Finn had always hated basements.

  They were too quiet, too dark, too good at keeping secrets. The kind of place where things went in and never came out the same. At least, in his old line of business.

  But now?

  Now it was the only place he had left to hide a problem he couldn’t afford to let anyone see.

  He stood in the middle of the cellar beneath The Velvet Ladle, arms crossed, staring at the stacked crates Vraska’s men had delivered under the cover of night. The damp, cool air carried the scent of old stone and aged barrels, mingling with the faintest whiff of spiced liquor and fresh wood.

  The crates sat neatly against the far wall, indistinguishable from the tavern’s usual stock. That was intentional. If anyone came down here looking, they’d see barrels of mead, sacks of flour, salted meats—nothing out of the ordinary. But beneath those harmless layers? Vraska’s stolen goods.

  Finn had spent the last few hours arranging the space, making sure everything looked right. He couldn’t just shove the crates into a corner and call it a day. No—he needed a system. A way to move things fast if the guards ever came sniffing around.

  He had reinforced the back wall with a few extra barrels, making sure they could be shifted easily if needed. The floorboards nearest the entrance had been loosened just enough to create a small hiding space beneath them. It wouldn’t hold much, but it might be enough to buy time.

  Still, he hated this.

  Hated the weight of it.

  Hated how it made The Velvet Ladle feel less like a home and more like a ticking clock.

  A heavy sigh echoed from behind him.

  “Boss, this is bad.”

  Finn glanced over his shoulder at Grog, who was leaning against one of the support beams, arms crossed, expression tight.

  Finn turned back to the crates. “I know.”

  “No,” Grog grunted. “I don’t think you do. This? This is worse than bad. This is the kind of thing that gets people dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night. Or worse.”

  Finn exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think I don’t know that?”

  Grog grumbled something under his breath, then stepped forward, nudging one of the crates with his boot. “What’s even in these?”

  Finn had checked. He hadn’t wanted to, but he wasn’t about to store something in his own damn tavern without knowing what he was dealing with.

  He crouched down, pried open the lid of one of the smaller crates, and pulled back the burlap covering.

  Inside were glass vials filled with dark, shimmering liquid.

  Grog’s frown deepened. “Is that…?”

  “Dreamshade extract.” Finn’s voice was grim.

  Grog let out a low curse.

  Dreamshade was rare, expensive, and illegal as hell. Not because it was dangerous—though it could be, if mixed wrong—but because it was a favorite among nobles who wanted to see things they shouldn’t. The kind of hallucinogen that could make you relive your best memories or your worst nightmares, depending on the dose.

  Finn closed the crate, locking his jaw. “That’s just one box. There’s also stolen artifacts, enchanted jewelry, rare spell components. Some of it’s harmless, some of it isn’t.”

  Grog dragged a hand down his face. “You know what this means, right?”

  Finn didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  If he got caught with this, it wouldn’t just be fines. Wouldn’t just be a few nights in a cell. It would be a noose. A slow, ugly execution.

  And Vraska knew it.

  That’s why she had picked him. Because she knew he had too much to lose.

  Finn stood, adjusting the lid of the crate to make sure it was sealed. “We keep quiet. We do what needs to be done. And we get through this.”

  Grog folded his arms, clearly unconvinced.

  “Boss,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter than usual. “What’s the endgame here?”

  Finn didn’t answer right away.

  Because he didn’t have one.

  All he had was the next step.

  The next day.

  The next breath.

  #

  By the time Finn made it back upstairs, his nerves were raw.

  He needed something else to focus on.

  Something that didn’t involve Vraska, crates of contraband, or the fact that his tavern now held enough illegal stock to get him killed.

  Thankfully, the lunch rush was picking up.

  The Velvet Ladle had filled with the comforting hum of conversation, the clink of Silver Coins exchanging hands, the warm scent of baking bread and spiced meats. It was busy—not as busy as usual, but enough.

  Finn grabbed a cloth and started wiping down the counter, letting the routine settle him.

  Then he noticed a customer at the bar, watching him.

  It was Leif Tanner, a local miller who came in every few days for stew and ale. He was a round man, always smelled like grain dust, and had a habit of talking even when no one was listening.

  Right now, he looked like he had something to say.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Finn arched a brow. “Something on your mind, Leif?”

  Leif took a sip of his ale, then set it down with a frown. “You hear about what’s going on over at The Rusty Gull?”

  Finn blinked. “The tavern down by the docks?”

  Leif nodded. “Yeah. Word’s been spreading.” He scratched his chin. “They’ve been… let’s just say, real vocal about how they’re ‘the better choice’ compared to you.”

  Finn’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Leif sighed. “I mean they’ve been running their mouths. Telling folks you’re cutting corners, your drinks are watered down, your meat’s not fresh. That sort of thing.”

  Finn stilled.

  Leif took another sip, shaking his head. “Didn’t think much of it at first. But then I started noticing something.”

  Finn leaned forward slightly. “Noticing what?”

  Leif frowned. “Less people coming here. I mean, look around. This place used to be packed, but today? It’s what—at least thirty to forty percent down?”

  Finn hadn’t counted. Hadn’t even realized.

  But now that Leif mentioned it, he felt it.

  The missing faces. The quieter hum of conversation. The way the tavern wasn’t quite as full as it should have been.

  Finn’s jaw tightened.

  He had been so focused on staying alive, on keeping Vraska’s hands off his throat, that he hadn’t noticed someone else was already trying to strangle him.

  And The Rusty Gull?

  They were making a play for his customers.

  Leif sighed. “Figured you ought to know.”

  Finn nodded slowly. “Appreciate it.”

  Leif downed the rest of his ale and stood, tossing a few Silver Coins onto the counter before heading for the door.

  Finn stared at the coins for a long moment.

  Then he exhaled through his nose.

  One problem at a time.

  He had dealt with cutthroats, thieves, bounty hunters, and crime bosses.

  He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a rival tavern take him down.

  Finn had never minded competition. A little rivalry was good for business. Kept a tavern sharp, kept the drinks flowing, made sure the food was worth the coin spent. But what The Rusty Gull was doing?

  That wasn’t competition. That was an attack.

  He could deal with bounty hunters. Could deal with crime bosses, smugglers, and low-life thugs. But he’d be damned if he let some dockside pisshole run his customers out of The Velvet Ladle with cheap lies and cheap drinks.

  So, he’d handle this the proper way.

  By beating them in their own damn kitchen.

  Finn didn’t waste time. He knew exactly where to go first.

  Gideon Sanza was in town.

  Finn had known him for a few years, back when The Velvet Ladle was just starting to gain traction. Gideon had written a glowing review in the merchant papers, which had helped bring in travelers and nobles alike. A good word from him? That could make or break a tavern.

  And lucky for Finn, Gideon had a habit of drinking at The Velvet Ladle whenever he was in town.

  Sure enough, Finn spotted him at his usual corner table, gorging on a Faun’s Foraged Fettuccine with a glass of imported elven wine.

  Finn strode over, pulling out the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. “Afternoon, Gideon.”

  The food critic glanced up, raising a brow. “Finn. You’re sitting down uninvited, which means you want something.” He twirled his fork, lifting a perfect bite of fettuccine. “You’re lucky this dish is good, or I might have sent you away on principle.”

  Finn smirked. “Good thing I only serve the best.”

  Gideon hummed in approval, chewing slowly before swallowing. “I assume you’re about to ask me for a favor?”

  “More of an opportunity.”

  Gideon set his fork down, intrigued. “Go on.”

  Finn leaned in slightly. “You been down to The Rusty Gull lately?”

  Gideon made a face. “I have. Not by choice, mind you. One of their investors wanted my opinion on their ‘improved’ menu.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened slightly. “And?”

  Gideon exhaled. “It was… adequate.”

  Finn smirked. “That bad?”

  Gideon shrugged. “Let’s just say, if I ever wanted to be disappointed by a seafood pie again, I’d rather eat it cold than fresh.”

  That was all Finn needed to hear.

  He tapped the table. “You feel like a little spectacle?”

  Gideon raised a brow. “Define spectacle.”

  Finn grinned. “A challenge. One tavern against another. Best dish wins. And you?” He gestured toward Gideon’s wine glass. “You get to judge.”

  Gideon actually looked interested now.

  “You’re serious?”

  Finn nodded. “Dead serious.”

  The critic leaned back in his chair, considering. “A public contest? That could be… entertaining. And if they refuse?”

  Finn smirked. “Then I make sure the whole town knows they were too scared to back up their words. You see, they’ve been telling the folks here in this town that our food is….bad.”

  Gideon exhaled through his nose. Then, slowly, a smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

  “Alright, Tumblepot,” he said, lifting his glass. “Let’s stir some trouble.”

  #

  The Rusty Gull smelled like old beer and cheap fish.

  Finn didn’t know if that was intentional or just poor cleaning, but either way, it made his nose wrinkle.

  The moment he stepped inside, heads turned. He wasn’t exactly an unknown figure in town, and given the way business had been shifting lately, his presence here wasn’t going unnoticed.

  Gideon stepped in beside him, still adjusting the cuffs of his fine coat. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I always do.”

  Finn’s eyes swept the room until they landed on the man he was looking for.

  Wallace Grint.

  A stocky man in his forties, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a gut that suggested he tasted more of his own ale than he served. Wallace had run The Rusty Gull for years, catering mostly to dock workers and sailors who didn’t care much for quality, as long as the drinks were strong.

  But lately, he’d been trying to expand.

  Finn strode right up to his table, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

  Wallace looked up, eyes narrowing. “Well, well. The competition walks in through my doors.”

  Finn grinned. “I heard you’ve been talking.”

  Wallace leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Word spreads. Can’t help what people say.”

  “Oh, I think you can.” Finn’s tone remained light, but his eyes stayed sharp. “And I’m here to make you prove it.”

  Wallace snorted. “Prove what?”

  “That you’re better than me.”

  Wallace raised a brow. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”

  Finn gestured toward Gideon, who was already watching the exchange with quiet amusement.

  “A cook-off. You serve your best dish. I serve mine. Gideon here judges. Winner gets the bragging rights.”

  Wallace’s expression shifted.

  Finn could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. If he refused, he’d look weak.

  If he accepted and lost? He’d look worse.

  And if he won?

  Then The Rusty Gull would have a public victory over The Velvet Ladle.

  Wallace let out a low chuckle. “You’ve got some nerve, Tumblepot.”

  Finn smirked. “I get that a lot.”

  The other patrons were already catching on. Conversations had dipped into whispers, eyes darting toward the exchange. This was becoming an event.

  Wallace exhaled through his nose. Then, finally, he grinned.

  “Alright. You’re on.”

  A ripple of interest ran through the room.

  Gideon smirked. “Now we’re talking.”

  Wallace stood, clapping his hands together. “One dish each. One drink each. No outside help.”

  Finn nodded. “Agreed.”

  Wallace’s grin widened. “Good. Hope you’re ready to lose.”

  Finn chuckled.

  “Oh, Wallace.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough that only the other man could hear.

  “If I wanted to lose, I wouldn’t have come here.”

  Wallace’s grin faltered just slightly.

  Then he turned on his heel, heading for his kitchen.

  Finn rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly.

  Time to remind this town why The Velvet Ladle was the best.