The morning after the banquet, The Velvet Ladle stirred awake like any other day, but Finn felt the weight of the previous night pressing against his ribs like an iron bar. He had won, technically. The mayor was alive, the assassination had failed, and the banquet had ended in disaster, but not the kind that ended with a new ruler. Yet, there was no sense of victory, no relief in his chest.

  Because Vraska wasn’t finished with him.

  As he sat on the edge of his cot in the modest upstairs loft, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes, he knew one thing with certainty—there would be retaliation. There always was. He had taken something from her, had undone a plan that had no doubt taken months to orchestrate. And a woman like Vraska? She didn’t forget. She didn’t forgive. She recalculated.

  Downstairs, the sounds of a normal morning crept through the floorboards. The rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board, the bubbling of something thick and rich over the hearth, the occasional curse from Marla as she balanced too many things at once. The scent of fresh bread and spiced meats curled through the air, mingling with the faint bitterness of roasted coffee. The tavern was waking, stretching into the familiar routine that had once felt comforting.

  Now, it felt like a fragile illusion.

  Finn exhaled, pushed himself off the cot, and headed downstairs.

  The lunch rush was busy but manageable. Dockhands filed in with coin clinking in their palms, paying for steaming bowls of Stormcaller’s Seafood Stew, their laughter rough but warm as they swapped stories of the morning’s work. Farmers who had just finished selling their wares in the market square took up the long wooden benches, tearing into freshly baked bread and venison pies. The place smelled of comfort, of familiarity.

  For a moment, Finn allowed himself to imagine that everything was normal.

  Then the tavern doors swung open, and a man stepped inside.

  Finn didn’t recognize him, which wasn’t uncommon. Puddlebrook saw its fair share of travelers, merchants, nobles passing through. But there was something about this man that made Finn’s instincts flicker.

  He was dressed finely—perhaps too finely. His coat was deep navy, embroidered with silver thread, his boots polished to a mirror sheen. His posture was upright, rigid, the kind of stance a person had when they weren’t used to pretending to be important.

  Finn didn’t react immediately. He continued wiping down the counter, letting the man approach at his own pace.

  The noble reached into his pocket and placed a small leather pouch onto the bar with a soft clink. Gold. Not silver. Gold.

  “I’d like to rent out the establishment for the evening,” the man said, his voice smooth but unnaturally so, as if he were choosing his words carefully. “My family and I are celebrating a special occasion. We’d prefer a private space.”

  That caught Marla’s attention. She paused midway through stacking a tray of clean mugs, her brow furrowing slightly. It wasn’t outright suspicion—just mild surprise. It was an odd request.

  Finn leaned against the counter, keeping his expression neutral. “We don’t usually rent out the whole tavern.”

  The noble smiled, tapping the pouch. “500 gold. For the night. Just us. No other customers.”

  Finn’s fingers stilled against the cloth he had been using to clean. 500 gold was more than a generous offer—it was a fortune. More than enough to restock supplies, make repairs, even invest in finer equipment. But the sheer amount of money was what made it strange.

  Marla, ever the blunt one, raised a brow. “You must really like our food.”

  The noble let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I assure you, this is a fair price for the privacy and exclusivity we desire. A mere celebration. Nothing more.”

  Finn felt the air shift slightly.

  There was nothing inherently threatening about the offer. No hints of deception, no veiled words. It was just money.

  And yet.

  Something in Finn’s gut told him that this wasn’t as simple as it appeared.

  Still, turning it down would be foolish. No one rejected that much coin without raising questions. If this man was truly just some noble with too much gold and too little sense, then there was no harm in accepting. If he wasn’t? Well… Finn would handle it accordingly.

  He flicked a glance at Marla. She was already watching him, waiting.

  Then, finally, Finn made his decision.

  He reached out, took the pouch, and placed it beneath the counter. “Consider it reserved.”

  The noble smiled. “Excellent. We’ll arrive at sundown.”

  With that, he turned sharply and strode out the door.

  The moment he was gone, Marla let out a low exhale, shaking her head. “Well. That was… something.”

  Grog, who had been moving a barrel of ale behind them, grunted. “Odd.”

  Marla nodded, wiping her hands on a cloth. “You think he’s a noble from Laudendale? Maybe passing through?”

  Finn considered it. “Maybe.”

  The money was real. The man had carried himself well enough to be convincing. There was no sign that this was anything more than what it seemed.

  And yet, the itch at the back of Finn’s mind didn’t fade.

  By the time the sun had fully sunk behind the hills, The Velvet Ladle stood eerily quiet.

  The usual crowd had been turned away hours ago. No dockhands, no farmers, no travelers filtering in for a late meal. Just Finn, Grog, and Marla, standing in the dim light of the tavern, waiting.

  Then, on time, the doors opened.

  The noble from earlier stepped inside first.

  And behind him, more followed.

  At least twenty people filled the room, each dressed in fine coats, elegant gowns, silk gloves. They moved like wealth, spoke in quiet tones, took their seats at the finest tables.

  And for a moment, Finn let himself relax.

  Perhaps this really was what it appeared to be—just a noble gathering, a ridiculous amount of money spent on a private dinner.

  Then, the last guest arrived.

  Vraska.

  She stepped through the threshold with the grace of a woman who had already won. Her crimson cloak billowed slightly as she moved, her dark eyes gleaming in the lanternlight. She scanned the room as if she owned it, her lips curving into an easy, knowing smile.

  Finn didn’t react.

  Didn’t flinch.

  Vraska’s smile widened as she approached the bar.

  “Finnrick.”

  Finn met her gaze. “Vraska.”

  She tilted her head slightly, mock curiosity in her tone. “Shall we speak in private?”

  Finn glanced at her so-called noble guests, then back at her. Then, wordlessly, he stepped out from behind the bar and led her toward the back storeroom.

  The storeroom was quiet. The scent of dried herbs and aged barrels of ale filled the space. Finn stood near the shelves, arms crossed, watching as Vraska stepped inside with the same slow, deliberate confidence she always carried.

  She looked at him for a long moment, then let out a soft sigh.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  Finn’s brows lifted slightly. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Vraska smiled faintly. “You heard me.”

  She stepped forward, her voice lowering just slightly. “It seems my insider confirmed that the kitchen explosion was an accident. A tragic, unfortunate accident.”

  Finn kept his face unreadable.

  Vraska tilted her head. “And here I thought you had planned it all so brilliantly.”

  Finn let out a slow breath. “And the severed hand?”

  Vraska waved a dismissive hand. “An overreaction. Consider it retracted.”

  Then, she took another step closer.

  “But,” she murmured, her voice lowering into something sharper, darker, “if you ever cross me again, Finnrick… I will destroy you. I still haven’t forgotten of the dragon egg.”

  She slid a parchment onto the table.

  Finn didn’t need to open it to know what it was.

  His past. His crimes. His only weakness.

  Vraska smiled, stepping back, taking the parchment and sliding it into a small elegant purse.

  “That is the copy of your crime ledgers, trust me, Laudendale hasn’t forgotten. My insiders there managed to forge this copy, so if need be, I can share this with the mayor and… your tavern will be gone. Now,” she said lightly. “I’d like some of your food, you’ve always had a knack for cooking.”

  And just like that, she left.

  Finn stood in the candlelight.

  Heart pounding.

  Mind racing.

  She needed to go.

  And he had just the way to do it.

  Finn stood in the storeroom long after Vraska had left him there, her final words still pressing against his ribs like a dull blade.

  She had come here not just to gloat, but to remind him of the leash around his throat. The forged crime ledgers in her possession were a weapon waiting to be used, one that could unravel everything he had built. And the worst part? She wasn’t lying—Laudendale hadn’t forgotten him.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  That was what made it dangerous.

  That was what made it real.

  If she turned those records over to the mayor, everything Finn had worked for would be gone in an instant. His tavern. His life. His freedom.

  And for what? Because he had dared to step out of line?

  No.

  He was done playing by her rules.

  His mind had already begun working the moment she left the room, his instincts shifting into the mindset he thought he had abandoned years ago. He was no longer a chef standing in his storeroom.

  He was a survivor backed into a corner. And a survivor knew how to turn the odds in their favor.

  Finn exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to the rough wooden shelf beside him. His heart was still pounding, but his mind had steadied. He already had the perfect way to deal with Vraska and her noble-clothed thugs.

  All he needed was to find the right ingredients.

  Finn stepped out of the storeroom and into the dimly lit kitchen, his mind already sorting through what he knew.

  Vraska’s goods had been moving through his basement for weeks now. He didn’t ask what was in the crates. He hadn’t dared to pry too deeply, because prying would only lead to more involvement, more blood, more risk.

  But now?

  Now he needed to know exactly what he had been helping smuggle.

  And more importantly, he needed to know what could be used against her.

  Finn moved quickly, slipping through the side entrance and down the narrow stone stairs that led into the basement. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of aged wood and dust, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the stacked crates.

  He had memorized the rotation of goods by sheer necessity. Some crates only stayed a night before they were whisked away by one of Vraska’s people. Others sat for weeks, waiting for the right buyer, the right transport, the right exchange.

  Finn’s hands hovered over the lids of the nearest crates. This was dangerous. If Vraska ever found out he was rifling through her supplies, he would be dead before sunrise.

  But at this point?

  That was a risk he was willing to take.

  He grabbed a crowbar from the corner, slid the iron edge beneath the first crate’s lid, and pried it open.

  Inside, nestled among thick layers of straw, were several tightly wrapped bundles of dried herbs. Not the kind used in cooking—the kind that fetched a fortune on the black market.

  Finn recognized some of them instantly.

  A dangerous, highly controlled nightshade variant found in the deepest parts of the Undermarsh. Used in alchemy and poison-making, it was known for its ability to dull the senses, slow the heart rate, and induce a deep, unnatural sleep.

  It wasn’t lethal on its own—not in small doses. But if used properly, in the right balance?

  It could make someone collapse into a near-unwakeable state.

  Finn smirked. That’s one.

  He closed the crate and moved to the next.

  This one was heavier. More solid. Metal-lined on the inside. That meant something more dangerous.

  He pried it open carefully, shifting through the contents.

  His fingers brushed against small glass vials, wrapped in cloth to prevent breakage.

  He lifted one carefully, holding it to the lanternlight.

  Inside, the liquid swirled in a sickly green hue, shifting colors like an oil slick.

  A rare, illegal alchemical concoction. Basilisk’s Kiss.

  It was used in certain high-level poisons, but when combined with a natural suppressant like Widow’s Veil, it had a different effect.

  It wouldn’t kill.

  It would induce a paralysis-like sleep, a state where the body became unresponsive for days, even weeks, depending on the dosage.

  It was perfect.

  Finn exhaled, his grip tightening around the vial.

  This was how he would get rid of Vraska’s enforcers.

  Finn tucked the vial into his coat pocket and re-sealed the crates as carefully as he could. He couldn’t let anyone suspect he had been down here. Vraska had her own people monitoring inventory.

  If something went missing, she would know.

  But if it wasn’t missing—if it was simply used in a meal she and her people willingly ate?

  That was a different story.

  Finn moved quickly, making his way back upstairs, his pulse steady despite the weight of what he was about to do.

  He didn’t tell Marla or Grog. Not yet.

  He needed to set things in motion first.

  Vraska had ordered food. She expected to be served. And Finn?

  Finn was going to give her exactly what she asked for.

  The Velvet Ladle’s kitchen was a place of familiar rhythm, a controlled storm of heat and steel. Tonight, though, it felt different.

  It wasn’t just about preparing food. It was about crafting a weapon.

  Finn worked with calm precision, grinding the dried Widow’s Veil into an ultra-fine powder, careful not to inhale too deeply. The Basilisk’s Kiss was trickier—too much would be obvious, too little and it wouldn’t work. He measured every drop with the same care he used when creating the finest sauces, balancing the mixture into the broth of the Mithril Mushroom Risotto.

  The rest of the dishes were made to perfection.

  Seared Ember-Grilled Basilisk Steak, its edges crisped over flame-infused coals. Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie, its golden crust flaking at the slightest touch. Honey-Glazed Roc Drumsticks, their surface gleaming with caramelized spice. Each dish a masterpiece, each one hiding the same secret.

  Marla glanced over at him from the counter. “You’re focused tonight.”

  Finn smirked, plating the risotto with steady hands. “It’s an important meal.”

  She snorted. “I don’t trust any of those bastards out there, but I guess if they’re paying us this much, we might as well feed them well.”

  Finn didn’t answer.

  Instead, he set the final plate on the tray, wiped his hands clean, and turned toward the door.

  “Grog,” he said. “Bring these out.”

  The half-orc nodded, carefully lifting the trays, and made his way into the dining hall.

  Finn exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

  This was it.

  The food had been served.

  And now, all he had to do was wait.

  The room was silent now.

  The air felt thick, heavy, charged with some excitement. The only sounds that remained were the occasional scrape of a chair as another of Vraska’s so-called nobles swayed, blinked sluggishly, and slumped forward onto the table. Their breath came slow, steady—not the breath of the dead, but the deeply unconscious.

  One by one, they had fallen.

  The silk-clad brute who had boasted about his coin before taking the first bite was now slumped against his chair, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. The emerald-gowned woman who had sipped from her goblet with careful grace now lay face down in a pool of fine wine, utterly unaware.

  Finn had counted each of them, his mind ticking like a well-oiled machine, waiting, watching.

  Seventeen down.

  And yet, one remained.

  Vraska.

  She sat at the head of the long table now, a single goblet in hand, turning it idly between her fingers. Her expression was calm, composed, almost intrigued. The candlelight flickered against the deep crimson of her cloak, her lips curled in the faintest trace of a smile.

  Finn had expected rage.

  Expected her to leap up, flip the table, curse his name, draw a dagger and press it to his throat.

  Instead, she simply sighed.

  “Oh, Finnrick.”

  His fingers twitched against the countertop.

  Vraska placed her goblet down with a slow, measured motion, tapping a single nail against its rim.

  She tilted her head, watching him as if he were a child who had just upended a chessboard mid-game.

  “This is bold,” she murmured. “Even for you.”

  Finn exhaled, steadying himself. “It was necessary.”

  Vraska lifted a brow. “Necessary?” She gestured toward the unconscious bodies around her. “I have to admit, darling, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She wasn’t angry.

  She was amused.

  And that, more than anything, sent a chill down Finn’s spine.

  She didn’t see this as a loss.

  Not yet.

  Vraska leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “I assume they’ll wake?”

  Finn nodded. “In a week, give or take.”

  She huffed a quiet laugh. “A whole week? My, my. You’ve been busy.”

  Finn didn’t respond.

  Vraska’s gaze swept the tavern again, scanning the fallen bodies of her pawns, the empty plates, the flickering lanterns that cast long, stretched-out shadows across the walls.

  Then, she exhaled.

  “Well.” She placed a hand on her chin, drumming her fingers idly. “I suppose that just leaves us, doesn’t it?”

  Finn knew what she was doing.

  She thought she had won.

  She thought that he had made a mistake.

  That he had left her standing for a reason.

  Vraska tapped a single finger against the purse at her side—the one holding the parchment, the copy of his criminal record.

  Finn felt his chest tighten.

  “Now,” she said, voice soft as silk. “What’s your plan, dear chef? Do you kill me? Do you let me walk out of here, knowing I hold your future in my hands?”

  She was giving him an out. A false one.

  A chance to back down.

  To accept her control.

  Finn smiled.

  It wasn’t a kind smile.

  It was sharp. Dangerous.

  Vraska noticed—too late.

  Because at that moment, her fingers twitched.

  Her grip on the edge of the table faltered.

  The amusement in her gaze flickered.

  She inhaled, slow and measured, blinking once.

  Then twice.

  Finn’s voice was quiet when he spoke.

  “I didn’t forget about you.”

  Vraska opened her mouth—but no sound came out.

  Her fingers loosened against the table, her shoulders slumping just slightly, her breath slow, slow, slow.

  She tried to lift her hand toward the purse at her side.

  She failed.

  Finn watched as her body betrayed her.

  Her spine curved forward slightly, her eyes fluttering.

  She blinked once more, slower this time, like she was struggling to keep her grip on reality.

  Then—

  She fell.

  The purse slipped from her grasp, landing on the table with a soft, final thud.

  Finn didn’t move.

  Didn’t speak.

  He just watched.

  For the first time since she had stepped back into his life, Vraska was completely and utterly vulnerable.

  And Finn intended to keep it that way.

  Finn exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the moment settle into his bones.

  Then, he turned.

  Grog and Marla were both staring at him, eyes wide, expressions unreadable.

  Grog was the first to break the silence.

  He grunted. “Well.” He gestured at the room. “That’s a mess.”

  Marla blinked, shaking her head slightly as if trying to fully grasp what she had just witnessed. “Finn,” she started, voice lower than usual. “What the hell did you just do?”

  Finn ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have time to explain.

  They needed to act—now.

  “I need them out of here,” he said, gesturing toward the unconscious bodies littering his tavern. “Every single one of them. But especially her.” He nodded toward Vraska.

  Marla crossed her arms. “And where, exactly, are we supposed to put a pile of comatose criminals?”

  Finn exhaled sharply. “That’s why I need to contact someone.”

  Marla’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

  Finn hesitated.

  Then, quietly, “My old crew.”

  Silence.

  Marla stared at him.

  Even Grog looked mildly surprised.

  Finn tapped his fingers against the bar, his mind already sorting through options. “They’re the only ones I can trust for this. They have connections outside of Puddlebrook. They can move people.”

  Marla shook her head, rubbing her temples. “Gods, Finn, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  He didn’t.

  But it was too late for second-guessing now.

  Grog cracked his knuckles. “Want me to start carrying ‘em out?”

  Finn nodded. “Do it carefully. Make sure no one outside sees. Put them in the back.”

  The half-orc grunted in acknowledgment and moved to hoist one of the fallen enforcers onto his shoulder.

  Marla let out a sharp sigh, rubbing at her temple. “Fine. But you owe me so many drinks after this.”

  Finn smirked. “Deal.”

  As Grog and Marla got to work, Finn strode toward the nearest shelf, grabbed a small scrap of parchment, and scribbled a quick message.

  Then, he sealed it, stepped outside into the cool night air, and flagged down the first courier he could find.

  The message was simple.

  It contained only four words.

  Need a favor. Urgent.

  F.T.

  He handed the note off, watched the courier disappear into the night, then stepped back inside.

  The Velvet Ladle was no longer a place of business.

  It was a battlefield of cold calculated surprises.

  And for the first time in a long, long time, Finn felt like he was back where he belonged.