The last of the meals left the kitchen with pristine presentation and impossible expectations. Silver-plated trays bore roasted roc drumsticks glazed to golden perfection, basilisk steaks sizzling with ember-spiced crusts, and delicate venison pies whose buttery layers crumbled at the mere touch of a fork. Every dish that passed through the gilded doors of Puddlebrook’s grand dining hall carried the unmistakable weight of its importance.
Finn had done his job.
He had cooked the food, plated it beautifully, sent it out on time, and made sure that when the nobles took their first bites, they would have no reason to suspect a single thing was wrong.
But something was very, very wrong.
Finn wiped the sweat from his brow, rolling his shoulders as he leaned against one of the stone counters in the kitchen. He exhaled, letting the tension in his arms ease slightly, his fingers aching from hours of slicing, rolling, grilling, and basting. The grand kitchen reeked of good food and better coin, but he couldn’t enjoy any of it.
Not when he still had work to do.
The job wasn’t over just because the food had reached the tables. The food itself had been untouched—no poisons, no alterations, nothing that could have turned the meal into a weapon. But that didn’t mean Vraska hadn’t planned another way to get what she wanted.
Finn moved to the stone basin sink, rolling his sleeves back down as he began scrubbing a cutting board. His body moved on instinct, but his mind was elsewhere.
Where was the strike coming from?
Vraska was not the kind of woman to put all her trust in one plan. The mayor’s wine hadn’t been tampered with. The dishes had passed through his hands, Marla’s hands, Grog’s hands. The food had been prepared carefully, openly.
So that meant the assassination wasn’t in here.
Which meant it had to be coming from out there.
Finn frowned.
The kitchen wasn’t just tucked into the back of the mayor’s estate—it had a view. A set of wide windows faced the rear courtyard, which overlooked the rolling hills and cliffs leading down to the docks. From that vantage point, one could see Puddlebrook stretching out toward the ocean, the town bathed in golden lantern light as the sun was moments away from setting.
Finn took a slow step toward the nearest window, his instincts whispering to him.
The glass reflected the soft glow of the kitchen’s lanterns, but beyond the reflection, he saw something else.
Something wrong.
Four figures stood at the tree line behind the estate.
Dressed in black, blending into the evening shadows.
Finn didn’t move. Didn’t react.
He simply watched.
One of them was gesturing to the others. Not with exaggerated motions—but with precise, practiced signals.
A mage, judging by the faint trace of arcane energy curling from their fingers.
A necromancer, by the dull green glow of runes embedded into their gloves.
And two archers, already stringing longbows, their bodies stiff and poised like predators before the kill.
Finn’s chest tightened.
There.
There it was.
They weren’t trying to poison the mayor. They were trying to put an arrow through him.
Finn’s mind snapped into action.
The window.
The dining hall’s massive panoramic window overlooked Puddlebrook, designed to give the nobles an extravagant view of their own success while they feasted.
It was a perfect vantage point.
And Vraska’s people were going to use it as a firing range.
Finn’s pulse quickened, but his face remained neutral.
He turned away from the window casually, wiping his hands on a cloth.
One minute.
That was all he had.
One minute to stop this before the arrows flew.
He needed a distraction. Something big. Something loud.
Something that would send the whole banquet into chaos before anyone knew what was happening.
His gaze flicked toward the row of iron gas stoves near the back of the kitchen.
There.
That would do.
Finn strode toward the stoves, keeping his movements measured. The trick to sabotage was to make it look natural. No rushing. No sudden movements.
He reached for a bundle of cloth, grabbed a small glass bottle of cooking oil, and made a quick adjustment to the knobs beneath one of the burners.
The flame snuffed out immediately.
Gas continued to flow.
Finn poured the oil directly onto the stovetop, letting it drip down into the cracks between the metal grates. He balled up the cloth in his hands, tucked it just close enough to catch the residual heat, and then—
He let it sit.
The fire wouldn’t light right away. Not yet.
But when it did?
It would go up like a torch.
Finn stepped back, giving the room one last glance.
No one had noticed.
Good.
He wiped his hands clean, dusted off his apron, and strode toward the banquet hall.
Time to act normal. Time to sell the lie.
The banquet hall was roaring with laughter.
Silver platters glistened under the glow of golden chandeliers, the nobles cutting into their meals with delighted conversation. The scent of freshly baked pies, roasted meats, and delicate sauces filled the air, mingling with the rich perfume of wine.
Finn approached the long table, forcing an easy smile.
Mayor Strader noticed him immediately, his eyes lighting up.
“Ah, the man of the hour!” Strader gestured for Finn to step closer. “Come now, don’t be shy. We were just discussing how this is the finest meal we’ve had in years!”
The nobles murmured in agreement, nodding enthusiastically.
Finn offered a small bow. “Glad to hear it, your Honor. Always a pleasure to serve.”
Strader chuckled. “Tell me—what’s your secret? How do you make venison taste like it was hand-fed golden apples before being cooked?”
Finn smirked. “Good seasoning, good timing, and a little magic of my own.”
The nobles laughed, clinking glasses.
Finn glanced toward the window.
The glass stretched nearly from floor to ceiling, offering a perfect, unobstructed view of the hillside and ocean beyond.
And if he looked just carefully enough—
He could see the faint outline of the assassins waiting.
His time was almost up.
Finn adjusted his apron.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your meal. Just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking.”
Strader beamed. “More than to our liking! You’ve outdone yourself, Mister Tumblepot.”
Finn nodded.
And then, in the exact moment he had planned for—
The kitchen exploded.
A deafening roar shattered through the estate, sending a shockwave through the walls. Flames burst from the kitchen entrance, licking up toward the ceiling.
The banquet hall erupted into chaos.
Nobles screamed, chairs scraped against the polished floor, silver goblets clattered to the ground.
Finn acted first.
He whirled toward the window, pointing directly at the shadows beyond the glass.
“OUTSIDE! ARMED MEN! ARCHERS!”
The elite guards moved instantly.
Swords were drawn, chairs overturned, and the nearest guards rushed toward the window.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
And just as Finn had predicted—
The assassins had lost their chance.
One of the archers hesitated.
And in that moment, Finn saw something he had never seen before.
Fear.
They had planned for an easy execution. Not a hunt.
Finn smirked.
And the guards charged.
The moment Finn shouted, the entire hall erupted into motion.
Chairs scraped violently against the polished floor, nobles tripping over themselves in their rush to get away from the window. A few of them, still clutching goblets of spiced wine, let the silver cups clatter to the floor as they scrambled backward. Plates crashed, food forgotten.
But Finn didn’t look at them.
His eyes were locked on the elite guards, watching for their reaction.
The first one, Captain Elias Varro himself, didn’t hesitate. The moment Finn’s voice rang out, Varro’s instincts took over. He pivoted sharply, eyes flicking toward the shadows beyond the window. His gloved hand snapped up in a wordless signal, and within seconds, the guards surged into action.
Swords were drawn in a flash of steel, boots thundering against marble as three of the fastest men in the room sprinted toward the large glass pane.
The assassins had waited too long.
Finn watched as the necromancer lifted a hand, his fingers curling with dark energy, preparing to cast—
Too late.
The first arrow was loosed from the shadows—but it was rushed, sloppy, thrown off by the sudden explosion and Finn’s interference. The projectile shattered harmlessly against the side of the window frame, bouncing off the thick stonework.
The second arrow never even made it off the string.
Because in the next instant, the guards slammed through the side door leading to the courtyard, spilling into the night like a hunting pack on the scent.
A shouted command. A flash of movement.
And the assassins turned to flee.
Finn allowed himself one breath.
One heartbeat of relief.
Then, he turned back to the banquet hall.
The nobles were still in disarray. A few had ducked beneath the table in terror, one particularly rotund man having somehow gotten himself tangled in a silk tablecloth, struggling like a panicked beetle.
Marla, who had also taken cover in the back of the dining hall after hearing the explosion, took one look at the carnage and let out a low whistle.
“Well, Finn,” she said, stepping over an overturned goblet. “I’ve seen you clear a room fast, but this? This is a personal best.”
Finn ignored her. He had bigger problems.
The fire was spreading.
Flames licked hungrily at the wooden cabinets, thick black smoke billowing from the ruined gas stove. He could already hear crackling embers chewing through the dry shelves, threatening to turn the entire estate’s kitchen into an inferno.
And worse? The Velvet Ladle’s goods were still inside.
All their finest ingredients. Their best knives. Their enchanted cookware, worth more than Finn had made in his first year of business.
Finn clenched his jaw.
He needed to move—fast.
Finn bolted toward the kitchen entrance, already shoving his way past panicked servers and startled guests.
Grog was still inside, standing near the overturned spice rack, eyes squinting against the smoke.
“Grog!” Finn barked. “We’re getting our shit and we’re getting out—NOW!”
Grog didn’t need more than that. He moved instantly, gripping the nearest crate of Velvet Ladle supplies and hoisting it over one broad shoulder. Finn grabbed the bag of mithril mushrooms, securing the strap across his chest, then snatched up their best chef’s knives from the butcher block.
Marla appeared at the doorway, coughing against the smoke. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—how did this get worse?!”
Finn threw a sack of various seasonings and stuff alike at her. “Take this. Get it out.”
Marla caught it midair, glancing at the rest of the kitchen. “You want me to save anything else while I’m at it?”
Finn looked at the growing flames. At the half-burnt barrels of expensive aged elven wine, at the gleaming copper pots already catching heat.
Then he gritted his teeth.
“No time.”
Marla muttered a curse but didn’t argue.
With a final frantic sweep of the room, Finn turned on his heel and ran.
By the time Finn, Grog, and Marla burst out into the courtyard, the battle was already over.
The assassins had been chased down, though not without a fight. One of the archers lay sprawled near the treeline, his bow snapped in half. The necromancer had been forced to the ground, hands bound behind his back by two of the guards.
The last assassin—the mage—was gone.
Vanished.
Escaped.
But Finn didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Varro was already marching toward him.
The captain’s silver cloak billowed behind him, his face hard with barely restrained fury.
“What,” he said, voice dangerously low, “the hell just happened?”
Finn exhaled, bracing himself.
Here we go.
Marla, still clutching the rescued parchment, gave Varro a charming grin. “Oh, you know. Fire. Chaos. Near-death experiences. Just another night at The Velvet Ladle.”
Varro’s glare could have curdled milk.
Finn sighed. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Varro’s expression didn’t change. “For what?”
“For saving your mayor.”
Silence.
The other guards, still reeling from the chase, shifted uncomfortably.
Varro’s fingers twitched.
Finn knew that look.
It was the look of a man who didn’t like being caught off guard.
Finn met his gaze. Unflinching.
“I saw them setting up,” he said, voice steady. “I saw their bows. I saw their mage preparing a spell. If I hadn’t—” He gestured toward the half-burnt kitchen.
Varro exhaled sharply.
He turned to the nearest of his men. “Take the survivors for questioning. I want them in the cells by nightfall.”
The guards saluted sharply and moved to obey.
Finn watched as the captured necromancer was hauled away, his bound hands still faintly glowing with residual energy. The archer was dragged alongside him, groaning in pain.
Finn crossed his arms.
They had failed their mission.
But he had a feeling this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Mayor Strader was furious.
The banquet was ruined. His guests were traumatized. His pristine estate had nearly burned down.
But he was also alive.
Which meant—despite all of Finn’s interference, trickery, and last-minute sabotage—the job had technically been a success.
The mayor, standing in the wreckage of his once-elegant dining hall, turned to Finn with a deep, weary sigh.
“Well,” he muttered, rubbing his temples, “this is certainly not how I expected the evening to go.”
Finn gave him a thin, exhausted smile. “You and me both.”
Strader exhaled slowly, his sharp eyes scanning Finn’s face.
Then, to Finn’s absolute shock, the mayor chuckled.
“Regardless of how the night ended,” Strader said, “the food was truly excellent.”
Finn blinked. “...Thank you?”
Strader grinned. “Next time, though, perhaps less fire.”
Finn smirked. “I’ll see what I can do.”
#
The ride back to The Velvet Ladle was a quiet one.
The wagons rattled over the uneven cobblestone roads, their wheels creaking under the weight of the rescued goods from the banquet. The sky had darkened completely, the moon casting silver light over Puddlebrook’s sloped rooftops. The air smelled of distant smoke from the ruined kitchen, mixing with the ever-present scent of the sea.
Finn kept his hands loose on the reins, guiding the horses at a steady pace. Grog rode beside him, arms crossed, staring at the passing buildings with a furrowed brow.
Marla was in the second wagon, muttering under her breath as she counted their supplies.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
There was too much to unpack.
Finn had spent the last hour being grilled by Captain Varro, the elite guard demanding every detail of what he had seen, what he had done. Finn had played it smooth, keeping his answers just vague enough to avoid suspicion, just detailed enough to be believable.
He had made it look like he was just a chef with good instincts.
Which meant Varro wasn’t convinced, but had no reason to arrest him.
Still, the weight of the night sat heavy in Finn’s chest. He had saved the mayor. Saved the nobles. Saved his own skin.
But this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Finally, Grog spoke. “She’s going to be pissed.”
Finn exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
Marla scoffed from the second wagon. “Pissed? No. She’s going to be furious. I bet she’s already throwing things across whatever extravagant lair she hides in.”
Finn didn’t doubt it.
Vraska had put her reputation, her power, and her plans into this assassination. She had arranged every detail, ensured the best assassins, secured an insider, all to eliminate Strader and take Puddlebrook for herself.
And Finn had burned it to the ground.
Literally.
Marla leaned forward, resting her arms on the front of the wagon. “So, what’s the plan? Are we leaving town? Because I’m feeling like maybe leaving town is a solid option right now.”
Finn shook his head. “If we leave, she’ll hunt us. She’ll take it as an insult. An admission of guilt.”
Grog grunted. “We stay.”
Finn nodded. “We stay.”
Marla groaned. “Ugh. I was afraid you were going to say that.”
She wasn’t wrong to be worried.
They all knew how this worked. Vraska wasn’t the type to sit back and let this slide. She would retaliate. She would send a message.
The only question was when.
And how bad it was going to be.
By the time they reached The Velvet Ladle, the streets were nearly empty.
The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the darkened storefronts, their signs swaying slightly in the night breeze. Finn guided the horses toward the back of the tavern, pulling up beside the storage entrance.
They climbed down, stretching their sore muscles, rolling the tension from their shoulders.
Finn felt the exhaustion sinking in. The past few hours had been a mess of quick thinking, reckless decisions, and life-saving deceptions.
All he wanted was a drink, a bath, and maybe six days of sleep.
But the moment he reached for the back door of the tavern, he knew—he wasn’t getting any of that tonight.
Because the door was already open.
Finn stilled.
Grog and Marla noticed instantly.
The three of them exchanged a look.
Then, wordlessly, Finn stepped inside.
The tavern was silent.
The scent of burnt wood and roasted meats from earlier still lingered in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of something else.
Something metallic.
Finn’s stomach tightened.
Blood.
His boots barely made a sound against the floor as he stepped into the main dining area. The chairs were as they had left them. The bar was undisturbed. Nothing was broken.
But there—at the center of the largest dining table—was something new.
A single, freshly severed hand.
Marla cursed sharply.
Grog exhaled slowly, his tusks flashing briefly in the dim lantern light.
Finn approached cautiously.
The hand was pale, small, likely belonging to a man of noble blood. The fingers were thin, with rings still adorning them. But it was the parchment tucked beneath the palm that truly made Finn’s chest tighten.
A note.
Written in Vraska’s fine, flowing script.
He pulled it free, flicking it open with practiced fingers.
And he read:
Finnrick,
What a disappointment.
You truly are a stubborn little creature.
I wonder—how many lives could you have spared if you had simply followed orders?
The night is not yet over.
Enjoy your victory while it lasts.
I’ll be in touch.
- V.
Finn let out a slow, controlled breath.
His fingers tightened around the parchment.
Marla muttered, “Shit.”
Grog rumbled, “Who’s hand?”
Finn’s mind was already racing.
The rings on the fingers suggested wealth. But not noble wealth—merchant wealth.
Vraska had killed someone to send a message.
And if Finn had to guess—she hadn’t stopped at just one.
A slow, cold realization settled into his chest.
The mayor had been her target. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t prepared backups.
Then, Grog cracked his knuckles.
“Of course,” he muttered. “One thing after the other.”
Finn didn’t say it aloud.
But he knew—this wasn’t just about survival anymore.
Vraska had pushed too far.
And if she wanted a war?
Finn was going to give her one.