The morning of the mayor’s banquet arrived with clear skies and the scent of autumn on the wind.

  Finn stood outside The Velvet Ladle, arms crossed, watching as the final crates of ingredients, seasonings, and fresh cuts of meat were carefully loaded onto a pair of horse-drawn wagons. The steady clip of hooves against cobblestone filled the quiet street, the harnessed mares shifting restlessly as the last barrels of ale were secured in place.

  This was, without a doubt, the largest job he had ever taken. Catering for thirty nobles and officials meant bringing half the damn kitchen with them—every critical spice, every blade worth using, even a few of his finer pots and cast-iron pans. He had left nothing to chance.

  But even with everything prepared, his stomach still sat heavy with unease.

  Finn hadn’t told Marla or Grog the full truth. Not yet. They knew this job carried risk, but they didn’t know just how much was really at stake.

  Because if Finn failed tonight, someone was going to die.

  Not just someone—the mayor himself.

  He shook the thought away and took a slow breath, watching as two riders approached from the main road. Their dark blue cloaks, trimmed in silver thread, fluttered behind them as they rode.

  The mayor’s elite guards.

  The first rider pulled to a stop, his dark mare snorting as she dug a hoof against the dirt. His armor was polished to a mirror sheen, his gauntlets bearing the same feather-and-key insignia Finn had seen on the invitation parchment. He was tall, sharp-featured, with an air of precision in everything he did.

  This had to be Captain Elias Varro.

  The second rider was a younger man, a bit broader in the shoulders, with a keener, hungrier gaze. A soldier still in the process of proving himself.

  Varro dismounted in a smooth motion and strode toward Finn. His boots barely made a sound against the stone.

  “You are Finnrick Tumblepot?”

  Finn recognized the tone immediately. It was the voice of a man who already knew the answer but asked anyway.

  Finn didn’t bow—he wasn’t that kind of man—but he gave a small nod. “That’s me.”

  Varro gave a curt nod back, then swept his eyes over the wagons. “Everything accounted for?”

  Finn tapped the crate closest to him. “Unless some rat decided to steal a sack of flour, yes.”

  Varro didn’t react.

  No humor. No shift in expression.

  This was going to be a long day.

  The second guard smirked, barely suppressing a chuckle. Varro gave him a single, withering glance, and the man immediately stiffened.

  Varro turned back to Finn. “You will be escorted to the Town Hall immediately. We will ensure your supplies arrive intact.”

  Marla, who had been helping Grog secure one of the spice crates, wiped her hands on her apron and gave Finn a pointed look. “You sure we’re cooking and not being arrested?”

  Varro ignored her.

  Finn sighed. “Alright. Let’s get moving.”

  He swung himself up onto the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, taking the reins in hand. Grog climbed into the back to keep an eye on the cargo, while Marla hopped onto the second wagon, settling into the seat beside the second guard.

  With a small flick of the reins, the horses began their slow trek forward, and the journey to Town Hall began.

  The mayor’s estate sat at the highest point in Puddlebrook, nestled atop the northernmost hill, where the land sloped gently before dipping into the valley beyond.

  The road to the Town Hall wound upward, paved with smooth gray stone, each turn offering a wider view of the town below. From here, Finn could see the market square, still bustling even in the early afternoon. Stalls lined the streets, vendors calling out prices for fresh produce, fine cloth, imported wares from Laudendale. The scent of fresh-baked bread and smoked meats carried faintly on the breeze.

  It was peaceful.

  And if Vraska had her way, it wouldn’t last.

  Finn tightened his grip on the reins.

  He glanced to the side, where Varro rode beside the wagon, his posture flawless even in the saddle.

  Finn casually asked, “So what’s the occasion, exactly? Mayor Strader’s been in office four years, and you all decided now’s the time for a feast?”

  Varro didn’t look at him as he responded. “His Honor has kept this town thriving despite difficult times. This event is a celebration of stability.”

  Finn hummed. Stability. The one thing Vraska was trying to destroy.

  Marla, riding just behind them, piped up. “And I’m guessing it’s invite-only?”

  Varro nodded. “Only the most esteemed officials and select guests will be in attendance.”

  Finn could already guess what that meant. Nobles, landowners, powerful merchants—the kinds of people who made the rules instead of following them.

  The kinds of people Vraska wanted out of the way.

  He felt his stomach tighten.

  The wagons continued their climb, the road leveling out as the mayor’s estate came into view.

  And Finn had to admit—it was impressive.

  The mayor’s estate wasn’t just a building. It was a fortress of wealth and power.

  The main hall stood three stories high, its white limestone walls gleaming beneath the sun. The windows were tall, arched, framed with dark ironwork. The entrance was flanked by towering marble columns, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns.

  A grand stone staircase led up to the double doors, where two more elite guards stood at attention, their polished halberds glinting in the afternoon light.

  The estate grounds were just as extravagant. A long, cobbled courtyard stretched before the hall, lined with meticulously pruned hedges and decorative fountains. Statues of past rulers and scholars dotted the perimeter, each one etched with names Finn had never bothered to learn.

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  And beyond the main hall?

  A private garden. Finn could see glimpses of it beyond the hedge walls—rows of flowering trees, benches of polished oak, a reflecting pond that shimmered beneath the sky. It was the kind of place meant to impress.

  Finn couldn’t help but wonder—how much coin had gone into building all this?

  And how much of it was about to be drenched in blood?

  The wagons came to a slow stop at the foot of the grand staircase.

  Varro dismounted and signaled for the guards to begin unloading. “Your supplies will be brought to the kitchens. His Honor is expecting you.”

  Finn, Marla, and Grog climbed down, stretching their legs.

  Marla muttered, “Fancy place. Shame it’s about to be crawling with aristocrats.”

  Grog just grunted. “Smells like perfume and bad decisions.”

  Finn almost smirked.

  Then, the main doors opened.

  A small group of finely dressed nobles stepped onto the staircase, their embroidered coats and silk dresses gleaming in the sunlight. Mayor Jarell Strader was among them.

  He was a broad-shouldered man, older but still holding himself with the strength of someone who had been in his position for years. His dark hair was neatly combed back, streaked with silver at the temples. His sharp eyes scanned the courtyard before landing on Finn.

  A slow smile crossed his face.

  “Ah! The famed chef of Puddlebrook himself!”

  The nobles around him chuckled in agreement.

  Finn forced a polite smile.

  This was it.

  The last moment before he stepped inside, before he entered the kitchen, before he had to figure out how to stop an assassination without getting himself killed.

  Mayor Strader gestured toward the doors.

  “Well, my friend! We’ve waited long enough. Get to the kitchen! We’re all very eager to see what The Velvet Ladle has to offer.”

  Finn exhaled.

  Then, with a final glance at Marla and Grog, he followed the mayor inside.

  And walked straight into the heart of disaster.

  The moment Finn stepped inside Puddlebrook’s Town Hall, he felt it.

  The shift in atmosphere.

  It wasn’t the grandeur that put him on edge—he had been in noble halls before. He had cooked in fine kitchens, served meals to powerful men and women who barely glanced at the food they consumed.

  No, it was something deeper. Something unspoken.

  A tension in the air. An expectation.

  And Finn had the sinking feeling that he wasn’t the only one walking into a trap tonight.

  The entrance hall was as lavish as expected—polished marble floors, towering chandeliers dripping with crystal, rich navy banners embroidered with the mayor’s sigil. Every inch of the place reeked of wealth. The kind of wealth that let a man eat venison wrapped in gold leaf while half the town scraped by on barley stew.

  Finn kept his expression neutral as he followed Mayor Strader and his guests deeper into the hall.

  “Ah, this is an exciting evening,” Strader said, clasping his hands together as they walked. “The banquet hall is nearly ready, and I hear nothing but praise about your cooking, Mister Tumblepot.”

  Finn forced a polite smile. “I hope we live up to the expectations.”

  Strader chuckled. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” He gestured grandly as they passed through a pair of ornate double doors.

  “This,” he said, “is where your magic happens.”

  Finn stepped forward into the grand kitchen of Puddlebrook’s Town Hall.

  And his breath caught, just for a second.

  It was magnificent.

  The kitchen was twice the size of The Velvet Ladle’s entire dining area. The ceiling stretched high, lined with exposed beams of dark-stained oak. The walls were lined with shelves of exotic spices, gleaming copper cookware, and racks of fine-cut knives.

  A massive brick oven dominated one side of the room, its arched opening glowing with steady, smoldering heat. To its left, a wood-fired stove ran the length of the wall, with enough burners to cook for an army. The opposite side held stone counters dusted with flour, large prep tables lined with fine ceramic dishware, and an enchanted icebox humming softly with frost magic.

  Even Finn, who had seen his fair share of kitchens, had to admit—this was impressive.

  Strader turned to him, grinning. “I trust it’s to your liking?”

  Finn ran a hand over one of the counters, feeling the smooth, cool stone beneath his fingertips. He glanced at the shelves, the rows of fresh herbs, the high-quality knives.

  “This’ll do. I brought a lot of my tavern’s spices and knives, but if I could use these, that’d be great.”

  Strader laughed heartily. “Wonderful!” He clapped Finn on the back, far harder than necessary. “I’ll leave you to it. My guests and I are eager for the first course. Use whatever you’d like in the kitchen.”

  With that, he turned on his heel, his entourage of finely dressed nobles following him toward the banquet hall.

  The moment the doors clicked shut behind them, Finn exhaled slowly.

  And just like that, the game had begun.

  Grog and Marla were already moving.

  Grog strode toward the storage shelves, inspecting the supplies, while Marla ran a critical eye over the counter space, muttering under her breath about where the hell they were supposed to start.

  Finn pulled out the menu request parchment, scanning the list.

  Five of everything.

  Basilisk steak. Venison pie. Roc drumsticks. Mithril mushroom risotto. The kind of menu that was meant to impress, meant to show off wealth.

  But for Finn, this menu was more than that.

  It was a battlefield.

  Vraska had warned him not to interfere.

  Which meant she already had a plan in motion.

  The problem was—Finn didn’t know what it was.

  Was the poison already here, hidden somewhere in the kitchen? Had one of Strader’s guests been bought off to slip something into the food later? Or was this even messier—something more elaborate, more violent?

  Finn had to be careful.

  He couldn’t afford to act too early. Couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself.

  He had to cook.

  Had to make it look real.

  And when the moment was right—he had to make damn sure that whatever Vraska had planned, it never reached the mayor’s plate.

  Finn rolled up his sleeves.

  “Alright,” he said, his voice steady. “Marla, prep the Shadow-Smoked Venison Pies. Grog, get the Roc drumsticks going. I’ll handle the basilisk steaks.”

  They got to work.

  The kitchen came alive with motion.

  Marla started rolling out delicate sheets of buttery pie crust, her hands quick and practiced. The venison filling—**rich with root vegetables and a hint of smokey essence—**simmered in a pot beside her, the scent deep and hearty. It was a good thing that Finn had taken the time in the past to teach her the ways of his cooking style even though she mostly poured drinks..

  Grog moved to the stove, hoisting a roc drumstick the size of Finn’s forearm onto a sizzling skillet. The honey glaze crackled against the heat, filling the air with the sweet-spiced aroma of roasted fowl.

  Finn took his place at the stone counter, unwrapping a thick cut of basilisk steak. The meat had a strange, almost scaled texture, its deep marbled red shimmering faintly under the kitchen light. Notoriously difficult to cook. Overdo it, and it turned to leathery toughness. Undercook it, and—well, basilisk had been known to leave diners with some… unfortunate side effects.

  Finn pulled out a mortar and pestle, grinding a mixture of smoked salt, cracked pepper, and crushed ember-spice. He coated the meat, letting the seasoning sink in before laying it carefully onto the enchanted grill.

  The moment the meat hit the heat, the coals beneath flared with a deep blue flame, infusing the steak with their signature smokiness. Finn worked methodically, flipping it once, then twice, brushing on a thin layer of fireberry glaze.

  Each dish was coming together.

  Step by step.

  Like any other job.

  Except this wasn’t just any other job.

  Finn’s gaze flicked toward the counters, the storage shelves, the untouched bottles of wine waiting to be poured.

  Somewhere in this kitchen, in this building—there was a death sentence waiting to be delivered.

  And he had less than an hour to stop it.

  Marla wiped her forehead with the back of her sleeve, checking the pies as they browned in the oven. “We’re ahead of schedule,” she said. “Somehow.”

  Finn nodded but didn’t respond.

  His mind was too focused. Too tense.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He didn’t know how he knew. Didn’t know why his instincts screamed at him to start looking closer.

  But Finn had spent years trusting his gut.

  And right now?

  His gut told him that whatever Vraska had planned—it was already in motion.