, tethering Hazel to a sturdy oak well back from the ridge line. The forest floor cushions our steps as we settle behind a fallen log that provides perfect cover while maintaining a clear view of the barn below.
Calla arranges herself beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of ink and parchment that seems to follow her everywhere. She pulls her cloak tighter against the cool air filtering through the canopy.
"Now we wait," I murmur, keeping my voice barely above a whisper.
She nods, then glances at me sideways. "While we're sitting here playing woodland spies, will you tell me something?"
"Depends what you're asking."
"Your previous assignment. The one that landed you in 'Nowhere Harvest Hollow,' as you so charmingly put it." Her tone carries that careful neutrality she uses when she's fishing for information. "What actually happened?"
I shift against the log, suddenly finding the bark uncomfortably rough against my back. "You really want to dig into ancient history right now?"
"We might be here a while. And I've told you everything about this town, about what matters to me." She meets my gaze directly. "Seems fair you return the favor."
Fair. As if fairness had anything to do with the mess I'd made. I watch the figures below continue their methodical work, using the distraction to gather my thoughts.
"Guild corruption case. High-ranking member siphoning funds from community development projects." The words taste bitter, even after all this time.
"Sounds straightforward enough."
"Should have been. I had documentation, witness testimonies, financial records that painted a clear picture." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the familiar weight of regret settle in my chest. "But instead of building an airtight case, I got impatient. Thought I could force a confession by confronting him directly."
Calla's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. She understands the implications before I spell them out.
