The weight in my chest grows heavier. I can picture the scene perfectly—Brakkor trying to manage an explosive situation while maintaining the investigation's integrity, Thornak's justified fury boiling over into public spectacle, and Garron caught in the middle of forces he doesn't understand.
"Where's Brakkor now?" I ask.
Thornak shrugs. "Walked away after I made an ass of myself. Probably regretting he ever got mixed up in our problems."
The familiar urge to fix everything rises in my throat, but this isn't something I can control from my office with careful words and strategic planning. This is personal, messy, and happening to someone who matters more to me than I'm comfortable admitting.
I push back from the table, abandoning our careful calculations. "I need to go."
"Cal, where are you?—"
"The inn." I'm already reaching for my cloak. "I need to talk to him."
Maddie catches my arm as I pass. "Are you sure that's wise? Maybe give him time to cool off first."
"Time won't fix this." I squeeze her hand briefly. "And I can't leave things like this between us."
The walk to the Copper Kettle Inn feels both endless and far too short. Evening shadows stretch across the cobblestones, and the warm glow from windows does nothing to ease the anxiety tightening my chest.
The inn's common room buzzes with quiet conversation and the clink of pewter mugs. I spot Grenda Ironforge behind the bar, her grey-streaked beard braided with small copper bells that chime softly as she moves.
"Grenda." I approach the bar with more confidence than I feel. "I need to speak with one of your guests. Brakkor Vane."
Her weathered face creases into a knowing smile. "Ah, the orc journalist. Caused quite a stir in the square today, I hear."
"Which room?"
"Third floor, end of the hall. Room twelve." She leans across the bar conspiratorially. "Fair warning though—he came through here looking like a thundercloud about an hour ago. Might want to knock gently."
I climb the narrow wooden stairs, each step echoing in the quiet hallway. By the time I reach the third floor, my heart pounds against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Room twelve sits at the far end of the corridor, lamplight flickering beneath the door. I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate.
What exactly am I planning to say? That I'm sorry Thornak lost his temper? That I understand why Brakkor walked away? That I can't bear the thought of him retreating back into the careful distance he's maintained since we slept together?
I knock before I can lose my nerve entirely.
The door opens before my second knock lands, and Brakkor fills the frame like a wall of barely contained tension. His dark hair falls across his eyes, but I catch the hollow look beneath—the expression of a man watching his worst fears unfold in real time.
"Calla." His voice carries no surprise, only resignation. "I figured you'd come."
"Then you know why I'm here."
He steps aside without invitation, letting me into the small room. The space feels cramped with both our presences, made smaller by the weight of everything unsaid between us.
"Thornak told me what happened." I close the door behind me, studying his profile as he moves to the window. "About the wagon, about Garron."
"Did he tell you how I handled it?" Brakkor's laugh holds no humor. "Because 'handled' might be generous."
"He said you tried to stop him from making a scene."
"I tried." His hands clench at his sides. "And failed. Just like before."
I see it now—the careful distance he's maintained, the way he pulls back whenever things get too personal, too close to mattering. He's not protecting himself. He's protecting everyone else.
"This is exactly how it starts." His voice grows quieter, more dangerous. "Good intentions, righteous anger, people getting hurt because I couldn't control the situation."
"So what's your solution? Walk away?"
