"He destroyed everything. Called in favors, discredited witnesses, made the evidence disappear." My voice drops lower, the shame still raw after months. "By the time I realized what I'd triggered, innocent families who'd been cheated out of their life savings had no recourse. The guild member walked free, and dozens of people lost everything."
Before she can respond, the distant rattle of wagon wheels cuts through the forest quiet. We both freeze, then carefully raise our heads above the log.
A familiar painted crest adorns the side of the approaching wagon—Harvest Valley Transport Company in bold letters beneath a stylized sheaf of wheat. The driver guides his team of horses toward the barn with practiced ease.
Two figures emerge from the building to meet him. Even from our distance, their coordinated movements suggest this is routine, not coincidence.
"Well," Calla breathes, "there's our confirmation."
We watch as they begin unloading crates marked with festival supplier seals—exactly the shipments that should be arriving in Harvest Hollow's market square. The efficiency of their operation speaks to careful planning and deliberate intent.
Calla nods grimly. "The question now… is why?"
CHAPTER 23
CALLA
The ride back to town passes in tense silence, both of us processing what we witnessed. Brakkor guides Hazel through the forest paths with practiced ease, but I can feel the rigid set of his shoulders against my chest. The systematic theft we observed has shifted something fundamental—this isn't random disruption anymore, but calculated sabotage.
When we reach the stable behind the inn, I slide down from Hazel's back before Brakkor can offer assistance. My legs feel unsteady after the long ride, but I need the independence of my own footing.
"Easy, girl," Brakkor murmurs to the mare, his voice gentler than I've heard it in days. He runs his hands along her neck, checking for any signs of strain from our extended journey.
The stable keeper, a grizzled dwarf named Korrin, emerges from the shadows with a knowing nod. "Productive morning ride?"
"Educational," I reply, pulling coins from my purse to settle the rental fee.
Brakkor removes the saddle with efficient movements, his familiarity with horses evident in how Hazel responds to histouch. For a moment, watching him work, I forget the tension that's been crackling between us since that night at my cottage.
"Jamie should be at the Whistle by now," I say, breaking the spell. "We need to hear what he's uncovered."
The walk through town reveals the festival preparations in stark relief after what we've seen. Every incomplete banner, every half-finished stall, every worried merchant takes on new significance. This isn't natural delay or seasonal shortage—it's deliberate strangulation.
We find Jamie hunched over his desk in the newsroom, surrounded by scattered papers and ink-stained notes. His usually bright demeanor has dimmed to something approaching panic.
"Thank the gods you're back," he says, looking up with relief that immediately transforms to concern. "It's worse than we thought."
Brakkor claims the chair across from Jamie's desk while I remain standing, arms crossed. "How much worse?"
Jamie shuffles through his notes, his movements quick and agitated. "I spent the morning talking to festival organizers. The decorating committee is missing half their materials—ribbons, lanterns, even basic lumber for booth construction."
"Missing how?" Brakkor leans forward, his reporter instincts engaging.
"Supposedly delayed shipments. But when I tracked the orders, they show as delivered." Jamie's voice carries the frustrated tone of someone discovering lies at every turn. "Xanderh's carpentry guild received confirmation that their festival stage materials arrived last week. Except they never saw a single plank."
I sink into the remaining chair, the weight of implications settling around me like a heavy cloak. "The performers won't have a proper stage."
"Gets worse. The textile merchants are short on fabric for banners and booth coverings. The glassblowers don't have materials for the traditional lantern ceremony." Jamie runs his hands through his blonde hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. "Half the merchants I spoke with are considering pulling out entirely rather than embarrass themselves with substandard displays."
Brakkor's jaw tightens, his tusks becoming more prominent as his expression darkens. "How long before word spreads to other towns? Before visitors start canceling their plans?"
"Already happening," Jamie admits. "Mrs. Penwhistle mentioned that her cousin from Millbrook sent a raven asking if the festival was still happening. Apparently, rumors are circulating that Harvest Hollow is having 'difficulties.'"
The room falls silent except for the scratch of my pen against parchment as I make notes. Each detail Jamie provides confirms what we witnessed in the forest—a coordinated effort to strangle the festival before it can begin.
"But why?" I ask, staring at Jamie's scattered notes as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. "Why are they after the festival? There has to be something more." I tap my pen against the desk, the rhythm sharp and agitated. "There's profit in chaos, but this level of coordination requires serious investment. Someone's spending considerable resources to orchestrate this."
"Which means they expect a bigger return than just watching Harvest Hollow struggle." Brakkor stands, his decision already made. "Jamie, grab your notes. Let's give Calla a break."
