Finn had spent enough time around dangerous men to know when he was being tested. The two strangers seated in his tavern weren’t just here for the food. They weren’t here for a casual conversation or a place to rest. No, they had settled in like they belonged, like they were just a pair of weary travelers stopping for a warm meal after a long journey. But Finn had read the signs the moment they walked in. The way they moved. The way they watched him without watching. It was all deliberate. And that meant trouble.

The scent of seafood and rich broth curled through the air as Finn ladled a portion of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew into a deep ceramic bowl, the briny aroma mixing with the tavern’s usual warmth of spiced bread and roasting meats. The stew was thick, filled with fresh-caught shellfish and whitefish, simmered with lightning-infused salt that gave it a subtle crackle. The kind of meal that lit a fire in the belly, perfect for keeping up strength. It wasn’t lost on Finn that the two men had chosen dishes meant for endurance.

He turned slightly, keeping them in his peripheral vision as he worked. Grog was still at the back counter, wiping down his cutting board with slow, deliberate movements, but Finn could tell his attention was fixed on the same thing. Grog wasn’t a man of many words, but he had a nose for bad business. If Finn gave the signal, the half-orc wouldn’t hesitate to deal with the situation in his own way.

Finn didn’t want it to come to that. Not yet.

Instead, he picked up the second bowl, grabbed a plate with two Shadow-Smoked Venison Pies, and made his way toward the table. He kept his pace even, his expression neutral, moving like this was just another order for just another pair of customers. He set the dishes down with care, the thick, buttery crust of the pies steaming slightly as they met the cool air.

“Two stews,” he said, voice calm, measured. “Two venison pies.” He gestured toward the stack of Silver Coins they had placed on the table earlier but didn’t reach for them yet. “I assume this covers it?”

The taller of the two men, the one with the short graying hair and sharp, watchful eyes, gave a slow nod. He didn’t reach for his spoon, didn’t move to eat. Instead, he rested one forearm on the table and studied Finn with a little too much interest.

“That your cook back there?” the man asked casually, flicking his chin toward the kitchen where Grog had returned to chopping vegetables.

Finn didn’t take the bait. “Grog helps out,” he said smoothly.

“Big guy.” The man nodded, as if making a note of it. “Not the kind you usually see working in kitchens.”

Finn shrugged. “Not the kind you usually see asking too many questions about kitchens, either.”

A flicker of amusement crossed the man’s face, but it was a calculated thing, like he was testing the waters. Finn didn’t give him anything else, just stared, waiting.

The leaner of the two men—the one with the sharp, almost elven features, the one Finn knew was the more dangerous of the pair—finally reached for his spoon, giving the stew an experimental stir. Finn watched as he lifted a bite to his lips, chewing slowly.

“Good,” the man murmured, swallowing. “Didn’t expect it to have a kick.”

Finn exhaled through his nose, just a hint of amusement. “Some folks don’t handle the storm salt well.”

“Oh, I can handle it.” The lean man met Finn’s gaze fully for the first time, and there was something behind his eyes that Finn didn’t like. Not aggression. Not hostility. Amusement. Like he was enjoying this.

That was when Finn knew, beyond any doubt, that they weren’t just here to watch.

They were here to toy with him.

He let out a slow breath and finally picked up the Silver Coins, weighing them in his palm for a second before sliding them into his pocket. “Enjoy your meal,” he said simply, then turned and walked away, feeling their eyes on his back with every step.

He didn’t go straight to the kitchen. Instead, he made a slow loop through the tavern, stopping at a few other tables, checking in on regulars, making sure things looked normal.

But inside, his mind was moving faster than his feet.

These weren’t bounty hunters in the traditional sense. No, if they had been, they would have made a move already. This was a different kind of game. They weren’t just here to kill him.

They were here to learn.

And that meant they weren’t alone.

By the time Finn reached the kitchen, his stomach was tight with unease. He stepped behind the counter, exhaling slowly through his nose as he grabbed a fresh cloth and wiped his hands, trying to shake off the lingering tension. Grog turned slightly, watching him from the corner of his eye, still working his knife against a thick head of purple cabbage.

“You’re stiff,” Grog muttered.

“Noticed something,” Finn said lowly.

“Same.” Grog pushed the chopped cabbage into a wooden bowl, setting the knife down beside it. “They’re not just watching.”

Finn nodded once. “No. They’re feeling things out. Seeing how I react.”

Grog grunted. “You want them gone?”

Finn exhaled, shaking his head. “Not yet.” He turned slightly, glancing toward the two men, who were eating now, but still watching, still calculating. “They’re just the first set of eyes. There’s more coming.”

He felt it. That slow, creeping inevitability. This was the opening move. A test. If he handled it wrong, the real danger would come knocking sooner than expected.

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Marla slipped in behind the counter, grabbing an empty tray. She didn’t even bother pretending she hadn’t been listening.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on,” she muttered, stacking used plates, “or do I have to start guessing?”

Finn sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Trouble.”

Marla rolled her eyes. “No shit, Finn. I figured that much when two men in expensive boots sat down and ordered food they barely touched.” She turned toward him, crossing her arms. “The real question is, how bad?”

Finn hesitated, then shook his head. “Don’t know yet.”

Marla studied him for a second longer, then nodded. “Alright. Then you let me know when you do.”

She left before he could say anything else.

Grog was still watching him, waiting. Finn knew the half-orc wouldn’t push him, wouldn’t demand answers like Marla did, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking the same thing.

Finn leaned against the counter, rolling his shoulders. “We keep things running normal. If they want to watch, let them. We don’t give them a reason to move faster.”

Grog didn’t argue. He just nodded, picking up his knife again. “Your call.”

Finn exhaled, grabbing another order slip. For now, they played the waiting game. But his instincts told him one thing for certain.

The waiting wouldn’t last much longer.

Finn kept his movements slow, deliberate, giving no sign of the tension thrumming beneath his skin. The two men had begun eating, but they weren’t savoring the meal. They weren’t here for the food, no matter how much Silver Coin they’d tossed on the table to make it look that way. They were watching. Studying. And that meant Finn had one chance to set the right tone. If he looked too nervous, too skittish, they’d press harder, push sooner. If he looked too confident, too prepared, they might skip the pretense entirely and go straight for blood. It was a delicate balance.

He forced his fingers to stay loose as he worked behind the counter, kneading dough for the next round of Faun’s Foraged Fettuccine, letting the familiar rhythm steady him. The weight of the flour in his palms, the give of the dough beneath his knuckles—these were things he could control. He couldn't stop the hunters from coming, but he could decide how ready he’d be when they did.

Grog’s knife thudded against the wooden cutting board in a steady rhythm, dicing vegetables with quiet efficiency. He wasn’t saying much, but Finn could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. The half-orc might have been playing the role of tavern cook, but Finn knew him better than that. Grog was waiting. Watching. Measuring the moment just as much as Finn was.

Across the room, the two men were still eating, but they were too aware of their surroundings. Finn had seen enough bounty hunters in his lifetime to know the difference between a man who was simply enjoying a meal and one who was counting every doorway, measuring every escape route. These men weren’t mercenaries acting on impulse—they were professionals, operating on purpose. And that meant more would come.

Marla returned from the other side of the tavern, passing by the bar with a tray full of empty tankards. She didn’t say anything at first, but the way her eyes flicked toward Finn—quick, sharp, unreadable to most but painfully clear to him—told him she was seeing the same thing he was. She dropped the tray onto the counter, swiping a hand across her forehead before muttering just loud enough for Finn to hear.

“They’ve been making conversation.”

Finn didn’t look up from the dough, keeping his voice even. “With who?”

“Locals. Asking about you.” She reached for a damp cloth, pretending to wipe down the counter. “Nothing direct. Just little things. ‘Who runs the place? How long has it been open? Where does the gnome sleep at night?’”

Finn’s fingers tightened around the dough for a fraction of a second before he forced them to relax. There it was. The real reason they were here.

His stomach turned, but he kept his expression neutral. “What did people tell them?”

Marla shrugged. “Mostly harmless things. That you keep to yourself. That you don’t talk much about your past. That you don’t leave town often.” She paused, lowering her voice even more. “One or two mentioned Grog.”

Finn finally looked up at that. “How much?”

“Enough.” Her mouth tightened. “That he’s protective of you. That he’s not just a cook. That he’s the kind of man people don’t want to get on the wrong side of.”

Finn swallowed the curse threatening to slip through his teeth. That meant the hunters were making calculations. Adjusting for Grog’s presence, his role, his loyalty. They were assessing obstacles.

Which meant they were deciding when to move.

Finn exhaled through his nose and reached for a clean cloth, wiping the flour from his hands before turning to Grog. “Keep an eye out back tonight. Check for tracks near the alley. See if anyone’s been poking around.”

Grog grunted in understanding. He didn’t need the details. He already knew.

Finn turned back to Marla, keeping his voice low. “If they start asking for specifics, let me know.”

Marla rolled her shoulders like she was shaking off a chill. “What’s the plan?”

“Same as before.” Finn picked up a knife, testing the weight in his palm before setting it down. “We let them watch. Let them wait. But we don’t give them a reason to move sooner than they want to.”

Marla huffed, shaking her head. “Feels like waiting to get stabbed.”

Finn almost smiled. “Welcome to my old life.”

Marla rolled her eyes and grabbed the tray of empty tankards again, moving back into the crowd.

Finn let out a slow breath.

He needed more information. He needed to know who these hunters really were, what they wanted, if they were a part of the group that Thorne showed him, and how much time he had before they decided to make a move. He had spent the last few years avoiding situations like this, avoiding the games and the calculations, avoiding the need for knives and whispered threats in dark corners.

But Madame Vraska had forced his hand. And now the game had begun again.

The night passed slowly, the weight of tension settling over The Velvet Ladle like a fog. The two men stayed longer than they should have, stretching their meal, nursing their drinks. They were waiting. For what, Finn couldn’t tell. Maybe to see if he’d slip up, maybe to see if he’d run.

He didn’t.

When they finally stood to leave, Finn didn’t watch them go. He didn’t need to. He felt it. The moment their boots scuffed against the wooden floor, the shift in the air as they pushed open the door, the cold breeze that swept in behind them before it swung shut again.

Then, silence.

A long, slow exhale slipped from Finn’s lips.

“Well,” Marla muttered, coming up beside him. “That was awful.”

Finn didn’t argue.

Grog, still behind the counter, set his knife down carefully, his movements slow, deliberate. “They’ll be back.”

Finn nodded. “Yeah.”

“And next time?” Grog asked.

Finn wiped his hands on a rag, turning over the Silver Coins they’d left behind in his palm, staring at them like they held an answer he hadn’t found yet. Then, he tossed them onto the counter with a quiet clink.

“Next time, we’ll be ready.”

Grog grunted in approval, rolling his shoulders. “Good.”

Finn exhaled through his nose, rubbing the tension from his neck. He didn’t want this. He had built this life to get away from all of this. From the calculations, the second-guessing, the weight of knowing there was always someone behind him, just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But it was here now. He couldn’t ignore it.

And if these bastards thought he was going to sit back and let them dictate the rules, they were in for a rude awakening.

Finn wasn’t running. Not this time.