Finn woke with a knife in his hand. He hadn’t meant to reach for it, hadn’t consciously pulled it from its place under the pillow, but there it was, resting cold and familiar in his palm. The weight of it sat heavier than it should have, like something dredged up from the depths of a past life he had no interest in reclaiming.

He exhaled through his nose and stared at it for a long moment, the dim morning light filtering through the small window casting a thin silver gleam across the blade’s edge. For years, his hands had only held kitchen knives, slicing vegetables, carving roasts, kneading dough. That was supposed to be enough. That was supposed to be all. And yet, here he was, gripping steel like he was expecting a fight before breakfast.

With a quiet curse, he tossed the knife onto the nightstand, rubbing a hand down his face. He had barely slept, his mind restless, turning over Silk’s words like a gambler shuffling a deck of marked cards. Someone had put a price on his head—one thousand Silver Coins for proof of death. No details about why, just the kind of sum that would make desperate men consider stupid choices.

It made no sense. If Madame Vraska wanted him dead, she had the connections to do it cleanly, quickly, without turning his name into a public wager. Why now after many years of being left alone? Which meant it wasn’t just about his death—it was a message. A slow, crawling dread settled in his gut, coiling like smoke as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, shaking off the stiffness in his joints.

He wasn’t new to this game. He had spent years surviving by reading the signs, and this one was clear as day: someone was coming, and they wanted him to know it. But he wasn’t running. Not yet. Not when he had spent too long building this quiet life, not when the smell of fresh bread in the morning was more familiar to him now than the scent of blood and steel. He had left that world behind. If someone wanted to drag him back into it, they were going to have to get past his kitchen first.

By the time he made it downstairs, The Velvet Ladle was already alive with the sounds of the morning rush. The air was thick with the warmth of fresh baking bread, the scent of ground coffee mingling with the buttery richness of frying eggs and spiced potatoes. The wooden beams of the tavern creaked with the shifting weight of bodies, the low hum of conversation rising and falling like the tide as the regulars settled into their usual routines.

Finn tied his apron around his waist, pushing the lingering unease from his mind as he stepped behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves. Work. That was what he needed—something to keep his hands busy, something to keep his thoughts from circling the same damn drain.

Marla was already moving between tables, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the effortless awareness of someone who had spent years working rooms like this. She shot him a look as she passed, a tray balanced on her hip, collecting Silver Coins from a trio of traders who had just finished their meal. “Two Faun’s Foraged Fettuccines and a Goblin’s Gold Curry,” she called over the noise, slipping the collected payment into her apron pouch. Finn nodded, flexing his fingers before setting to work, the rhythmic motions of kneading dough and chopping herbs soothing something restless in his bones.

Across the kitchen, Grog was hunched over a bubbling pot of thick golden curry, his massive frame hunched slightly as he stirred with a wooden ladle that looked comically small in his hands. The half-orc was scowling at the mixture like it had personally insulted him, but Finn had learned long ago that was just how Grog looked when he was concentrating.

“You’re quiet today, boss,” Grog rumbled without looking up. His voice carried over the clatter of dishes, low with worry. Finn kept his eyes on the dough beneath his hands, pressing his knuckles into it with just a little more force than necessary.

“Thinking,” he muttered. The word felt insufficient, but he wasn’t about to lay out the details in the middle of a packed kitchen. Grog grunted, unimpressed. The sound was half-acceptance, half-suspicion.

That was the problem with Grog. He noticed things. Not in the sharp, predatory way Silk did, but in the slow, methodical way of someone who had spent too long waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Finn knew he wasn’t fooling him.

It wasn’t until just before noon that Finn felt the first real warning sign. It started as a presence—a shift in the air, something subtle, something wrong. He had spent years learning to trust those instincts, and right now, they were crawling up his spine like a whisper in the dark. The feeling of being watched. Not in the casual way of a hungry customer waiting for their meal, or the occasional traveler idly observing the kitchen at work. No, this was different.

Finn’s gaze flicked toward the farthest corner of the room, to a man sitting alone, hood drawn low, a half-finished mug of ale resting untouched in front of him. He wasn’t eating. Wasn’t talking. Just watching. And when Finn met his gaze, the man didn’t look away.

The moment stretched, a quiet, unspoken weight settling between them. Finn forced himself to move as if nothing was wrong, turning back toward the kitchen, but his mind was already running through possibilities. The stranger had the look of someone who didn’t belong—his cloak was too fine for a common traveler, but too worn for nobility. His posture was relaxed, almost too much so, the way a fighter sat when they wanted to appear harmless. And his hands… Finn had spent years reading people by their hands. This man’s fingers were calloused, his nails short and clean. Not a farmer’s hands. Not a merchant’s. A fighter, then. Or worse.

Finn kept his face neutral as he grabbed a bowl from the counter, ladling out a fresh serving of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew for one of the other tables, but his mind was already drawing lines, connecting dots. Was this the first one? A bounty hunter? An informant? Or just some poor bastard who didn’t realize where his gaze had wandered? It didn’t matter. He would find out soon enough.

Finn turned back toward Grog and spoke low enough that only he could hear. “Table in the far corner. Hooded man.” He didn’t have to say more. Grog wiped his hands on a rag and shifted, just enough to get a better look without making it obvious. The big half-orc grunted, voice barely above a murmur. “You want him gone?”

Finn hesitated. “Not yet.”

Grog didn’t argue. He never did.

Finn took a slow breath, steadying himself, and moved to collect the next order. He didn’t know who the stranger was or what he wanted, but one thing was certain.

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Peace never lasted.

And this?

This was just the beginning.

Finn didn’t let himself look again. Not right away. A mistake too many amateurs made was giving away their suspicion too soon, reacting too quickly, tipping their hand before they even knew what game they were playing. Instead, he kept working, kept plating orders, kept his movements as natural as the flow of a kitchen should be. He listened to the clatter of tankards, the scrape of chairs against wood, the steady rhythm of boots on floorboards as customers came and went. But beneath it all, there was one constant. The weight of a stranger’s gaze, pressing against him like a blade against the ribs.

He took another slow breath and picked up the next order slip, his mind working through the details with quiet precision. A scout. That was his guess. Not a bounty hunter, not yet. Those types didn’t sit and watch. They moved with intent. They came fast, all knives and bravado, trying to make a name for themselves with a single strike. No, this was different. This was patient. This was someone studying him, learning his habits, measuring the angles of the room before deciding how best to act. Someone sent to confirm the rumors.

Finn knew the type well. He used to be the type.

He set a plate of Gilded Trout en Papillote on the counter just as Marla approached, her gaze sharp, picking up on the same tension that had wrapped itself around him. She didn’t say anything at first, just scooped up the dish with one hand and slid a handful of Silver Coins across the counter with the other. She was good like that. Knew when to push, knew when to keep quiet. But as she turned to leave, she hesitated. A small, almost imperceptible pause before she shifted closer and muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to catch.

“Corner table. Been nursing that ale too long.”

Finn wiped his hands on a rag and nodded. “I know.”

Marla lingered another half-second, then exhaled through her nose and walked off, slipping back into her role as effortlessly as a knife sliding into its sheath. Finn turned toward Grog, who was now casually leaning against the back counter, arms crossed, watching. Always watching. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the stove, hadn’t needed to. The big guy had a way of knowing exactly when he was needed and when to stay put. But Finn knew what was coming next before the words even left his mouth.

“Still want me to wait?”

Finn rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension out of them. “For now.”

Grog nodded once. That was the thing about him. He never questioned Finn’s decisions, but he always made sure Finn had thought them through. It was a rare quality in someone built like a battering ram.

Finn exhaled through his nose and finally—finally—allowed himself to look again. Just a flick of the eyes. Nothing too obvious. A glance toward the stranger, just long enough to take in the details he had avoided gathering earlier.

The man was older than Finn expected, late forties, maybe early fifties, but still solid. The kind of build that came from years of work, not raw muscle but practical strength. His cloak was worn at the edges but well-maintained, the stitching along the seams still tight, the fabric quality despite the fading. His boots were scuffed but sturdy, built for travel. No spurs, no elaborate buckles, nothing to suggest unnecessary flair. The man wasn’t here to be noticed. He was here to observe.

A scout. No doubt about it.

Finn had spent too many years in the same trade not to recognize his own reflection in another man’s work.

He made his decision before he even realized he had come to one.

With one last glance toward Grog, he untied his apron and hung it on the peg by the kitchen door. “Keep an eye on things,” he murmured.

Grog just grunted. Finn took that as a yes.

He crossed the room at an easy pace, weaving between tables, nodding once at Rorik the dwarf, who was finishing the last bite of his Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie, exchanging a few coins with Marla for a fresh tankard of ale. Every step felt slow, measured, deliberate, even though his heart had already settled into a steady, focused rhythm. By the time he reached the stranger’s table, Finn had already cataloged three potential exits, two available weapons, and a single course of action that wouldn’t end in unnecessary bloodshed.

The man looked up before Finn even spoke, those sharp eyes settling on him with the calm weight of someone who had expected this conversation from the moment he walked in.

Finn pulled out the empty chair across from him and sat. Not an invitation. A statement. A claim. This was his tavern, and he wanted answers.

The stranger watched him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose, something amused flickering behind his otherwise unreadable expression. “Thought you’d take longer,” he said. His voice was low, steady. The kind of voice that had seen its fair share of late-night dealings and whispered conversations in shadowed alleys.

Finn folded his arms. “You’ve been here two hours, haven’t eaten, haven’t left, haven’t asked for another drink. That’s long enough.”

The man lifted his tankard, peering into it like he had just now realized how little was left. “Ale’s not bad,” he admitted.

Finn didn’t smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now tell me who sent you.”

The man’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened. “No one.”

Finn clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Try again.”

A pause. A small shift in the stranger’s posture, but not enough to signal a real threat. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble.”

“And yet,” Finn said flatly, gesturing to the untouched plate in front of him. “Here you are, pretending to be a paying customer, watching me like I’m supposed to start dancing on the tables.”

The stranger exhaled slowly, then reached into his cloak.

Finn didn’t tense. Didn’t reach for a knife. Just watched.

The man withdrew a small rolled parchment, setting it on the table between them. Not a weapon. A message.

Finn stared at it, then back at him. “And that is?”

“Information.”

Finn waited.

The man finally leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Someone wants you dead. That’s not a secret.”

Finn scoffed. “Tell me something I don’t know. It’s Madame Vraska.”

The stranger tapped the parchment once. “I know who they sent to collect.”

That stopped him. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the stranger to catch it, to see the way Finn’s jaw ticked ever so slightly, the way his fingers curled reflexively against his arms.

Damn it.

Finn inhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral. “And why, exactly, are you telling me this?”

The man leaned back, his mouth quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but close enough.

“Because,” he said simply, “they paid me to find you.”

Silence.

Finn felt the shift in the air, the weight of the words settling between them like a coin hitting the bottom of a well.

The stranger held his gaze, unblinking. “And I don’t like their odds.”

Finn let out a slow, measured breath.

Well.

This just got interesting.