The morning came slow and easy, the kind of peaceful beginning that Finn hadn’t experienced in weeks. The scent of warm bread and roasted meats drifted lazily through the tavern, curling around wooden beams and settling into the worn tables and chairs per usual. The embers in the hearth had long since dimmed, leaving only a soft warmth in the air.

  Yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, The Velvet Ladle was quiet.

  Not silent—there was always some noise in a place like this, whether it was the distant clatter of pots in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor, or the occasional sigh of wind pressing against the shutters—but the usual morning crowd was missing.

  Finn stood behind the bar, idly wiping down a mug as his gaze flickered toward the empty tables. He was used to waking up to the roar of conversation, the rush of customers eager for their morning meals, the sound of clinking tankards and hearty laughter. But today? It was still.

  Too still.

  Grog sat at one of the larger tables, his broad shoulders hunched forward as he meticulously sharpened a knife. Each deliberate scrape of metal against whetstone echoed through the room, the only sound cutting through the stillness.

  Marla was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she kneaded dough. He could hear her movements—the rhythmic thump of fists pressing into flour, the gentle creak of the oven door opening and closing—but even that noise felt smaller than usual.

  Finn exhaled, setting the mug down. “Is it just me, or does something feel… off?”

  Grog didn’t look up. “You mean ‘cause it’s quiet?”

  “Aye.” Finn leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s never this slow. Not since we started getting those nobles in. Even the regulars aren’t here.”

  Grog made a noncommittal grunt. “Maybe they finally got sick of ya.”

  Finn smirked. “Not bloody likely.”

  Still, there was something unsettling about the emptiness of the tavern. He glanced toward the door, as if expecting it to swing open at any moment. Nothing.

  He drummed his fingers against the bar, letting the silence stretch on for a few more moments before finally shaking his head. “Well, might as well get some work done while we’re slow. Grog, think you can check on our stock? Make sure we’re not running low on anything.”

  Grog grunted in acknowledgment and stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow as he made his way toward the back.

  Finn turned his attention to the kitchen. “Marla! You need anything?”

  A voice called back through the open doorway. “More customers would be nice.”

  Finn snorted. Fair enough.

  By midmorning, a few stragglers had wandered in—old man Rourke had shuffled through the door, grumbling about his aching knees before settling in with a pint. Tess, the town baker’s apprentice, had stopped by for a quick bite, still dusted in flour from her morning shift.

  But aside from that, the day moved at a crawl.

  Finn busied himself with small tasks—polishing silverware, wiping down tables, double-checking the ledgers. It felt strange to have time for such things. Normally, he’d be rushing from table to table, calling out orders to the kitchen, filling mugs faster than he could count.

  He kept glancing at the door, expecting a rush that never came.

  For the first time in a long while, Finn found himself alone with his thoughts.

  And he didn’t much like it.

  He leaned against the bar, exhaling slowly. Maybe today was just one of those odd days. Maybe everyone was off doing something else, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what that might be. Puddlebrook wasn’t exactly known for its grand events.

  Just as he was about to start stacking chairs for no reason other than sheer boredom, the door swung open.

  And finally—finally—the lull was over.

  At first, it was just a trickle.

  A couple of farmers wandered in, their boots caked with mud, their hands rough from morning labor. Then came a group of traveling merchants, eager for a warm meal after a long morning of peddling their wares in the town square.

  Before Finn knew it, the tavern was alive again.

  The kitchen roared to life—Marla barking orders, Grog hauling trays out to waiting tables, the warm scent of roasting meats and fresh bread filling the air.

  Finn moved like clockwork, filling tankards, flipping plates, exchanging food for coins with practiced ease. This was familiar. This was right.

  And then—the carriages arrived.

  At first, Finn barely noticed them. He was too busy pouring a round of drinks for a table near the hearth when he heard the first distinct clatter of wheels on cobblestone.

  Then came the voices—sharp, refined, impatient. Finn turned just in time to see the first nobleman step through the doorway. His brows lifted in surprise.

  Well, well. It looked like tonight was about to get interesting.

  Finn had expected the slow morning to lead into a steady afternoon, perhaps a moderate rush as the townsfolk filed in for their usual meals and drinks. He had not expected the nobles to arrive in force.

  The Velvet Ladle had become something of a curiosity for Laudendale’s elite. Ever since Finn had bested the Royal Feast Challenge and made a name for himself, the upper class had taken a peculiar interest in his cooking. His dishes were rustic yet refined, filling yet carefully balanced, and most importantly—unique.

  And so, when the first carriage pulled up, Finn knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  The nobleman who first stepped inside was a familiar face—Lord Edwin Marsten, an aging merchant-lord known for his insatiable appetite and deep pockets. His pure white beard was neatly trimmed, his emerald-green cloak trimmed with gold.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He barely had time to brush the dust from his fine boots before three more nobles followed.

  Lady Isolde Vale, tall and elegant, with a sharp wit and sharper tongue.

  Sir Rodrick Baines, a former knight turned landowner, whose laugh could shake the rafters.

  And, trailing behind them, a handful of lesser-known lords and ladies, each eager to sample the famed cooking of Finnrick Tumblepot.

  Finn stifled a sigh, instead schooling his features into an easy grin.

  “Welcome to The Velvet Ladle,” he greeted, wiping his hands on his apron. “I trust you all had a smooth journey?”

  Lord Marsten chuckled as he removed his gloves. “Oh, the roads are dreadful, as always. But what’s a few bumps when a fine meal awaits?”

  Finn nodded. “Then you’ve come to the right place. Find yourselves a seat, and we’ll get started.”

  With that, the noble party spread out, taking over the largest table in the tavern. More carriages followed, and soon, The Velvet Ladle was packed from wall to wall.

  Finn wasted no time. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

  He called out orders to Marla, who had already anticipated the rush and had the ovens roaring to life. Grog worked the floor with surprising grace for a man his size, balancing steaming plates and foaming tankards with practiced ease.

  Dish after dish flew from the kitchen, each one carefully prepared. Each dish was met with delighted murmurs and raised glasses.

  “This is divine,” Lady Isolde purred, dabbing at the corner of her lips with a silk napkin. “Truly, Finnrick, you outdo yourself.”

  Finn gave a polite nod. “Happy to hear it, my lady.”

  Lord Marsten, already on his second helping of ribs, grinned. “You know, Finnrick, you could make a fortune running a place like this in Laudendale.”

  Finn simply smiled. “I’ve had enough of Laudendale, my lord. Puddlebrook suits me fine.”

  The nobles exchanged amused glances but said nothing further.

  The evening carried on, filled with the hum of laughter, conversation, and the clinking of silverware. The Velvet Ladle, once eerily quiet that morning, was now alive in every sense of the word.

  The rush didn’t slow until well past midnight.

  One by one, the nobles staggered out, full-bellied and slightly inebriated. Some left heavy coin purses on the tables, while others shook Finn’s hand before stepping back into their carriages.

  The last to leave was Lord Marsten. He stood near the door, fastening his cloak, watching Finn with an appraising look.

  “You really won’t consider it?” he asked.

  Finn chuckled, wiping down the counter. “Running a tavern in the capital? I’ll pass.”

  Marsten shook his head with a knowing smile. “Your loss, Finnrick. There’s gold to be made.”

  With that, he stepped outside, the carriage doors closing behind him. The wheels rattled on the cobblestone, fading into the quiet of the night.

  At last, The Velvet Ladle was empty.

  Finn exhaled, stretching his arms over his head. The tavern was a mess—plates still littered tables, chairs were slightly askew, and the scent of roasted meats still hung thick in the air.

  Grog and Marla were already cleaning up, and Bix was stacking tankards behind the bar after seeing that Finn was in need of any help he could get.

  Finn made his way to the front door, reaching for the latch. “Well, that was a long one,” he muttered, twisting the lock into place.

  But before he could turn the bolt—a knock echoed against the wood.

  Finn froze.

  His brow furrowed as he exchanged a glance with Grog. It was late. Too late for customers.

  A second knock, louder this time.

  Finn swallowed, gripping the handle. Something in his gut twisted.

  He pulled the door open—and there, standing in the doorway, was Alden.

  Finn hadn’t seen Alden in weeks, not since they had returned from Laudendale. The older man stood in the doorway with his traveling cloak draped over his shoulders, a faint dusting of dirt on his boots—evidence of a long journey.

  “Alden?” Finn said, still holding the door open. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  Alden smirked, stepping inside and shaking off the evening chill. “Didn’t expect to show up this late either. Travel took longer than I planned.”

  Finn shut the door behind him and gestured toward the bar. “Well, if you’ve come all this way, the least I can do is offer you a drink.”

  “Now that,” Alden said, rubbing his hands together, “I won’t refuse.”

  Finn poured two glasses of honeyed whiskey, sliding one over to Alden before taking a seat across from him. The tavern was still in post-rush disarray—half-wiped tables, stacked plates waiting to be scrubbed, the lingering scent of roasted meats in the air.

  Alden took a long sip, exhaling contentedly. “Damn, that’s good.”

  Finn chuckled. “If you’re just here for a drink, I have to say, you’re making quite the effort.”

  Alden shook his head. “Not just here for that. I’ve brought company—a party of gnomes, actually.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow. “Gnomes?”

  Alden nodded, resting his forearms on the bar. “They were heading west from the Lowlands, looking for work or a new place to settle. Most of them hadn’t ever set foot outside their hometown before. When I mentioned Puddlebrook, they got real interested. Said they’d like to stop by for a meal.”

  Finn let out a low whistle. “That’s a rare sight. Us gnomes tend to stick to their own, don’t we?”

  Alden shrugged. “Aye, usually. But times are changing. They’re looking for new opportunities, and I told them The Velvet Ladle was the best tavern to start with.”

  Finn grinned. “I appreciate the endorsement.”

  “They’ll be by in the next couple days,” Alden continued. “Figured I’d give you a heads-up so you’re not caught off guard when a group of small but loud customers walks through your door.”

  Finn laughed. “Sounds like a fun time. I’ll make sure they get a meal worth remembering.”

  Alden leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I think they’ll like you. They’re an easygoing lot, just eager to see more of the world.”

  Finn sat back as well, rubbing the back of his neck. “You ever feel like that?”

  Alden raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  Finn glanced toward the tavern door. “Like you should see more of the world. Go beyond the places you’ve already been.”

  Alden let out a breath and considered the question. “I used to,” he admitted. “But I learned something—it’s not always about where you go. It’s about where you build something that lasts.”

  Finn tapped his fingers on the bar, mulling over those words.

  Alden smirked. “Sounds like you’ve already found that place.”

  Finn gave a small chuckle. “Maybe I have.”

  Alden downed the last of his whiskey and set the glass aside. “Speaking of the past catching up—you expecting another visitor tonight?”

  Finn frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Alden tilted his head toward the door. “Because someone’s about to knock.”

  And just as Finn opened his mouth to question him—

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Finn’s stomach twisted. He knew this knock. Slow, deliberate. A presence that carried weight before the door even opened. The room felt smaller all of a sudden. Finn stood up, glancing at Alden, who gave a knowing nod.

  With a deep breath, Finn walked to the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a second too long.

  Then he pulled it open.

  The man standing before him was broad-shouldered, barely taller than Finn, his face aged but strong, lined with the wisdom and wear of a life spent working.

  Baldor Tumblepot.

  Finn hadn’t seen his father since he was a boy. He barely recognized him, and yet, the moment their eyes met, memories came rushing back.

  The quiet but firm voice. The stern gaze. The hands that had built their family home plank by plank. Baldor studied Finn for a long moment.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  “Nice to see you, Finnrick.”

  Finn swallowed. His heart was pounding, but he forced himself to stand tall.

  “…Yeah,” he said, voice softer than he intended. “You too, Dad.”

  The door remained open, the night air whispering past them.

  And just like that, after all these years—

  Baldor had come to Puddlebrook, and Finn could finally meet his father as a changed man.