Finn had spent years perfecting the art of keeping his face unreadable, of wearing an expression so indifferent that even the sharpest eyes in the room would skim right past him. It had kept him alive, kept him overlooked when it mattered most. But right now, as he stared at the man across from him, he could feel the old instincts stirring—the ones that told him a wrong move here meant trouble.

The man—Thorne, as he called himself—wasn’t like the usual strays that wandered into The Velvet Ladle. He wasn’t a farmhand looking for a warm meal or a merchant pausing for rest before the next town. No, Finn recognized his type before he even sat down. The way he carried himself, the careful way he moved, the way his sharp gaze cataloged the room but never lingered too long on any one thing. He was a scout. A good one at that. And that meant Finn had a problem.

The parchment between them was still unrolled, the words clear and damning. A list of names, descriptions, a handful of notes on skills and habits. Not a full dossier, but enough. Enough to tell Finn that the people coming after him weren’t amateurs. They were specialists. Hunters. A tracker, a spellcaster, a knife fighter, a brute, a hunter—each of them skilled in their own right, but dangerous as a unit. This wasn’t a band of bounty-seeking mercenaries hoping to make a name for themselves. This was a hand-picked group, sent to do a job.

Finn exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t surprised. He had known trouble was coming the moment Silk slid that coin across the table. But seeing it written out like this made it all real.

Thorne was watching him, studying the way his eyes moved across the page, reading every micro-expression Finn tried not to show. The bastard was good. Finn hated that he was good.

He finally flicked the parchment with two fingers. “And you’re just handing this over out of the kindness of your heart?” His tone was flat, unimpressed.

Thorne exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly. “No one’s ever accused me of kindness before.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A brief pause stretched between them, heavy and measured. Finn wasn’t naïve. No one in their business did anything for free. He had lived long enough to know that every favor came with a price. Thorne had made the trip out to Puddlebrook for a reason, and Finn doubted it was just to warn him.

“What do you want?” Finn asked, keeping his voice low.

Thorne tapped the parchment once, then leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out slightly. “A job.”

Finn raised a brow. “A job?”

“You need information. You need someone watching your back. I happen to be good at both.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like needing anyone. He had built this life for himself so he wouldn’t have to rely on shaky hands and empty promises. But damn if Thorne wasn’t making sense.

Finn’s gaze flicked toward the parchment again, toward the names written in neat, careful script. He didn’t know these people. Didn’t know their faces, their movements, their weaknesses. But Thorne did.

“And let me guess,” Finn said, keeping his voice even. “The people who hired you won’t be happy to hear you switched sides.”

Thorne smirked. “I never said I took the job.”

Finn tilted his head slightly, his gut telling him this was partially true—but not the full story. “But you were approached.”

Thorne didn’t answer immediately, but he didn’t have to. The way his smirk faded, the way his fingers drummed once against the table before stilling—it was confirmation enough.

Finn sighed through his nose, rubbing his temple. “You’re either a fool or a liar.”

Thorne’s smirk returned, just a flicker. “Both, on a good day.”

Finn knew he shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t let someone like Thorne get too close. But he also knew he didn’t have time to be stubborn. He needed information. He needed someone who could get close without being noticed, someone who could sniff out who these hunters were and how close they were getting. And if Thorne was already tangled up in it, that meant he knew more than he was letting on.

“Fine,” Finn said finally, pushing the parchment back toward Thorne. “You’re on the payroll. But if I find out you’re working both sides—”

“You’ll gut me like a fish,” Thorne finished, amused. “Understood.”

Finn wasn’t amused. “Not just me.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “See the half-orc back there?”

Thorne’s eyes flicked toward Grog, who was still watching them from behind the counter, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Hard to miss,” Thorne muttered.

“He once snapped a man’s spine for shortchanging me on a delivery,” Finn said casually, adjusting his sleeves. “Imagine what he’d do to someone who actually betrayed me.”

Thorne gave a slow nod, as if truly considering it. “Duly noted.”

Finn sighed, rolling the tension from his shoulders as he stood. “Then get to work.”

Thorne didn’t argue. He just picked up the parchment, tucked it neatly into his cloak, and gave a short nod before rising from his chair.

Finn watched him leave, listening to the soft creak of the tavern door as it swung shut behind him. Only then did he exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” Marla’s voice cut in from behind him, dry as ever. “That was fun to watch.”

Finn turned, raising a brow. She stood near the bar, an empty tray tucked under one arm, but her expression was sharp—too sharp. She had been listening.

“Don’t start,” Finn muttered, already heading for the kitchen.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Not starting anything,” Marla said, following. “Just making sure I have all the details for when we all inevitably end up in a ditch.”

Finn groaned, pushing past the curtain into the kitchen. Grog was already there, arms still folded, watching him with the patience of someone waiting for an explanation.

“So?” the half-orc asked.

Finn sighed, running a hand down his face. “We’ve got a scout working for us now.”

Grog grunted, unimpressed. “You trust him?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Finn exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he tied his apron back around his waist. He was getting tired of all these conversations. Of the warnings, of the unease curling in his stomach. He wanted one godsdamned day where he could just run his tavern, cook his food, and not worry about someone trying to kill him. But that wasn’t the life he had chosen, was it? Even when he walked away, it always came back.

Marla leaned against the counter, studying him. “So what now? You know, I always suspected something about your past wasn’t as clean as you let off.”

Finn grabbed a knife, testing the weight in his palm. “Now?” He set it down with a quiet clink.

“Now we wait. And I’m sorry it has come to this, I didn’t exactly expect it to happen.”

And that was the part he hated most.

#

The anticipation, the uncertainty, the feeling of being one step behind an unseen enemy. Finn had lived through enough jobs to know that the moment before a fight was often worse than the fight itself. At least when blades were drawn, there was clarity. A target, a direction, a finality. But waiting? That was a slow kind of torture, one that curled into his ribs like a dull knife, pressing deeper with every passing hour.

He tried to work. He tried to lose himself in the kitchen, in the sizzle of butter against a pan, the steady rhythm of chopping herbs, the rich scent of simmering broths. He tried to focus on the heat of the oven instead of the slow burn of tension crawling up his spine. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the weight pressing at the back of his skull, the knowledge that they were coming.

And worse, he didn’t know when.

Marla noticed, of course. She always did.

“You keep kneading that dough any harder, and it’s going to fight back,” she muttered as she passed by, balancing a tray of drinks against her hip.

Finn grunted, forcing his grip to loosen. He hadn’t even realized how tight his fingers had curled around the ball of dough until she pointed it out. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I don’t like waiting.”

“No one does,” she said, setting down a tankard of ale in front of a customer, exchanging it for a handful of Silver Coins. “But that doesn’t mean you should take it out on the bread.”

Finn rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of it all. The heat of the kitchen was stifling, but it wasn’t just the warmth of the ovens. It was the slow build of something else, something crawling just beneath his skin.

Then, the door opened.

Finn didn’t look up at first. He forced himself to keep his hands moving, to finish shaping the dough in front of him. But he felt the shift in the room. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there. A brief hesitation in conversation. A fraction of a second where the air felt different.

Newcomers weren’t rare in Puddlebrook. Travelers came and went, merchants stopped through on their way to bigger cities. But Finn had learned to tell the difference between a simple passerby and someone who had a reason to be here.

This was the latter.

He finally let himself glance up.

Two men stood just past the threshold, shaking off the evening chill. Their cloaks were travel-worn but sturdy, and both carried themselves with the easy confidence of men accustomed to violence. Not mercenaries—not the kind that advertised their trade, at least. No weapons were drawn, no armor weighed them down, but Finn could see it in the way they moved, the way they scanned the room without making it obvious. They weren’t here for a drink.

They were here for him.

Finn inhaled slowly through his nose and turned back toward the stove, keeping his hands busy.

Grog, who had been quietly chopping onions at the back counter, had already noticed them. The half-orc didn’t speak, didn’t react, but Finn caught the way his grip on the knife adjusted—just a slight shift in his fingers, a familiar readiness.

Marla, to her credit, didn’t let it show that she had noticed. She kept serving drinks, kept exchanging Silver Coins for meals, kept the rhythm of the tavern moving as if nothing had changed. But Finn could see the way her sharp eyes flicked toward him, waiting for some kind of signal.

He didn’t give one. Not yet.

The two men moved toward an open table near the center of the room, seating themselves with the kind of practiced ease that made them look like they belonged. They didn’t order. They didn’t ask for a menu. They just sat. Watching. Waiting.

Finn exhaled through his nose, wiping his hands on a rag before stepping away from the counter. “Cover the kitchen,” he murmured low enough for Grog to hear.

The half-orc gave a slow, small nod.

Finn stepped out from behind the bar, moving with the same calm, practiced ease that he had used a thousand times before. This was still his tavern. His home. And if they thought they could just walk in and make themselves comfortable, they were about to find out how wrong they were.

He reached the table and leaned slightly against the back of a chair, tilting his head. “You two planning to order something, or should I charge you for the seats?”

The man closest to him, tall, broad-shouldered, with short graying hair, lifted his gaze. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but his face carried the kind of casual ease that came from experience. Someone used to talking their way out of situations just as often as they fought their way through them.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt the flow of business,” the man said, his voice smooth, measured. “Just passing through. Thought we’d take in the atmosphere.”

Finn didn’t smile. “Atmosphere costs extra.”

The man smirked, resting an elbow on the table. “Then maybe we should order something.” He flicked his gaze toward the menu scrawled in chalk on the wall. “What do you recommend?”

Finn’s fingers twitched slightly against the back of the chair, but he didn’t let it show. They were playing a game. That much was obvious. The man wanted to feel him out, wanted to push just enough to see what Finn would do.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer before answering. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

The second man—leaner, sharper-looking, with a hint of elven blood in his features—finally spoke, his voice lower, edged with something quieter. Dangerous men didn’t always come in large packages. Some of the worst Finn had ever worked with had been the smallest.

“Something filling,” the lean one said. “Something that’ll keep us going.”

Finn exhaled slowly, letting the weight of their words settle before pushing off the chair and straightening.

“Then I’d suggest the Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie and a Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew.” He held the man’s gaze. “Best for keeping your energy up on long trips.”

A beat of silence. Then the taller man let out a slow chuckle, nodding slightly. “That does sound good.” He reached into his cloak, pulling out a handful of Silver Coins and setting them on the table. “We’ll take two of each.”

Finn glanced at the coins, then back at the man. He didn’t move to take them. Not yet.

“Then I’ll get your order started,” Finn said, voice even.

The men nodded, leaning back slightly in their chairs, settling in as if they were nothing more than two weary travelers stopping for a meal. But Finn knew better.

He turned, walking back toward the kitchen, his pulse steady, his breathing measured. The moment he stepped behind the counter, he felt Grog’s eyes on him.

“Trouble?” the half-orc asked quietly.

Finn grabbed a ladle, stirring the Seafood Stew just for the sake of doing something with his hands.

“Not yet,” Finn muttered. “But it’s coming.”

And he had a feeling it wouldn’t take long.