“Move, move!” Daithi barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony. “We don’t have all day! Tas, those crates need to be on the cart within the hour, not after lunch!”
“Got it, Master Daithi!” a young man shouted back, sweat glistening on his brow as he hefted a crate onto his shoulder, almost colliding with a baker passing by. “Sorry, miss!” he muttered, sidestepping her hurriedly.
Daithi scanned the storehouse, catching sight of a pile of crates still untouched. His jaw tightened. “Jacob, what’s the holdup with the flour?”
“Elen’s boys haven’t come by yet,” Harlan said, scratching his head, his eyes darting nervously. “Should I send someone to fetch them?”
“No,” Daithi snapped, rubbing his temples. “They’ll come. Just... get those crates ready. And tell the grocers I’ll be with them in a minute.”
Daithi stood in the centre of the storehouse, his hands braced on the edge of a heavy wooden crate, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed the bustling chaos around him. The morning sunlight streamed in through the high, narrow windows, casting long shadows over the rows of goods and supplies. The air buzzed with voices—shopkeepers, traders, bakers, and fishermen all crowding the space, their faces flushed with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
"Watch your step!" someone shouted, as a cart loaded with sacks of grain wheeled by, nearly clipping a labourer who was too busy stacking crates to notice.
Daithi’s sharp eyes flicked over the scene, catching sight of the confusion and strain etched on everyone’s faces. It was the first day of spring, and the whole town felt like a coiled spring ready to snap. They had survived the winter—barely—and now, everyone was desperate to start anew, to make the most of the fleeting warmth and opportunity.
“Blake! Elen’s boys aren’t here yet, but those flour sacks still need to be sorted!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to make the man jolt. “I don’t care if you have to haul them yourself, just get it done.”
“Yes, Master Daithi,” He stammered, wiping his brow as he rushed to comply.
“Daithi, where do you want the fish barrels?” a burly fisherman called out, his arms straining as he struggled to balance a pair of heavy casks.
“Near the back, close to the salt crates!” Daithi responded, already turning to address the next concern. “And make sure they’re sealed tight. I don’t want a single barrel leaking.”
He moved through the throng, nodding to familiar faces and stopping every few steps to give instructions. “Carla, double-check the grain tally. We don’t want to run short for the bakers. And someone get the smith’s boy to fetch more coal from the blacksmith, he’s going to need it if we’re to get any scythes made before the end of the week!”
The crowd surged around him, people jostling past each other, their voices overlapping in a chaotic but determined harmony. Daithi paused for a moment, watching the scene unfold. There was a certain rough beauty to it—a town pushing past its limits, straining under the weight of hope.
But underneath that hope, Daithi could sense a thread of tension, like a rope fraying from too much strain. They were running on the edge, and it wouldn’t take much for everything to come apart.
His gaze shifted to a group of younger labourers struggling to lift a crate. “Careful with that!” he called out, striding over. “If you drop it, I’ll have you drying salt for a week!”
The young men grunted as they managed to haul the crate onto a cart, shooting Daithi grateful, nervous smiles before hurrying off. He watched them go, a small, tight smile on his lips. “Good lads,” he muttered to himself, then raised his voice to be heard over the din.
“Everyone keep moving! We’ve only got a few hours of daylight left, and I want everything ready before then!”
There was a collective groan, but the pace quickened, boots scraping against the wooden floor as crates were hauled, sacks lifted, and carts loaded.
As Daithi moved to inspect a stack of barrels, his eyes caught the sight of something unexpected—the tavern’s seal, stamped in bright, clear ink on several sacks of dried goods. He blinked, then strode over, his fingers brushing over the mark.
“Finnian,” he murmured, a bemused grin tugging at his lips. “What are you up to, old friend?” The sacks were finer than what they usually received, even for a new season. Typical of Finnian to go overboard. Daithi’s grin softened, though there was a flicker of concern beneath it.
“Gareth,” he said, waving over a nearby worker. “Did these just arrive?”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir. Brought in early this morning, before we opened up. Finnian’s orders, said to make sure you got them.”
Daithi rubbed his chin, his mind whirling. “Generous, but... well, I hope he isn’t stretching himself too thin.” He shook his head, making a mental note to have a word with Finnian later. “For now, get these stacked with the other supplies. We’ll find a use for them.”
“Yes, Master Daithi,” Gareth replied, moving off to relay the instructions.
Just then, a shrill voice cut through the commotion. “Daithi, we’ve got a problem!” It was Mari, one of the fishwives, her face flushed and hands gesticulating wildly. “There’s a leak in one of the casks, and it’s getting all over the other supplies!”
Daithi swore under his breath. “Get a bucket, mop it up, and shift the rest to a dry spot. I’ll take a look at it myself in a moment. And Mari, tell whoever packed that cask to be more careful next time.”
She nodded, rushing off, and Daithi allowed himself a brief, exasperated sigh. It was like trying to juggle a dozen knives, and the knives were on fire. But he couldn’t let any of them drop—not today.
He straightened, squaring his shoulders, and raised his voice again. “Alright, people, let’s get this done. First day of spring doesn’t come around twice!”
The crowd surged, driven by his words, and for a moment, the storehouse was a hive of purposeful chaos, all parts moving towards a single goal.
Daithi’s eyes swept across the storehouse, landing on a small group of bakers huddled near the back, their aprons dusted with flour, their faces flushed from the heat of their early morning work. They had been milling about, chatting quietly, waiting for his orders. He could see the weariness in their eyes, but also a spark of readiness, a hunger to get back to their ovens.
Striding over, Daithi clapped his hands, drawing their attention. “Alright, let’s not stand around like we’ve got all day,” he said, his tone brisk but warm. “Spring’s here, and we’re going to make sure the whole town feels it. I want you baking those spring loaves—lots of them. Enough to fill every house with that smell. We need people to remember what hope tastes like after this winter.”
The mention of the loaves lit up their faces, a few of them nodding eagerly. “Already got a batch rising, Master Daithi,” said Olwen, a round-faced woman with flour smudged across her cheek. “But if you want more, we’ll need extra flour and honey.”
“Good,” Daithi replied, pleased. “Make it sweeter this time. Use some of that fresh honey we’ve got in stock—people could use a bit more sweetness after the winter we've had.”
Olwen’s eyes sparkled with determination. “Aye, we can do that,” she said, glancing at the others, who murmured their agreement.
“And don’t stop there,” Daithi continued. “I want spiced crackers, too. Something that’ll keep everyone going throughout the day. Add cinnamon, clove... whatever it takes to make them warm and comforting.” He gestured towards a stack of crates, marked with the seal of the tavern. “And if you’re short on ingredients, take what you need from those. Finnian sent extra supplies this morning.”
A ripple of surprise passed through the bakers, and one of them, a younger man, raised an eyebrow. “Finnian? He really has that much to spare?”
“He does,” Daithi said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You can’t expect the owner of the most popular tavern in town to not have a bit extra, can you?”
There was a brief pause, then a chuckle spread through the group, a few of them nodding in agreement. “He always has a way of getting more,” Olwen said with a grin, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Exactly,” Daithi replied, his smile growing. “That man knows when to push a little further. He sent extras, so we’ll use them. The town’s going to need it, and I’m not about to waste good supplies.”
Olwen’s grin widened, and she nudged Kieran with her elbow. “You hear that, lad? Looks like we’re going to have our hands full.”
“Full and busy is how we should be,” Daithi said firmly. “This isn’t just about food—it’s about spirit. I want every child in Halrest biting into those loaves by noon, and every adult grabbing a handful of those crackers by the end of the day. Let’s wake this town up.”
The bakers exchanged glances, their expressions brightening. It was as if a spark had been lit among them, turning the early morning exhaustion into a renewed sense of purpose. “We’ll have them ready, Master Daithi,” Olwen said, her voice strong with certainty. “You’ll see.”
Daithi nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now get to it, and don’t hold back. Use those extras Finnian sent. He didn’t send them for us to sit on them; they’re meant to be used.”
As the bakers dispersed, Daithi lingered for a moment, watching them as they hurried off to gather their supplies, already exchanging ideas on how to make the spring loaves even better. He allowed himself a small, proud smile. It was a reminder that, no matter how dire things seemed, there were always people ready to pull together, to do their part to keep the town moving forward.
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He glanced back at the crates with the tavern’s seal, his smile fading slightly. “You’re always one step ahead,” he murmured under his breath, shaking his head. “But let’s hope you’re not stretching yourself too thin.”
He brushed the thought aside, focusing back on the task at hand. There was still much to do, and he wasn’t about to let the momentum slip. Raising his voice, he called out to the rest of the room, “Keep moving, everyone! This is just the start—spring’s here, and we’ve got work to do!”
The storehouse echoed with the renewed energy, the bakers now busying themselves at the far end, their voices rising in cheerful chatter as they started preparing the next batch. Daithi watched for a moment longer, then turned on his heel, striding back into the chaos, ready to tackle the next problem.
Daithi barely had a moment to appreciate the bakers’ renewed energy before a cluster of labourers approached him, their faces lined with worry and sweat. They spoke over each other, their voices overlapping in a chaotic jumble of complaints and requests.
“Daithi, the grocers are outside, and they’re getting impatient,” called out a tall man, his hands stained with dirt. “Do we send out the potatoes now, or wait for the wagon?”
“Daithi, what about the linens for the tailors? They’re asking if—”
“The barrels from the western farms are here, but half of them are leaking—”
“Daithi, should we start preparing for the spring fair?”
Daithi raised a hand sharply, cutting through the noise. “One at a time!” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended. The group fell silent, exchanging wary glances. He took a breath, forcing himself to soften his expression. “Let’s do this efficiently. You—” he pointed to the man with the grocers’ concern, “send the potatoes. If they’re impatient, give them a reason to get out of the way faster.”
The man nodded quickly and hurried off, relieved to have clear instructions. Daithi turned to the next. “The linens can wait another day. We’re prioritizing food, not fabric. Tell them they’ll get what they need when we’ve got the supplies sorted.”
“Yes, Master Daithi,” came the quick reply, and the labourer sped off to deliver the message.
As the next issue came up about the leaking barrels, Daithi’s jaw tightened. “Fine, we’ll move the unspoiled ones to the dry corner and see if we can salvage the rest. Tell the lads to be careful. We can’t afford to lose any more stock.” He glanced at the worker, who seemed hesitant to move. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get it done!”
The man flinched slightly at Daithi’s harsh tone but nodded quickly, scurrying away to relay the orders.
A murmur of concern rippled through the remaining workers, and Daithi caught it, the brief, flickering hesitation in their eyes. He clenched his fists for a moment, then relaxed them, running a hand through his hair as if to brush away his irritation.
Daithi, you have got to keep things together, he thought, willing himself to regain control.
No time to lose your temper. Not now.
His eyes scanned the room, taking in the bustle, the raised voices, the hurried movements. They were all counting on him, and if he let his frustration get the better of him, the whole operation would fall apart. He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to project calm authority.
“Listen up!” he called out, his voice loud and firm, cutting through the din. “We’ve got a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it. If there’s a problem, bring it to me, but don’t waste my time with things you can handle yourselves. We’re all in this together, and I expect every one of you to do your part. Clear?”
A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd, more assured this time. Daithi felt a small flicker of relief. For now, at least, he had managed to keep the wheels turning.
“Good,” he said, his tone settling into something softer. “Now let’s keep it moving, folks. We’ve got a town to wake up, and I don’t want to see a single idle hand until it’s done.”
The labourers dispersed, their steps quicker and more determined than before, and Daithi allowed himself a moment to breathe. His mind was already racing to the next task, the next potential issue. There was no room for hesitation, not on a day like today.
As the bakers dispersed, Daithi’s gaze drifted across the bustling storehouse, landing on a group of fishermen gathered near the far wall. Unlike the others, who moved with purpose and energy, these men stood apart, their shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, as if trying to blend into the background.
Daithi’s frown deepened. He knew why they were hanging back. The brawl at the tavern last night had been the talk of the town, and these men had been right at the centre of it, fists flying, tempers flaring. Now, in the harsh light of morning, they looked sheepish, their faces bruised and knuckles raw, their pride dented far more than their skin.
He strode over, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The chatter of the storehouse seemed to fade as he approached, leaving a heavy, expectant silence in its wake. “Well, gentlemen?” he said, stopping a few paces away, crossing his arms. “What’s the word on the lake?”
The fishermen exchanged glances, each one waiting for the other to speak. The youngest of them—a boy barely into manhood, with a shock of unruly dark hair and a purple bruise blooming across his cheek—shifted uncomfortably. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and finally blurted out, “It’s... uh, not good, Daithi,” his voice cracking slightly.
Daithi’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, his stern gaze softened. “Not good? What do you mean?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
The boy opened his mouth, but before he could stammer out a reply, one of the older men stepped forward. He was grizzled, weather-beaten, his face lined with the marks of countless storms and years spent at sea. The kind of man who had seen everything the lake could throw at him. “Nothing to worry about, Daithi,” he said, shaking his head sharply. “Just the usual oddness at the start of spring. The lake’s always a bit... unsettled this time of year.”
The younger fisherman glanced up, his face pale and uncertain. “But... it’s never been this bad before,” he whispered, his eyes darting nervously to the others, seeking reassurance. “There’s something... different.”
“...and Davey… he… he…” The boy’s voice cracked, a tremor running through his shoulders as he tried to continue. “He’s—”
“Quiet, boy!” the older man barked, stepping forward and gripping the youth’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. The man’s gaze was dark, warning, and unyielding. “We’ve seen it all before. It’s just the lake waking up after the winter.”
The boy recoiled, biting his lip to keep from speaking further, his wide eyes brimming with unspoken fear. The silence that followed was thick, laden with unsaid words and shared, furtive glances. Whatever the older man wanted to hide, it loomed over them all like a shadow, stretching out from the deep waters of the lake itself.
Daithi’s gaze shifted between them, his frown deepening. He knew these men—seasoned, reliable, not easily rattled. But there was something in the way the elder’s shoulders were set, in the tightness of his jaw, that spoke of unease, of things left unsaid. He let the silence linger, hoping one of them would crack under its weight.
“Is that all it is?” he asked quietly, his voice low but probing. “Just the usual?”
The old man’s gaze flickered; his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else—something more. But then a red-haired fisherman, his face marked with bruises from the night before, stepped forward, clapping a hand on the older man’s shoulder and giving it a rough shake. “Always like this,” he repeated firmly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just takes a bit for the lake to settle. Nothing to worry about.”
What are they hiding?
Daithi stared at them for a long moment, his jaw clenched.
He wanted to press them, to force the truth out, but there was a fragility in their stance, as if pushing too hard might make them shatter. He had seen it before—the way men danced around the truth when it was too dark, too heavy to face directly.
“If you’re sure,” he said slowly, his voice heavy with doubt. “Do what you think is best. But... keep an eye on things, will you? And no more trouble at the tavern. We don’t need that right now.”
“Aye, Daithi,” the redhead said quickly, nodding with a wide, too-bright smile. “We’ll handle it.”
The older man just nodded stiffly, his gaze still downcast, as if the floor held answers he didn’t want to share. Daithi watched them go, a frown pulling at his brow, the weight of their unspoken fears settling uncomfortably on his shoulders.
What is going on with the lake?
Something wasn’t right. But he pushed the thought aside, turning back to the rest of the room.
There were too many other problems demanding his attention, and too little time to solve them all. Whatever was going on would have to wait.
“Daithi, the grocers are here to pick up their orders,” a voice called from somewhere in the bustling chaos.
He barely had time to respond before another labourer appeared at his side, talking over the din. “Daithi, we’re low on salt barrels, and the reserves—”
“Master Daithi! The tailors are asking if they can expect their fabrics today—”
“Daithi, there’s a cart blocking the east entrance, and we can’t—”
Questions, requests, voices overlapping and blending in a dizzying cacophony. Daithi felt his patience wearing thin, his thoughts muddled as the noise pressed in around him. It was as if the whole town’s worries had descended on the storehouse, each one demanding his immediate attention. But he kept his head high, his expression stern and unwavering.
“Enough!” he snapped, raising his voice above the clamour. “One at a time, or none of this gets done!”
The crowd fell silent, tension crackling in the air, and Daithi seized the moment to regain control. He pointed to the man who had mentioned the grocers. “Send them to the west side. We’ve got the last of the potatoes there—get them loaded and out of here within the hour.”
“On it, Master Daithi!” the man shouted, already moving to carry out the order.
Daithi’s gaze flicked to the next issue. “We’re not dipping into the salt reserves yet,” he said firmly. “We stretch what we have and see what we can trade for once the roads clear. If we’re lucky, we won’t need to touch those barrels at all.”
“But if the shipments don’t—” the labourer began, worry creasing his brow.
“We’ll manage,” Daithi cut him off, his tone final. “Now get back to your station and make sure we have enough for today.”
A nod, and the man hurried off, though the uncertainty lingered on his face. Daithi didn’t have time to reassure everyone—he barely had time to think. The next issue was already upon him, a young boy with a ragged piece of parchment clutched in his hands.
“Master Daithi, the wheelwright’s asking if we can spare more nails. He says—”
“Tell him he’ll have to make do,” Daithi said, not even waiting for the boy to finish. “Scrap that, there is a box of spare nails by that corner” Daithi pointed, “Tell him he’ll owe me one.”
As the boy scurried off, Daithi rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling the dull ache at his temples intensify. There were too many moving parts, too many problems demanding solutions that didn’t exist. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his voice steady, his commands quick and efficient.
“Make sure the east entrance is cleared,” he ordered, turning to the next labourer. “And if you can’t get the cart moved, find someone who can. We don’t need another delay today.”
The man nodded, darting away, and Daithi took a step back, letting his gaze sweep over the room. Despite the flurry of activity, there was still a rhythm to it—uneven, frantic, but moving. He had managed to keep things under control, but he could feel the cracks forming beneath the surface, threatening to spread if he so much as blinked.
“Daithi!” another voice rang out, this time from one of the storehouse clerks. “The fishmongers are asking about the ice shipments—”
“Tell them to wait,” Daithi said, more sharply than he intended. “They’ll get their answer when I have it.”
The clerk hesitated, eyes widening slightly at Daithi’s tone, but he nodded and backed away, leaving Daithi to wrestle with the rising tide of frustration. “Daithi, you have got to keep things together,” he reminded himself, biting back the urge to snap at the next person who approached. “No time to let it all unravel. Not today.”
But all the while, a tiny, nagging thought gnawed at the back of his mind. No matter how many orders he gave, no matter how fast they worked, it was never enough. The supplies wouldn’t stretch forever, and the problems they faced weren’t ones that could be solved with barked commands and quick fixes.
The council meeting was tonight. And with the way things were going...
Well. It was bound to be... interesting.
Daithi straightened, forcing himself to focus on the here and now. “Alright, people!” he shouted, his voice ringing out clear and loud. “We’re not done yet. Keep moving, keep working!”
The storehouse surged into motion once more, voices rising, boots scuffing, crates scraping against the floor. Daithi stood at the centre of it all, a storm of activity swirling around him, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it almost felt like he had everything under control.
Almost.