A parchment letter was stuck to the front door of The Velvet Ladle. Finn took it inside to read it.

  Finn, I apologize for my actions, you bested me and I felt weak. Truth is, this is now considerably deeper than you or I. The competition we had was merely for social enjoyment and my attempt at running a better tavern than you. However, things are looking fatal for me. You won’t be hearing from me again. Get as far away from Vraska as you can. That’s what I’m doing. - Wallace

  It was ironic, Finn shook his head in disbelief. Wallace unfortunately didn’t know the lengths that Vraska would go to wrap her claws around somebody's livelihood.

  Finn crumpled the letter and threw it in the trash can behind the kitchen. He had to prepare for the day.

  #

  Business had never been better.

  The Velvet Ladle was busier than ever, with customers packing the tavern from midday to long past sundown. The warm glow of lanterns flickered across wooden tables brimming with roasted meats, spiced stews, and thick slices of hearth-baked bread. Laughter and conversation filled the air, punctuated by the clinking of Silver Coins being exchanged at the bar.

  Finn should have felt satisfied.

  Instead, a slow, gnawing frustration had begun to take root.

  It wasn’t the crowds—he welcomed those. It wasn’t even the pressure of keeping the kitchen running at full tilt night after night. No, the problem was deeper.

  It was the late-night disturbances.

  The quiet knocks on the back entrance when most of Puddlebrook was asleep. The muffled voices of Vraska’s men slipping in and out of his basement, moving their stolen goods, whispering in the dark. The lingering tension that came every morning when Finn checked the cellar, making sure nothing was left behind that could ruin him, or to ensure his personal stuff hadn’t been stolen.

  It was getting worse.

  At first, it had been small shipments, tucked away beneath sacks of flour or behind stacked barrels. But now? Now there were more men, more goods, more noise. He had already caught a few regulars giving curious glances toward the back hall, probably wondering why so many strangers came and went from the storage rooms.

  It was only a matter of time before someone asked the wrong questions.

  And with business booming, Finn couldn’t afford a single misstep.

  To make matters worse, another problem had surfaced—one that had nothing to do with him, but everything to do with The Velvet Ladle’s reputation.

  A rumor had started.

  A quiet one at first, whispered between drinks, behind hands, between bites of roasted venison. But whispers had a way of growing.

  And now?

  Now, people were saying that Grog had set fire to The Rusty Gull.

  Finn had heard it first from a merchant passing through town, a man who had casually mentioned it like it was nothing more than a local curiosity. But over the following days, the rumor had begun circulating more boldly.

  It was nonsense, of course. Finn knew that. He had been there when the embers of Wallace’s ruined tavern were still fresh. Grog had been working all night at The Velvet Ladle when it happened.

  But proof didn’t matter to the kind of people who liked to talk.

  And it wasn’t just whispers anymore. People were starting to ask questions directly.

  And Grog?

  He was taking it personally.

  Finn first realized how much it was bothering him when a pair of young dockhands—regulars, but the type who got a little too bold when they drank—brought it up over a plate of spiced boar.

  Grog had been bringing out a fresh platter of roasted potatoes when one of them smirked and called out, loud enough for half the tavern to hear:

  “Oi, Grog! That fire at The Rusty Gull—how’d it feel to burn down the competition?”

  The moment the words left the man’s mouth, the air in the room shifted.

  Grog froze mid-step, his knuckles tightening around the edge of the serving tray.

  Finn had been behind the bar, watching the interaction unfold.

  The dockhand, grinning, leaned forward, oblivious to the sudden weight of the silence around him. “C’mon, big guy. You can tell us. That Wallace prick had it coming, right?”

  Grog set the tray down on the table—not carefully, not roughly. Just... precisely.

  Then, slowly, he straightened, towering over the man.

  His voice was low, steady.

  “Say that again.”

  The dockhand’s grin faltered. He blinked, realizing too late that he had made a mistake.

  “I—”

  Grog stepped closer, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the table.

  “I did not burn down that tavern,” he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “I did not touch a single beam, I did not light a single match, and I did not spill a single drop of oil. But if you keep flapping your mouth like an idiot, you might find out what it actually feels like to be set on fire.”

  The dockhand swallowed hard.

  Finn sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

  The man had deserved to be put in his place, sure, but this? This wasn’t helping.

  “Alright,” Finn called from behind the bar. “That’s enough.”

  Grog didn’t move for a moment.

  Then, finally, he stepped back, his hands flexing at his sides before he turned away.

  The dockhand let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, muttering something under his breath as he reached for his drink. His friend nudged him, muttering something about knowing when to shut up.

  The rest of the tavern slowly returned to normal.

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  Finn exhaled.

  The rumor wasn’t going away. And if Grog kept reacting like this, it was only going to get worse.

  Later that night, when the tavern had quieted down, Finn found him in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at the stove as if he were daring it to say something stupid.

  Finn leaned against the counter, waiting.

  Grog didn’t look at him. “It’s bullshit.”

  Finn nodded. “Yeah.”

  Grog’s jaw tensed. “And it’s not going away.”

  Finn exhaled. “No. It’s not.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then, finally, Grog let out a sharp breath and shook his head. “What do we do?”

  Finn thought for a long moment.

  Then, before he could answer, a knock came from the back entrance.

  Finn’s stomach twisted.

  Not now.

  Not tonight.

  He pushed off the counter and made his way through the storage room, unlatching the door just enough to see who it was.

  His fingers tightened around the handle when he saw her.

  Madame Vraska.

  She stood in the dim torchlight, wrapped in a deep crimson cloak, her black hair pinned back in an elegant coil. Even outside the tavern, even in the quiet of the back alley, she carried herself like she owned the ground she walked on.

  And behind her?

  Two of her men.

  Finn exhaled through his nose. He should have expected this.

  “Vraska.”

  She smiled, slow and knowing. “Finnrick.”

  He stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. “If you’re here, it means you want something.”

  Vraska tilted her head. “I always want something, Finn.”

  Finn crossed his arms. “Then let’s skip the pleasantries.”

  Her smirk widened. “Actually, you’re the one who wants something. Isn’t that right?”

  Finn’s jaw tensed.

  She knew.

  Of course she knew.

  She always knew.

  Vraska stepped closer, her sharp eyes gleaming. “You’re tired of this arrangement. Tired of my people slipping in and out of your basement like rats. Tired of waiting for someone to notice.”

  Finn said nothing.

  She took another step forward. “So tell me, Finn—”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Are you looking for a way out?”

  Finn’s stomach twisted.

  Because the answer was yes.

  But the question was—at what cost?

  Finn knew better than to answer right away. Vraska was too good at reading people, and hesitation was as good as admitting weakness. So instead of responding, he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, letting the night air settle heavy between them.

  She didn’t push. Not yet.

  She just watched him, waiting.

  That, more than anything, set Finn’s nerves on edge.

  Vraska only waited when she knew she had the upper hand.

  Finally, Finn exhaled through his nose. “If you’ve already figured out I want out, then I assume you also know why.”

  Vraska’s lips curled. “Oh, I know. It’s quite funny, actually. You’ve always wanted out, haven’t you, Finnrick? Years ago, when you left the business, when you tucked yourself away in this little town, you thought you could escape it all.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “And yet here we are.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened. “No one’s laughing.”

  She chuckled at that, shaking her head. “Oh, but I am.”

  Finn didn’t react. He just waited.

  Vraska’s amusement faded slightly, replaced with something sharper. “Let me guess. You’re worried about exposure? About my people being a little too loud when they move things through your lovely basement? About some clever little customer overhearing something they shouldn’t?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Finnrick, if that were the problem, you would have come to me weeks ago.”

  She tilted her head, studying him.

  “This isn’t about them. It’s about you.”

  Finn’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.

  Vraska stepped even closer, close enough that he could smell the faint traces of rich perfume beneath the scent of damp cobblestones.

  “You’re tired of waiting for the moment it all falls apart, aren’t you?” she murmured. “Tired of looking over your shoulder. Tired of lying awake at night wondering when the wrong person is going to ask the right question.”

  Finn kept his face blank.

  Because the truth was—she was right.

  She saw through him as easily as if she had peeled his skin away, reading every thought, every sleepless night, every quiet moment of exhaustion.

  Vraska smiled like she had already won.

  “So,” she purred, “I suppose the real question is—what are you willing to do about it?”

  Finn exhaled slowly. He wasn’t going to let her control the conversation. He was done letting her lead.

  “You tell me,” he said flatly. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already have an answer.”

  Vraska’s smile widened. “Oh, I do.”

  She turned slightly, glancing toward the empty street. The dim lanterns flickered in the night breeze, casting long shadows against the cobblestones.

  Then, casually, she said, “Wallace asked me the same thing.”

  Finn stilled.

  Vraska didn’t look at him—not yet. She let the words linger. Let them settle.

  Then, slowly, she turned back.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked, tilting her head.

  Finn’s mind raced. He had seen Wallace hauled off after their competition. He had assumed the man was rotting in a cell, facing charges. But now—now Vraska was telling him that wasn’t the case.

  “What are you playing at?” Finn asked.

  Vraska sighed, almost disappointed. “Oh, Finnrick. You still think I only deal in coin, don’t you?” She shook her head. “Coin is temporary. Coin is fleeting. But power?”

  She smiled. “Power lets you choose who stays locked up.”

  Finn’s stomach tightened.

  Vraska took a slow step forward.

  “I bailed Wallace out the day after he was arrested,” she murmured. “Had a little chat with him. Told him he had two options—join me, or get out of my way.”

  Finn’s pulse ticked faster.

  “And?”

  Vraska arched a brow. “Oh, Wallace was a proud man. Stubborn, just like you. He thought he could refuse me and keep his tavern. Thought he could get away.”

  Finn’s throat felt tight.

  Vraska leaned in slightly, whispering.

  “So I burned it down.”

  The words landed like a punch.

  Finn’s stomach twisted.

  The Rusty Gull. The smoking ruins, the blackened wood, the stench of charred ale. He had assumed—everyone had assumed—it had been an accident, or a random act of violence.

  But no.

  Vraska had burned Wallace’s tavern to the ground.

  Because he had refused her.

  Finn exhaled slowly. “And where is Wallace now?”

  Vraska shrugged. “Gone. Left town with his crew. I assume he’s running as far as he can.” She smirked. “Smart man, really. If he’d stayed, I would have done worse.”

  Finn felt something cold settle in his chest.

  He had thought he understood what kind of game Vraska was playing.

  But this?

  This wasn’t a game. This was a warning.

  Vraska stepped back, smoothing down the front of her coat. “So, Finnrick.”

  She smiled.

  “Are you smarter than Wallace?”

  Finn clenched his jaw.

  She had pinned him down. Backed him into a corner so tight there was no clean way out.

  If he said no, if he tried to leave, if he tried to walk away from her business—she would do the same thing to The Velvet Ladle.

  He had always known she was dangerous.

  But now?

  Now, he knew just how far she was willing to go.

  Vraska watched him for a long moment. Then, satisfied with the silence, she tilted her head toward the door behind him.

  “Your customers are waiting,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t want to keep them, now, would you?”

  Finn forced himself to breathe.

  Vraska smiled. Then, without another word, she turned, disappearing into the shadows of the street.

  Finn didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  He just stood there, staring at the place she had been, feeling the weight of her words press heavier and heavier onto his chest.

  Wallace had warned him.

  And Finn had ignored it because he already knew.

  Now, there was no way out.

  Not unless he made one himself.