The road to Puddlebrook was softer than the one they had left behind. It wasn’t just the dirt beneath the hooves of their tired horses or the shift from rugged mountain paths to the familiar cobbled streets. It was the air.

  The weight that had pressed on Finn’s chest for so long, the creeping unease that had shadowed his every step, was gone.

  For the first time in years, he was returning home without a noose tightening around his neck.

  And it felt damn good.

  As the trio rode through the town’s outskirts, signs of life bloomed around them. Fishermen unloading fresh catches, street vendors hollering their wares, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from the market square.

  Grog let out a contented grunt. “Missed this place,” he admitted, stretching his arms.

  Marla cracked a grin. “Missed not being chased for my life.”

  Finn chuckled. “You get used to it.”

  But as they neared the center of town, something was off.

  A crowd had gathered outside The Velvet Ladle.

  Dozens—no, hundreds—of people packed the street, their voices a mix of impatience, excitement, and pure chaos.

  At the front steps, Bix stood atop a wooden crate, waving his arms wildly. “Alright, alright, simmer down! I said wait, not storm the bloody place! You lot act like you’ve never had a decent meal before!”

  Finn, Marla, and Grog exchanged a puzzled look before pushing their way through the throng.

  Finn grabbed Bix’s shoulder. “What in the Nine Hells is going on?”

  Bix turned, his face lighting up. “Boss! You’re back!”

  The crowd cheered.

  Finn blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to being greeted with applause.

  “You gonna explain, or should I just start guessing?” Finn asked, rubbing his temple.

  Bix sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Word got out that you’d gone and done something big, and everyone figured you might not come back.”

  Finn frowned. “And?”

  Bix threw his arms up. “And now that you’re here, every damned person in Puddlebrook wants a meal! I tried keeping the place shut like you asked, but people have been hammering at the door for almost a whole day.”

  Finn looked past Bix. The tavern’s windows glowed warm and inviting, and despite the time away, it still smelled faintly of charred oak and spices.

  The warmth of it settled deep in his chest.

  Finn turned back to Bix and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then I guess we better start cooking.”

  The roar of approval from the crowd nearly shook the street.

  Marla unlocked the tavern doors, and the townsfolk surged inside like a flood breaking through a dam. Finn barely had time to roll up his sleeves before he was swarmed with greetings, pats on the back, and grateful grins.

  “You’re alive!” shouted old man Duggan, the blacksmith.

  Finn laughed. “Barely.”

  “Ale!” roared a miner from the back. “Bring us the good stuff, Tumblepot!”

  Finn waved him off. “You got coin for it, Edgar?”

  Edgar flashed a handful of silver. “Plenty, and I’m damn thirsty!”

  Grog grinned. “I’ll handle drinks.”

  “Thank the gods,” Finn muttered. “I’ll handle the food.”

  He stepped into his kitchen—his kitchen—and took in the familiar space. The old stone hearth, the gleaming steel of his knives, the wooden prep tables marked with years of wear and stories worth telling.

  He rolled his shoulders.

  It was time to cook.

  Finn started with the basics.

  He diced golden potatoes into thick chunks, tossing them into a sizzling pan with butter, rosemary, and black pepper. The scent filled the kitchen as he cracked fresh eggs, the yolks rich and golden, cooking them just enough to keep them velvety.

  Next, he grabbed a slab of thick-cut bacon, searing it until it crisped at the edges, the fat turning into a smoky, savory glaze.

  Grog passed by, carrying three overflowing tankards of ale. He sniffed the air and grunted. “Smells like heaven.”

  “Smells like breakfast,” Finn corrected, flipping the bacon.

  Marla was at the next station, tossing together a hearty stew. She browned chunks of rabbit and venison, adding in onions, garlic, and sprigs of thyme. Red wine splashed into the pot, deepening the aroma.

  But Finn wasn’t done.

  For the main event, he grabbed a whole leg of lamb, coating it in a crust of salt, herbs, and crushed peppercorns. He roasted it over an open flame, basting it with melted butter and garlic, letting the juices caramelize into a rich, golden brown.

  From the corner, Bix called out, “We’re out of bread!”

  Finn didn’t even blink.

  He reached for the dough he had, slamming it onto the wooden counter. With practiced hands, he shaped it into thick, rustic loaves, scoring the tops before shoving them into the clay oven.

  And then came the desserts.

  Honeyed apples, baked in cinnamon and sugar until they were soft, golden, and dripping with syrup.

  Berry tarts, their flaky crusts filled with sweet blackberry preserves, a dusting of powdered sugar settling like fresh snow.

  And finally—deep, rich chocolate cakes laced with just a touch of espresso, the kind that melted on the tongue and left you craving more.

  By the time they were done, the entire tavern was filled with a warm, golden glow, the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet confections wrapping around the patrons like an embrace.

  The Velvet Ladle hadn’t been this alive in years.

  Miners clanked their mugs together, telling wild stories of their time in the caverns. Farmers sat at long tables, passing plates between one another, their laughter filling the rafters.

  Marla stood on a chair, regaling a group with a dramatic retelling of their journey.

  “And then,” she said, waving her arms, “the bloody dragon’s den was EMPTY! Can you believe that? We were ready for a fight, and all we got was a damp cave full of bones!”

  Someone gasped.

  A drunk man in the back booed.

  Finn just shook his head, chuckling as he wiped his hands on his apron.

  Then, from across the room, Edgar stood up and raised his mug.

  “To Finn Tumblepot,” he bellowed. “The best damned chef in Puddlebrook—and the only one who can outrun a death sentence!”

  The tavern erupted in cheers and laughter.

  Finn felt a warmth spread through his chest—something different from the fire of battle or the heat of pursuit. This was home. And for the first time in a long, long while—he wasn’t running anymore.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The warmth of the night settled deep into Finn’s bones. The tavern pulsed with life—with laughter, clinking mugs, and the scent of roasted meats and ale-soaked bread. It was the kind of night that made the past few weeks of chaos, blood, and near-death moments worth it.

  Finn leaned against the bar, watching as Grog out-drank three men twice his size and Marla spun another exaggerated tale about their adventures, gesturing wildly as the crowd leaned in to listen.

  For once, Finn wasn’t thinking about who was chasing him or what danger lurked around the corner.

  But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something that made his stomach drop.

  A man sat alone at one of the smaller tables, cloaked in a heavy coat despite the warmth of the room. His hood was pulled low, but Finn caught glimpses of his face beneath it—sharp features, a graying beard, and a set of eyes that looked far too familiar.

  Finn stiffened.

  He knew that face.

  The stranger wasn’t watching the performance, nor was he enjoying the food or ale like the others. He was watching Finn.

  Finn set down his rag and walked over, keeping his movements casual, but his mind was already racing.

  As he approached the table, the man finally pushed back his hood, revealing more of his face. His features were aged, weathered from travel, but Finn could tell—this was a man from his past.

  “Finn Tumblepot,” the man said, his voice deep and steady. “You look just like your father did at your age.”

  Finn’s breath caught for just a moment before he quickly masked his surprise.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you before,” Finn said, keeping his tone light but measured. “And if you know my father, that means you’re from—”

  “Pendrin,” the man said, nodding. “A long way from here, I know.”

  Finn’s chest tightened. Pendrin. His hometown. A place he hadn’t set foot in since he was a reckless teenager.

  He pulled out a chair and sat across from the man. “You got a name?”

  “Alden Marrow,” the man answered. He studied Finn for a moment before adding, “Your father and I worked together for years. I still see him from time to time.”

  Finn clenched his jaw.

  Baldor Tumblepot. A man of discipline, of unwavering principles. A man Finn hadn’t spoken to since he was kicked out of Pendrin and sent to live with his mother in Laudendale.

  The memories stirred like an old wound reopening.

  Finn had been trouble back then. Stealing, lying, getting caught in places he shouldn’t have been. The kind of kid who thought he was untouchable—until he wasn’t.

  He could still hear his father’s voice the night he was caught robbing the butcher’s shop.

  "You think this is a game, boy? You think you can live like this and still call yourself my son?"

  That had been the last time Baldor looked at him without disappointment clouding his face.

  The next day, he was sent away.

  Finn exhaled sharply, pushing the past aside. “So, what’s this about? You didn’t come all this way just to remind me of my father, did you?”

  Alden leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He’s been asking about you.”

  Finn blinked. “What?”

  “He doesn’t say it outright,” Alden continued, “but I know Baldor. He regrets sending you away. He doesn’t know if you’re dead or alive. And given what I’ve heard about your... adventures, I figured it was time you knew.”

  Finn leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table. His father regretted sending him away?

  That was something he never thought he’d hear.

  He had assumed that once he left Pendrin, Baldor had washed his hands of him. That he had moved on, built a life where Finn Tumblepot no longer existed.

  But now?

  Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  “What do you want me to do with this information?” Finn asked, eyeing Alden.

  Alden shrugged. “That’s up to you. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  Finn glanced around the tavern. This was his life now—a tavern filled with loyal patrons, friends who had stood by his side through impossible odds, and a name that, while tarnished in some places, still carried weight.

  But Pendrin?

  That was a part of himself he had buried long ago.

  And yet...

  He thought of Laudendale, of his mother, of the life that was ripped away from him when she died. He had chosen not to return to Pendrin after that, had chosen to forge his own path.

  But if Baldor truly regretted pushing him away...

  Maybe—just maybe—it was worth reaching out.

  Finn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Does he know where I am?”

  Alden shook his head. “No. I didn’t tell him. Figured that should be your choice.”

  Finn exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

  Alden smiled slightly, as if he already knew Finn’s answer. “That’s all I ask.”

  He finished his drink, then stood, adjusting his coat. “If you ever decide to return, you’ll find Baldor at the old smithy. He still keeps it running.”

  Finn smirked. “Of course he does.”

  Alden chuckled. “Take care, Finn.”

  And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving Finn alone with his thoughts.

  Finn sat there for a long moment, staring into his half-empty mug of ale.

  The thought of seeing his father again after all these years felt... strange.

  Would Baldor even recognize him? Would he even want to see him? Or would he look at Finn the same way he did that night so many years ago—as nothing more than a disappointment?

  Marla plopped down in the seat across from him, raising an eyebrow. “You look like someone just told you your past sins finally caught up with you.”

  Finn snorted. “Something like that.”

  She leaned forward. “Want to talk about it?”

  Finn hesitated, then sighed. “A man from my hometown just paid me a visit. Said my father’s been wondering about me.”

  Marla’s brows lifted. “Didn’t know you had a father.”

  Finn gave her a flat look. “I didn’t hatch from an egg, Marla.”

  She grinned. “Could’ve fooled me.” Then her expression softened. “You thinking of going back?”

  Finn exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since I was a teenager. He’s probably still mad as hell at me.”

  Marla shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just a father who misses his son.”

  Finn rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re making this sound a lot simpler than it is.”

  Marla smirked. “Life’s simple, Finn. You just like making it complicated.”

  He chuckled despite himself. “You might have a point there.”

  The sounds of The Velvet Ladle surrounded them—the warmth, the laughter, the clinking of glasses. This was his home now.

  But for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if it was the only home he had left.

  The thought of returning to Pendrin gnawed at Finn throughout the night. The Velvet Ladle continued to buzz with warmth and laughter, but his mind was elsewhere—sifting through the memories he had tried so hard to bury.

  By the time the last of the patrons had stumbled out and Bix had retired upstairs, Finn remained at the bar, nursing the last dregs of his drink. Grog and Marla sat across from him, the candlelight flickering over their faces.

  “Well?” Marla asked, propping her chin in her palm. “Are you going to do it?”

  Finn sighed, rolling his mug between his hands.

  “Go back, you mean?”

  Marla nodded. “See your dear old dad, face the past, all that sentimental nonsense.”

  Grog, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, grunted. “You left that place for a reason, Finn. Ain’t no shame in leaving things buried.”

  Finn smirked. “Not very poetic of you, Grog.”

  “I don’t do poetry,” Grog grumbled. “I do survival.”

  Marla kicked her feet up onto the chair beside her. “I think what Grog is saying is—Pendrin didn’t exactly roll out a welcome mat when you left. You’ve built a life here, Finn. A damn good one.”

  Finn exhaled through his nose. That was the truth, wasn’t it? Puddlebrook had become home, more so than any place he’d ever been.

  He had the tavern. He had Grog and Marla. He had regulars who greeted him every evening, friends who had risked their lives for him.

  Pendrin?

  That was a ghost. A place filled with regret and the echoes of a boy who had made far too many mistakes.

  Going back felt like digging up bones.

  But maybe... just maybe, there was another way.

  Finn straightened, setting his mug down. “I think I want to see him.”

  Marla blinked. “So you are going back?”

  Finn shook his head. “No.” He exhaled. “If he really wants to see me, then he can come here.”

  Grog let out a huff of approval. “Smarter choice.”

  Marla pursed her lips. “And if he says no?”

  Finn chuckled. “Then I suppose we have our answer, don’t we?”

  Marla studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. “Alright. We get the old man to Puddlebrook.”

  Finn’s lips quirked into a grin. “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  She shrugged. “Easy. We send a letter.”

  Finn let out a slow breath. A letter. A piece of parchment carrying words he hadn’t spoken in years. It felt like such a small thing, yet his hands ached at the thought of writing it.

  But there was no other way, was there? He either took the step or he let the past remain exactly where it was. Finn ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft chuckle. “A letter it is, then.”

  #

  The next morning, Finn sat alone in his room, staring down at the blank parchment before him. The quill in his hand felt heavier than it should have.

  How did you write to a man you hadn’t seen in over a decade?

  How did you sum up years of silence, regret, and anger in a few inked words?

  He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

  Then, slowly, he began to write.

  Baldor,

  It’s been a long time. I won’t waste words on excuses or explanations. I think we both know how things ended between us, and I won’t pretend that it wasn’t deserved.

  I’ve built a life for myself in a town called Puddlebrook. I own a tavern here—the Velvet Ladle. It’s not much, but it’s mine. And for once, I feel like I’ve done something worth keeping.

  If you ever wanted to see me again, I wouldn’t mind sharing a drink. No obligations, no expectations. But if you do, you’ll find me here.

  —Finn

  He stared at the words for a long moment.

  Then, before he could change his mind, he folded the parchment, sealed it, and addressed it to Pendrin.

  #

  Two days later, Finn stood at the edge of Puddlebrook, watching as a courier rode off toward Pendrin.

  The letter was on its way. There was no telling how Baldor would react. No telling if he’d even respond. But at least now, the choice wasn’t just his.

  When Finn turned back toward town, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Not fear.

  Not regret.

  Just possibility.