The scent of sizzling butter and roasting garlic filled the small tavern, wrapping around Finnrick Tumblepot, the scent invigorating his senses. This was peace.

He worked the pan with practiced ease, flipping a golden-brown trout fillet onto a waiting plate. A final drizzle of lemon-thyme butter, a garnish of crispy sage, and the dish was ready.

"Order up! Gilded Trout en Papillote, table three!"

From across the kitchen, Marla Tanspring, his no-nonsense waitress, swept in like a storm. She grabbed the plate with one hand while balancing two tankards of ale in the other. A few strands of auburn hair had escaped the tight bun at the nape of her neck, but she paid them no mind.

"Table three’s paying with a twenty," she said, shifting her tray. "Wants a full five back in Silver Coin."

Finn wiped his hands on his apron, stepping toward the small wooden lockbox beside the counter. He lifted the lid, the familiar weight of Silver Coins clinking together as he pulled out five gleaming pieces and dropped them into Marla’s palm.

"Five back. Tell them to enjoy it, but if they complain it’s too delicate, remind them they ordered trout and not a bloody boar haunch."

Marla only grunted in response before pivoting back toward the common room, where the evening crowd had settled in for the night.

The Velvet Ladle wasn’t the busiest tavern in Puddlebrook, but it had its regulars—hardworking folks who appreciated a meal that didn’t taste like boot leather.

Across the room, a dwarven farmer dropped eight Silver Coins into Marla’s waiting hand, waving a thick-fingered hand toward the menu board.

"One Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie for me, lass. Been thinking about it all day."

"Coming right up, Rorik," Marla replied smoothly, slipping the coins into her apron pouch.

Finn turned back to his station, rolling his shoulders. His body still ached from years of tumbles and close calls, old wounds that had healed but never quite let him forget. He flexed his fingers, once nimble enough to pick a noble’s pocket without them noticing. Now, they curled around a wooden spoon instead of a dagger.

And that suited him just fine.

A familiar heavy footfall echoed from the back pantry, followed by the unmistakable sound of a wooden crate being set down with a thud.

"Brought in the last of the flour, boss."

Finn turned just as Grog—his half-orc dishwasher, handyman, and part-time bouncer—emerged from the pantry, dusting flour off his massive hands.

"Appreciate it, big guy," Finn said. "Now do me a favor and don’t scare off the customers tonight."

Grog grunted, crossing his tree-trunk arms. "I don’t scare ‘em. They just ain’t used to someone my size handin’ them soup."

"Your ‘soup face’ looks like you’re deciding whether to serve them stew or break their legs."

Grog snorted, the sound deep and amused. "Not my fault my face don’t do ‘friendly’ like yours."

"My face does ‘charming,’" Finn corrected, pointing at himself with mock offense. "Big difference."

Their usual banter was interrupted by the bell over the tavern door.

The warmth of the room was momentarily pierced by the cold evening air, the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke trailing in with the newcomer.

Finn didn’t look up at first—he had another Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie to check on—but he noticed the shift in the room.

Conversations faltered. The clatter of tankards against tables quieted.

Finn’s gut tightened. Old instincts stirred.

Then he heard the boots.

Not the mud-caked, well-worn boots of a farmer stopping in for a meal. Not the light, hurried steps of a courier.

These were the measured, deliberate steps of someone who was used to being watched.

Finn forced himself to move at his normal pace, sliding the bubbling venison pie onto a plate before finally lifting his gaze.

And there she was.

Silk Renna.

She stood just past the threshold, her cloak still damp from the rain, hood drawn back to reveal the same knowing smirk she had worn the last time he’d seen her.

Back when he’d still carried knives for a living.

Back before the dragon.

Before everything changed.

Finn's grip tightened on the wooden counter.

Silk moved like she owned the space, stepping toward an empty table near the back. She moved without hesitation, without checking the exits. That meant she wasn’t worried.

Either she wasn’t here for trouble…

Or she already had every escape planned.

Marla noticed the tension first. She slowed mid-step, tray balanced on her hip, her sharp eyes flicking between Finn and the new arrival. She knew better than to speak, but Finn caught the question in her look.

Who is she?

Finn exhaled through his nose, forcing his grip to relax. No sudden moves.

Then he untied his apron and stepped out from behind the counter.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"I’ll take this one, Marla," he murmured as he passed.

Marla’s brow furrowed, but she gave a small nod and turned toward another table.

Finn crossed the room at a measured pace. Not too slow. Not too fast. Just casual enough to make it seem like he wasn’t walking toward his past.

Silk looked up as he neared, resting her elbow on the table and grinning like they were old drinking buddies.

"Well, well, well." Her voice was the same—smooth, teasing, carrying the lilt of someone always two steps ahead. "So the rumors were true. Finnrick Tumblepot, slinger of stew."

Finn didn’t sit. Didn’t return the smile.

"I’d ask what the hells you’re doing here, Silk, but I already know I won’t like the answer."

She sighed, feigning mock hurt. "That’s no way to treat an old friend."

"We were never friends."

Silk chuckled, leaning back. "That’s fair." She gestured toward the empty seat across from her. "You gonna stand there all night, or do I get the full dining experience? I hear the food here is to die for."

Finn didn’t move. "Why are you here?"

Silk tilted her head. "Can’t a girl just stop by for a bite to eat?"

Finn didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The tension stretched.

Finally, Silk’s smirk faded just a fraction. She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Alright, fine. If you must know, I was in the area, and I thought—"

A pause.

Then her smile returned, sharper this time.

"Actually, no. That’s a lie. I came here because I’ve got news. And I figured you'd want to hear it."

Finn’s stomach tightened.

He didn’t want news. He didn’t want anything to do with his old life.

But he already knew it was too late.

Silk wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing.

And judging by the way she watched him now, he wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

Finn didn’t sit.

Not yet.

Instead, he crossed his arms, weighing his options. Silk wasn’t the type to waste her time, and she sure as hell wasn’t the type to take a long, wet ride into Puddlebrook just for the pleasure of his company. That meant whatever she had to say was something she knew he wouldn’t ignore.

And he hated that.

"If you're selling something, I'm not buying," he said flatly.

Silk just smiled, slow and knowing, and leaned forward onto her elbows. "Then consider this a free sample, chef." She let the word linger, like she was trying it out on her tongue, tasting it.

Finn let out a long, slow breath. He should’ve just walked away. Pretended he didn’t know her. Gone back to his kitchen, his food, his peace.

But that was the thing about peace.

It never lasted.

Without waiting for an invitation, Silk slid a coin across the table. A single Silver Coin, polished to a shine. Not an uncommon sight, but there was a tiny engraving along its edge—a mark Finn hadn’t seen in years.

It wasn’t just a coin. It was a message.

Finn’s mouth went dry.

Silk saw the flicker of recognition in his face, and that damn smirk widened.

"I’ll take a bowl of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew, chef," she said, flicking the coin with one finger. "And while you’re at it, you might want to sit down for this one."

Finn hesitated. Just a breath.

Then, cursing under his breath, he grabbed the coin off the table and shoved it into his pocket.

"Marla! Stew for table six!" he called, still not taking his eyes off Silk.

Marla raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, heading for the kitchen.

Finn pulled out a chair and sat across from Silk, leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

"Talk."

Silk exhaled, shaking her head. "You know, I half expected you to throw me out."

"Still considering it."

Silk chuckled, tapping a finger against the wooden tabletop. "Alright, Finn. I'll get to the point."

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough so that only he could hear.

"Someone put a price on your head."

Finn didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He just let the words settle between them.

"Who?" he asked, voice quiet.

Silk tilted her head. "I’ll let you learn that for yourself, but it’s making rounds in the right circles."

"How much?"

"Enough." She paused, letting that sink in. "Not a king’s ransom, mind you, but a purse big enough that a few desperate blades might take their chances."

Finn slowly drummed his fingers against the tabletop, thinking. A bounty. It wasn’t entirely unexpected—he had burned more than a few bridges when he’d walked away from his old life.

But the fact that it was surfacing now, after years of nothing? That was bad.

"You sure it’s real?" he asked.

Silk shrugged. "I wouldn’t have come all this way if I wasn’t."

That was true enough. Silk never wasted effort unless there was profit or entertainment in it for her.

Finn exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Alright. What else do you know?"

Silk hesitated this time. Not long. Just a flicker.

Then she reached into her cloak and pulled something free—a scrap of parchment, neatly folded.

She slid it across the table.

Finn stared at it for a moment before finally unfolding it.

His stomach turned.

It was his name.

Written in sharp, deliberate handwriting.

Underneath it, a brief description:

Finnrick "Finn" Tumblepot. Gnome. Small, wiry. Former infiltrator. Last seen in Puddlebrook. 1,000 Silver Coins upon proof of death.

And beside it?

A symbol.

A sigil stamped in red wax—one that made Finn’s blood run cold.

Madame Vraska.

Of course.

Of course it was her.

Finn swore under his breath and shoved the parchment into his pocket, resisting the urge to throw it into the tavern hearth.

Silk just watched him, lips quirked, like she was waiting for him to explode.

He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Instead, he pushed back his chair and stood.

"You're telling me because...?"

Silk grinned. "Because, Finn, I like to keep my investments informed."

Finn frowned. "Investment? I don’t recall owing you a damn thing."

Silk leaned back, drumming her fingers on the table. "Not yet."

Marla arrived before Finn could say anything else, setting down a steaming bowl of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew. She gave Silk a tight-lipped glance before turning to Finn.

"You need anything?"

"No." His voice was clipped.

Marla nodded once before walking away.

Silk picked up her spoon, taking a slow, appreciative inhale of the briny steam rising from the bowl. "Gods, I missed your cooking."

"Enjoy it," Finn said flatly. "It’s the last meal you’re getting from me."

Silk’s smirk didn’t waver. "That so?"

"You brought me bad news, Renna. You don’t get to linger."

Silk took a bite of stew, chewing thoughtfully. "So, what’s the plan, then?"

Finn exhaled through his nose.

"The plan is simple," he said, voice low. "I keep cooking. I keep my head down. And I pretend this conversation never happened."

Silk studied him for a long moment, then shook her head.

"That’s not gonna work."

Finn said nothing.

Because she was right.

He knew it.

And judging by the way Silk was still watching him, she knew he knew it.