The invitation arrived in the late afternoon, sealed with dark blue wax stamped with the sigil of Puddlebrook’s mayoral office.

  Finn had just finished rolling out the latest batch of fresh fettuccine when Marla entered the kitchen, waving the parchment like it was a summons to her own execution. “Finn. You might want to see this.”

  He wiped his hands on a cloth and took the envelope from her, the fine parchment stiff beneath his fingertips. His stomach already tightened.

  Official letters were never good news.

  Not for him.

  Not for The Velvet Ladle.

  Marla crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. “It was hand-delivered by some armored types—fancy crests, polished gear, the whole noble-guard routine. Didn’t say a word, just handed it to me and walked out.”

  Finn frowned. Elite guards. That narrowed it down considerably.

  He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

  His eyes scanned the page, picking up the elegant calligraphy.

  To the Esteemed Proprietor of The Velvet Ladle, Finnrick Tumblepot,

  By order of His Honor, Mayor Jarell Strader, your establishment has been selected to cater the grand banquet for the fourth anniversary of His Honor’s appointment to office. Your reputation for excellence has reached our halls, and we believe your presence will provide an unforgettable experience for this prestigious occasion.

  Your services are requested one week from today. Please prepare to serve an array of your finest dishes, suitable for an audience of nobles, esteemed officials, and select guests of importance.

  You will be compensated generously for your efforts, and failure to attend will be regarded as a slight against the Office of the Mayor.

  We expect a response promptly.

  Signed,

  Captain Elias Varro

  Commander of the Mayor’s Elite Guard

  Finn read the letter twice.

  Then he folded it neatly, set it on the counter, and exhaled a long, slow breath.

  Marla tapped her fingers against the wood, watching him carefully. “That bad, huh?”

  Finn didn’t answer right away. His mind was already racing.

  Cooking for the mayor.

  A noble banquet filled with Puddlebrook’s most powerful figures.

  This wasn’t just a job. This was a spotlight, a giant magnifying glass aimed directly at The Velvet Ladle. If Finn had been hoping to keep a low profile, this was the exact opposite of what he needed.

  But turning it down?

  That wasn’t an option.

  The wording in the letter made that clear enough. This wasn’t a request—it was a summons. Declining would mean offending the mayor himself, and in a town like Puddlebrook, that was the kind of mistake that could shut a business down overnight.

  Marla, always one to cut through the nonsense, waved a hand in front of his face. “Finn. You alive in there?”

  Finn blinked, refocusing. “Yeah.”

  She arched a brow. “Gonna tell me what’s in the letter, or do I have to guess?”

  Finn handed it to her.

  She skimmed the page quickly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she reached the end.

  “Well,” she muttered. “Shit.”

  Finn ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

  Grog, who had been chopping a mountain of root vegetables, looked up from his cutting board. “What?”

  Marla tossed the letter onto the counter. “Finn just got hired to cook for the mayor’s anniversary banquet.”

  Grog blinked. “...Why?”

  Marla snorted. “Because someone with more coin than sense decided they wanted to eat fancy food.”

  Finn tapped the parchment. “No, we got hired to cook. And because someone’s been talking.”

  His food had gained a solid reputation over the past year, but this? This wasn’t just about good food.

  Someone had put his name forward.

  Marla frowned. “You think it was Gideon?”

  Finn considered it. The food critic had been more than happy to sing The Velvet Ladle’s praises after the competition with Wallace. But this felt bigger. More deliberate.

  Finn shook his head. “Gideon likes to stir the pot, but he wouldn’t throw me into this without a warning.” He tapped his fingers against the counter. “Someone else pushed for this.”

  And he didn’t like not knowing who.

  Grog set down his knife and crossed his arms. “So. Do we take the job?”

  Finn hesitated.

  Every instinct screamed at him to turn it down.

  But there was no way out of this without making enemies. And if there was one thing he couldn’t afford right now, it was more enemies.

  Finally, Finn exhaled. “Yeah.” He looked between them. “We take it.”

  Marla groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Finn. That’s a lot of food.”

  Finn pulled the parchment back toward him, rereading the letter. “We’ll manage. We don’t have a choice.”

  Grog grunted. “What do they want?”

  As if on cue, the tavern door swung open.

  Finn turned just as two figures stepped inside.

  Elite guards.

  Their armor was polished to a mirror sheen, and they carried themselves with the rigid posture of men who took their jobs far too seriously.

  Finn sighed internally. They weren’t even waiting for a response.

  The taller of the two—a man with short silver hair and sharp, hawk-like features—stepped forward. “Finnrick Tumblepot?”

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  Finn wiped his hands on a towel and met the man’s gaze. “That’s me.”

  The guard nodded stiffly. “Captain Varro sends us for your answer.”

  Finn didn’t even hesitate.

  “Well that was… quick? I’ll do it.”

  The guards barely reacted, as if they had already assumed his answer.

  The silver-haired one reached into his belt pouch and produced a second parchment, this one sealed with a different sigil—an intricate crest of a feather and a key. He extended it toward Finn.

  “This is the official menu request,” the guard said. “The banquet will be hosted one week from today. The meal is to be prepared at Town Hall’s private kitchens and served to an audience of thirty guests.”

  Finn took the parchment and broke the seal.

  His eyes scanned the menu request.

  Five of everything.

  His stomach tightened slightly.

  This wasn’t just a high-profile event. This was going to be a massive undertaking.

  Ember-Grilled Basilisk Steak. Mithril Mushroom Risotto. Gilded Trout en Papillote. Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie. Every single signature dish on his menu. And they wanted five of each.

  Grog glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a lot of meat.”

  Marla muttered, “That’s a lot of work.”

  Finn kept his face neutral.

  This wasn’t just about the effort. This was about the logistics. Preparing a meal of this scale meant spending hours inside Town Hall’s kitchens. It meant handling ingredients in a place that wasn’t his own.

  It meant being vulnerable.

  The silver-haired guard cleared his throat. “Captain Varro also requests that you bring only the most trusted members of your staff. The banquet is a private event. No outside vendors, no apprentices.”

  Finn nodded, tucking the parchment into his coat. “Understood.”

  The guard gave a curt nod. “Then we will see you in a week.”

  Without another word, the two men turned on their heels and strode out.

  Finn exhaled slowly.

  Marla gave him a look. “This feels off.”

  Finn rubbed his temples. “Yeah. It does. Then again, nothing feels right anymore.”

  Grog grunted. “So. We still doing this?”

  Finn hesitated.

  Then, finally, he nodded.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “We’re doing this.”

  And for the first time, he wished he wasn’t.

  Because deep in his gut, he knew—this banquet was going to be a disaster.

  #

  The Velvet Ladle had long since emptied for the night, the last lingering patrons stumbling out the door well past midnight. The scent of roasted meats and ale still clung to the wooden beams, the glow of the lanterns casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. The tavern was quiet now, save for the soft crackle of the dying hearthfire.

  Finn sat at the bar, a half-finished tankard of mead beside him, the official parchment from the mayor’s guards spread out on the counter. He had read it a dozen times already, but the words still settled in his gut like a lead weight.

  This banquet wasn’t just a catering job. It was a trap or a potential miracle for business.

  Maybe not in the obvious sense—no daggers in the dark, no immediate threats. But something about it felt too deliberate. The scale of the menu, the secrecy, the insistence on only bringing his most trusted staff. Or was this just Finn’s incredible distrust for practically everyone?

  Somebody wanted him there.

  And Finn had a sinking feeling he was about to find out why.

  The front door opened without warning.

  Finn didn’t jump—he had already heard the footsteps approaching outside.

  He looked up just as Vraska stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind her.

  She moved through the dim tavern like she belonged there—smooth, confident, her crimson cloak billowing as she walked. Her dark eyes flicked over the empty chairs, the silent hearth, the single tankard of mead at the bar.

  “I was hoping to find you alone,” she said, voice silk-soft.

  Finn exhaled slowly. “Lucky you.”

  Vraska smirked, stepping closer. “Am I?”

  Finn didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

  She settled into the chair across from him, tilting her head slightly. “You look troubled, Finnrick.”

  Finn ignored the bait. “You don’t show up without a reason.”

  Vraska hummed. “No, I don’t.”

  She reached for the parchment on the counter, but Finn’s hand slammed down over it before she could touch it.

  Vraska’s eyes flicked up, her smirk widening.

  “Careful, Finn. You’re starting to sound like you don’t trust me.”

  Finn gave her a flat look.

  She laughed, soft and amused. “You always were entertaining.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “So. You received an invitation. How exciting.”

  Finn kept his hand firmly over the parchment. “You already knew about it.”

  Vraska’s smirk didn’t waver. “Of course. I have people in places, Finnrick. People who hear things.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened.

  She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Tell me, how does it feel?”

  Finn arched a brow. “How does what feel?”

  Vraska gestured lazily at the parchment. “To be summoned like a servant. To be told where to go, what to make, when to arrive.” She smiled. “After all, isn’t that why you left the old life behind? So no one could give you orders?”

  Finn didn’t blink. “Cut to the point, Vraska.”

  She sighed theatrically. “So impatient.”

  Then, in a voice as smooth as poison, she said, “Don’t interfere with the banquet.”

  Finn went completely still.

  Vraska smiled like she had just placed a winning hand on the table.

  “Excuse me?” Finn said, voice too calm.

  Vraska leaned in slightly, her gaze piercing through him. “This event is important, Finnrick. I need it to go smoothly. I need the mayor to enjoy his last meal.”

  The words landed heavy.

  Finn felt a sharp, twisting cold settle in his stomach.

  “You’re going to kill him.”

  Vraska didn’t deny it.

  She just watched him, waiting.

  Finn clenched his jaw. “Why?”

  Vraska exhaled, almost tiredly. “Because he’s in my way.”

  Finn stared at her. “Since when do you care about Puddlebrook’s mayor?”

  She gave him a sharp, amused look. “Oh, Finn. You still think so small.”

  She folded her hands together, her voice dropping lower.

  “Mayor Strader is... inconvenient. He keeps the town stable. Too stable. He rejects my business, keeps my people from expanding, makes it impossible to run things properly.”

  She smiled.

  “I deserve this town, Finnrick. And once he’s gone, it will be mine.”

  Finn’s stomach twisted. “You want to take his place.”

  Vraska nodded once.

  And that was when Finn knew—this wasn’t just another job to her.

  This wasn’t coin.

  This was power.

  She saw Puddlebrook as hers already. The mayor was just a nuisance standing in her way.

  Finn sat back slowly, keeping his expression neutral.

  “So what do you want from me?”

  Vraska lifted a brow. “I want you to stay out of it.”

  Finn huffed a humorless laugh. “You think I’m going to cook a meal for a man knowing he’s about to die?”

  Vraska shrugged. “You’ve done worse.”

  Finn’s jaw tightened.

  Vraska’s gaze sharpened. “You don’t need to do anything, Finnrick. You just need to cook. Serve the meal. Smile at the guests. And let things happen as they’re meant to.”

  Finn tapped his fingers against the counter. “And if I don’t?”

  Vraska exhaled through her nose, tilting her head as if mildly disappointed.

  “I really hoped we wouldn’t have to play this game.”

  She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  “I would hate for anything to happen to your lovely little tavern.”

  Finn felt his pulse tick faster.

  But he didn’t let it show.

  Vraska sat back again, smoothing down the sleeve of her coat. “We wouldn’t want another accident, would we?”

  Finn’s fingers curled into a fist.

  Vraska smiled. “Good talk.”

  Then, as if she had just finished a pleasant evening chat, she stood from her chair, adjusted her cloak, and turned toward the door.

  She didn’t rush.

  She never rushed.

  And that was what made her so damn terrifying.

  Finn didn’t move.

  Didn’t speak.

  Not until she reached the door.

  Then—

  “Vraska.”

  She paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Hmm?”

  Finn met her gaze, his voice calm, cold, steady.

  “You’re probably going to regret this.”

  Vraska smirked. “Oh, darling.”

  Her eyes glinted in the lanternlight.

  “You’re going to regret it first.”

  And then she was gone.

  The door clicked shut.

  And Finn was alone.

  His breath came slow and even, but his mind was already racing.

  He had just been given a direct order.

  A command.

  And the one thing Finn had never done well—

  Was follow orders.