We watch the controlled chaos for several more minutes, vendors checking items against lists, neighbors helpingneighbors sort deliveries, the entire town moving with renewed energy. The festival banners that hung limp and incomplete yesterday now flutter proudly above stalls being rapidly assembled.
Thornak emerges from behind the largest carriage, deep in conversation with a Guild supervisor. Even from this distance, his satisfaction is visible—shoulders relaxed, posture easy in a way I haven't seen since this whole mess began.
"No more stolen lumber," I say, following Brakkor's gaze.
"His land is secure. The town is secure." Brakkor's arm tightens around my waist. "Everything we fought for."
"Everything we chose to fight for."
The distinction matters. We could have walked away, could have let someone else handle the consequences. Instead, we dove headfirst into uncertainty and emerged with exactly what we hoped to protect.
"Extra edition!" Jamie's voice carries across the square as he waves fresh copies of The Whistle above his head. "Festival supplies recovered! Full investigation results!"
I watch from the newsroom window as townsfolk gather around him, eager hands reaching for papers still warm from the press. The headline reads in bold letters: HARVEST DEVELOPMENT GROUP EXPOSED: LOCAL INVESTIGATION UNCOVERS SUPPLY CHAIN SABOTAGE.
Below it, in smaller but equally prominent text: By Brakkor Vane and Jamie Torres.
"You didn't put your name on it." Brakkor stands behind me, close enough that I feel his warmth against my back.
"It's your story. Both of yours." I turn to face him, noting the way his brow furrows. "Jamie spotted the pattern first. You connected the pieces. I just kept you both from getting arrested."
"That's not?—"
"Look." I point toward the square where Jamie stands surrounded by neighbors, his usual nervous energy replaced with something steadier. Confidence. "He's not hiding behind my authority anymore."
Mrs. Penwhistle takes a paper from Jamie's stack, scanning the article with sharp eyes before nodding approvingly. "Excellent work, young man. Your mother must be proud."
Jamie's grin could power the festival lanterns. "Thank you, Mrs. Penwhistle. We couldn't have done it without everyone's cooperation."
Brakkor watches the exchange, something shifting in his expression. "I was wrong about you."
"Oh?"
"When I first arrived, I thought you were hungry for control. Micromanaging your writers, keeping them small so you could stay large." He shakes his head. "I figured you'd bury Jamie under busywork forever."
"And now?"
"Now I see you were protecting him. Training him. Making sure he was ready for something like this before throwing him into the fire."
I lean against the window frame, studying his face. "Took you long enough to figure that out."
"I'm a slow learner sometimes." His mouth quirks upward. "Good thing I'm pretty."
"Debatable."
"Hey." He steps closer, hands finding my waist. "I'm admitting I was wrong. That's practically a miracle."
"Is it now?" I slide my arms around his neck, enjoying the way his eyes darken. "And what else were you wrong about?"
"Thinking you'd try to undermine your writers instead of building them up. Assuming you cared more about credit than results. Believing you'd choose safety over doing what's right."
"Quite a list."
"I have excellent instincts about most things." His thumbs trace small circles against my hipbones. "Just took me a while to apply them properly to you."
Through the window, Jamie approaches another group of festival vendors, his posture straight and voice clear as he explains the article's findings. No hesitation, no deference—just solid journalism delivered with growing authority.
"He's going to be good at this," Brakkor observes.
