Business at The Velvet Ladle had never been better.

  The weeks since Finn’s victory over Wallace Grint had turned Puddlebrook’s favorite tavern into something of a legend. The townsfolk loved a good story, and Finn had given them a great one: The underdog chef who crushed his rival in a public cook-off and sent the sore loser to jail.

  Word spread fast.

  With The Rusty Gull permanently shut down, there was no competition left—at least, none worth worrying about. The docksmen, sailors, and travelers who used to frequent Wallace’s tavern needed somewhere new to drink, and they had found it here.

  The Velvet Ladle was packed nearly every night. The long wooden tables, which had once felt like too much space for a small-town tavern, were now brimming with new customers. The kitchen never stopped, and the Silver Coins flowed as fast as the ale.

  But more customers also meant more chaos. And tonight? Tonight was extra chaotic.

  Finn had just finished plating a Faun’s Foraged Fettuccine, the ribbons of golden pasta glistening beneath a delicate crumble of smoked cheese, when he heard it—

  The unmistakable sound of tankards slamming against wood, followed by startled gasps.

  He turned, eyes locking onto the center of the tavern, where two men—both thoroughly drunk—had just made a terrible mistake.

  They had spilled their entire drinks on Grog.

  The half-orc stood there, completely still, ale dripping from his broad shoulders, his apron soaked. The two drunkards froze. One of them—short, stocky, and clearly regretting every choice that had led him to this moment—let out a nervous laugh.

  “Uh—”

  Grog’s gaze slowly lifted.

  The air in the tavern shifted. Finn felt the room hold its collective breath. Grog didn’t yell. Didn’t move aggressively.

  Instead, in a voice as deep as rolling thunder, he said calmly,

  “Apologize.”

  That was all it took. The two men nearly tripped over themselves in their hurry to bow, stammering apologies so fast their words tangled together.

  “Sorry, sorry, gods, we’re sorry—”

  Grog nodded once, his towering frame still as a statue. “Good. Now leave.”

  The men didn’t hesitate. They bolted out of the tavern so fast one of them tripped over a chair, crashed into another table, scrambled up, and kept running. The moment they were gone, the tavern exploded into laughter.

  A burly dwarf at a nearby table wiped a tear from his eye. “Never seen two grown men run that fast without an axe at their backs.”

  Marla smirked, leaning against the bar. “Grog, you ever think about hiring yourself out as a bouncer?”

  Grog grunted, unbothered. “Already a cook.”

  Finn chuckled, shaking his head. Crisis averted.

  Or so he thought.

  #

  It was near midnight when the doors of The Velvet Ladle swung open again.

  The rush had started to calm, the tables still filled with customers but without the earlier wild energy. Finn was behind the bar, pouring a fresh tankard of Dwarven Frost Mead, when he heard a familiar voice—

  “Uh. Hey. So. We’re back.”

  Finn looked up. It was them.

  The two drunkards from earlier. But they weren’t alone. They had brought friends.

  At least eight more people stood behind them—some dockworkers, a few traveling merchants, even a well-dressed nobleman who definitely didn’t belong with this group.

  The first drunkard, still looking nervous, scratched the back of his head. “So. Uh. We realized we made a huge mistake earlier.”

  The second one—who had tripped over a chair while running—nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Massive mistake.”

  Finn arched a brow. “Spilling drinks on my cook?”

  “No, no, not that—well, yes, that, but also—” The first man gestured wildly toward the bar. “We left without finishing our meals.”

  Finn blinked. “...And?”

  The nobleman—who, for some reason, was with them—stepped forward. He had a refined air, a sharp goatee, and the kind of posture that screamed ‘expensive tastes.’

  He smiled. “Gentlemen, what my companions are trying to say is—they ran out so fast, they never actually got to taste your food.”

  Finn crossed his arms. “And now?”

  The nobleman grinned. “Now, they’d like to fix their mistake.”

  Finn glanced at Grog.

  The half-orc, still damp from the earlier incident, folded his arms and rumbled, “With more drinks?”

  The first drunkard nodded rapidly. “Yes. Drinks. Food. Everything. And we’re paying double.”

  That got Finn’s attention.

  He flicked a glance toward Marla, who was already grinning.

  Finn smirked. “Alright. Take a seat.”

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  The group cheered, piling into the largest table in the tavern, waving over Marla and calling out orders. And just like that—a terrible mistake turned into The Velvet Ladle’s biggest sale of the night.

  #

  By the time the last patron staggered out, the tavern was still buzzing. Finn stood behind the bar, counting the Silver Coins from the night’s earnings. The stack was higher than usual.

  A damn good night. He glanced toward Grog and Marla, who were finishing up their own tasks.

  Marla wiped her hands on a rag, looking at the coins. “What’s the count?”

  Finn tapped the growing pile. “Enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  Finn exhaled, leaning against the bar. “Enough to give you both a raise.”

  Marla blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

  Finn nodded. “The tavern’s making more than ever. That’s because of you two.”

  Grog grunted. “And the food.”

  Finn smirked. “And the food.”

  Marla let out a low whistle. “Damn, Finn. Almost sounds like you actually care about us.”

  Finn scoffed. “Don’t push it.”

  Grog grunted approvingly. “Good. I like money.”

  Marla snorted. “Of course you do.”

  Finn chuckled, shaking his head. “Consider it long overdue.”

  Marla stretched, rolling her shoulders. “You know, I was gonna complain about my feet hurting, but now? I suddenly feel fine.”

  Finn smirked. “Amazing what a little extra coin can do.”

  The three of them stood there for a moment, the tavern warm, filled with the scent of lingering spices and ale. Business was thriving. The Velvet Ladle was stronger than ever.

  And for the first time in weeks, Finn felt like he had something steady beneath his feet.

  Of course, that wouldn’t last long.

  The warmth of success still lingered in the air as Finn wiped down the bar, the scent of spiced ale and roasted meats clinging to the wooden beams of The Velvet Ladle. The last of the night’s patrons had either stumbled home or had been dragged off by their slightly more sober friends, leaving behind only the faint murmur of Marla stacking chairs and Grog sweeping near the hearth.

  Silver Coins clinked softly as Finn counted out the night’s earnings, the weight of them pressing solid and real against his palm. The Velvet Ladle had transformed from a modest tavern into a town staple, a place people talked about, traveled to, and, more importantly, spent their coin at. It was the kind of success Finn had dreamed of back when he first picked up a ladle instead of a dagger, the kind of life he had wanted when he left his past behind.

  And yet, beneath that satisfaction, there was an itch at the back of his mind. Success, he had learned long ago, attracted attention. Sometimes the good kind—happy customers, eager merchants, opportunities to expand. But just as often, it brought trouble. The wrong kind of people started sniffing around when they thought someone had more than their fair share, and Finn had more than a few old instincts warning him to stay wary. He had spent years working in the shadows, years learning that when things were too good, too easy, too perfect—something was about to go horribly wrong.

  Still, for now, he allowed himself the luxury of this moment. He finished counting, split off a share for Marla and Grog, and tucked the rest away in the lockbox beneath the counter. Marla stretched her arms above her head, her joints popping as she let out a low groan. “I don’t know how we survived that crowd. It was worse than festival week.” She plopped onto a barstool, rubbing her temples. “I swear I heard at least five different people tell me they’ve never eaten anything better in their lives. Feels nice to be appreciated, for once.”

  Finn smirked as he wiped a damp cloth across the bar. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you start cursing out the customers under your breath.”

  Marla rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. That’s different. You know damn well some of them deserve it.”

  From across the room, Grog let out a low grunt. He had just finished sweeping, his movements slow and methodical, as if he were still turning something over in his head. He leaned the broom against the wall and crossed his arms. “More people means more problems,” he muttered.

  Finn arched a brow. “You worried about something?”

  Grog’s thick brows furrowed slightly, his tusked mouth pressing into a firm line. “Nothing specific. Just a feeling.” His heavy gaze met Finn’s, and for a moment, it was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

  The Velvet Ladle’s rise hadn’t gone unnoticed. The food critic’s review had solidified its reputation. The competition with The Rusty Gull had erased any doubt of Finn’s skill, and Wallace’s public downfall had turned The Velvet Ladle into the place to eat in Puddlebrook. But with success came expectations, challenges, enemies. And though Finn had won the battle for his business, he knew better than anyone that wars weren’t won in a single fight.

  Marla, ever the practical one, exhaled loudly. “Alright, enough with the doomsday faces. Things are good. We made a ton of coin tonight. The drinks are flowing, the food’s better than anything else in town, and for the first time in a long time, we’re not barely scraping by.” She jerked her head toward Finn. “You even gave us a raise. That’s proof enough that things are looking up.”

  Finn huffed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fair enough.” He pushed Marla’s share of the earnings across the counter, then did the same for Grog. “You two earned this. Spend it how you like. But I’d recommend saving at least a little, in case something—”

  The front door burst open.

  All three of them whirled toward the entrance.

  A man staggered inside, out of breath, his clothes damp from the night air. Finn recognized him—Edwin Tanner, a merchant who supplied flour and grains to the local taverns. The man looked pale, nervous, his chest rising and falling like he had been running. His eyes darted around the room before settling on Finn. “You need to see this.”

  Finn’s instincts flared immediately. He tossed the cleaning rag aside and stepped around the bar. “What is it?”

  Edwin swallowed hard. “Something’s happened. Down by the docks.”

  Finn exchanged a glance with Marla, then Grog. They didn’t need to speak. They were already moving.

  The three of them followed Edwin out into the night, the cool air crisp against Finn’s skin. Puddlebrook’s streets were quieter than usual—most people had retired for the night, save for a few drunken stragglers making their way home. The moon cast a pale glow over the cobblestone roads, stretching their shadows long as they made their way toward the docks.

  The moment they turned the corner, Finn saw it.

  Smoke.

  Not thick, not raging—but there, curling into the air in thin, ominous wisps. And the source?

  The ruins of The Rusty Gull.

  Finn’s stomach tightened.

  The tavern was charred black, its front door hanging from a broken hinge. The wooden beams that had once supported the roof were cracked, splintered, like something had torn through them. But what made Finn’s pulse hammer wasn’t just the damage—it was the fact that this hadn’t been an accident.

  This had been deliberate.

  And more than that—this had been a message.

  Marla sucked in a breath beside him. “Shit.”

  Grog’s expression darkened, his tusks gleaming under the moonlight. “Someone wanted this place gone. Completely.”

  Finn stepped closer, his boots crunching against bits of charred wood. His mind was already racing, piecing together what this meant.

  The Rusty Gull had been struggling since the cook-off. Finn had known that. But for someone to burn it down entirely? That wasn’t just business. That was personal.

  And in Finn’s experience, when something like this happened, the next target wasn’t far behind.

  A slow, uneasy feeling settled in his gut. If someone was tying up loose ends, would it effect The Velvet Ladle? This wasn’t a thing to be sure of, because nobody knew who did this, or why it happened.

  Edwin ran a hand through his hair, his face pale. “I don’t know who did it. Nobody saw anything. No signs of struggle, no bodies, no witnesses. Just… ashes.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened. No witnesses meant whoever did this was smart. Careful. Intentional. This wasn’t just some drunken arsonist looking to cause trouble—this was calculated.

  Marla folded her arms, staring at the wreckage. “So what do we do?”

  Finn exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the ruins one last time before turning back toward town.

  “We go back to work,” he said. “And we start watching our backs.”

  Because if The Rusty Gull had been the first strike…

  The Velvet Ladle might be next.