BRAKKOR
The three of us step out of the Whistle into afternoon sunlight that feels deceptively cheerful given the weight of everything we've uncovered. Jamie remains behind, already bent over his desk with renewed determination to craft an article that will expose the truth without sending the entire town into panic.
Maddie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving streaks in the flour dust that permanently decorates her fingers. "I have to get back to the bakery. Maybe if I inventory what I actually have left, I can figure out how to stretch it."
"We'll sort this out, Mads." Calla's voice carries the steady conviction that's become familiar to me. "Between what we've learned and what Jamie's putting together, we're close to answers."
"Close doesn't bake bread," Maddie replies, but her tone lacks the despair from moments earlier. "Still, I appreciate you both caring enough to dig into this mess."
Calla turns toward me, and for a moment I expect another strategic discussion about next steps or investigation priorities. Instead, she steps closer, rises onto her toes, and presses a gentlekiss to my cheek. Her lips are warm against my skin, the gesture so natural it catches me completely off guard.
"I'll be back," she murmurs, offering me a smile that transforms her entire face. "And thank you."
Before I can formulate any response that doesn't involve stammering, she's already linking arms with Maddie and heading toward the Golden Crust.
I stand there like an idiot, watching them walk away, one hand unconsciously touching the spot where her lips brushed my skin. The simple gesture sends warmth spreading through my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun.
A throat clears behind me.
I turn to find Mrs. Dalloway watching me with undisguised interest, her wrinkled hands clutched around a watering can. Across the square, Mr. Penwhistle stops sweetping leaves from his doorstep to stare openly. Even the pixie children playing tag near the fountain have stopped their game to observe this development with wide, curious eyes.
Perfect. Half the town just witnessed Calla Mercer kiss the outsider orc on the cheek in broad daylight. If my grey-green skin could flush, I'd probably resemble a ripe tomato right about now.
The crash that splits the air saves me from further mortification.
A massive wagon loaded with lumber and metal framework tilts at an impossible angle in the festival square, its rear wheel completely detached and rolling away like an escaped animal. Workers scatter as support beams slide toward the ground with splintering crashes.
"Look out!" someone shouts as a particularly heavy beam swings loose from its restraints.
I sprint toward the chaos, dodging scattered nails and wooden debris. A young man with sandy hair stumblesbackward from the collapsing load, his face pale with shock as a metal bracket bounces past his head.
Thornak emerges from the Guild Hall at a run, his weathered boots finding purchase on the scattered materials as he vaults over a fallen beam to reach the boy.
"Timmy!" Thornak's voice cuts through the commotion as he grabs the young man's shoulders, checking him for injuries. "You hurt?"
Timmy shakes his head, though his hands tremble as he surveys the wreckage around him. "I'm fine, just startled. But look at this mess."
I help steady a section of framework that threatens to topple onto the square's carefully maintained cobblestones. "Anyone else under there?"
"No, thankfully," Timmy replies, kicking at the detached wheel with obvious frustration. "I just got the damned thing fixed by Garron yesterday. Paid good coin for a proper repair job, too."
Another connection to Garron Pike, another piece of equipment failing at precisely the wrong moment.
"What exactly did Garron fix?" I ask, crouching beside the broken wheel assembly.
Timmy kicks at the detached wheel again, his frustration evident. "Brand new wheel, that one. Garron promised me it was top quality—said the wood came from his best supplier. Cost me three weeks' wages."
"New wheel?" I examine the splintered remains more closely. The break isn't clean—it's jagged, as if the wood simply gave way under normal stress.
Thornak moves beside me, his weathered hands running along the broken framework. His expression shifts from concern to something harder, more dangerous.
"This wood." His voice carries a growl I haven't heard before. "I know this grain."
"What do you mean?"
Thornak picks up a section of the broken beam, turning it in the light. His jaw tightens as he examines the surface. "See these marks? The way the cut angles? This came from my land."
I think of our conversation in the forest, the clean cuts where trees had been harvested without permission. "You're certain?"
