The Velvet Ladle hummed with life, the familiar clatter of tankards and the low hum of conversation filling the air. Finn moved behind the bar with practiced ease, pouring a frothy pint for an old farmer and setting down a bowl of steaming stew for a weary traveler who had just rolled into town.

  It had been two weeks since he’d sent the letter.

  Two weeks of waiting, of wondering whether Baldor would even read it, let alone respond.

  But the world didn’t stop turning just because he was caught in the grip of uncertainty. The Velvet Ladle had its own rhythm, and Finn had long since learned that keeping his hands busy was the best way to keep his mind from wandering too far.

  “Oi, Finn!” Grog’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “We’re running low on mutton stew. You want me to start another pot, or should we switch to chicken?”

  “Start another pot,” Finn called back, flipping a mug right-side up and filling it with a dark ale. “Mutton’s been our best seller all week.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause you put too much damn ale in it.” Grog’s deep chuckle echoed through the back room.

  Finn smirked, setting the mug in front of a merchant who had just finished his meal. “Ale makes everything better.”

  The merchant grinned, raising his drink in agreement. “You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

  Across the tavern, Marla weaved between tables, balancing a tray loaded with empty plates. She stopped by a group of farmers, exchanging easy laughter as she cleared their table, then made her way back to the bar.

  She set the tray down with a sigh. “Busy as ever,” she said, wiping her brow. “I swear, we should start charging people just for walking in the door.”

  Finn chuckled. “Not a bad idea. We could call it the ‘Marla’s Tired of Working’ tax.”

  She shot him a look but couldn’t suppress her grin. “You joke, but I’d bet people would actually pay it.”

  Before Finn could respond, something caught his eye.

  At a table near the fireplace, an older man sat alone, his meal mostly finished, a newspaper unfolded in front of him.

  Finn didn’t normally pay much attention to what people read—news rarely brought anything but trouble—but something about this particular paper made him pause.

  It wasn’t the front page that caught his attention. It was the back.

  A bold title stood out in thick, black lettering:

  "Vraska the Black Market Leader Arrested"

  Finn’s heart stilled.

  He wiped his hands on a nearby rag and moved toward the man’s table.

  “Pardon me,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Mind if I take a look at that for a moment?”

  The man, a grizzled traveler with a bushy mustache, glanced up at him. “Laudendale, capital of convicted scumbags, am I right?”

  “You could say that,” Finn muttered.

  The man gave an understanding nod and slid the newspaper across the table. “Take your time.”

  Finn picked it up, eyes scanning the text as a cold weight settled in his stomach.

  Public Execution at Sundown

  Madame Vraska, long suspected of running the largest underground criminal operation in the region, was sentenced to death today following a lengthy list of convictions.

  The charges include: illegal handling of drugs, conspiracy, murder, hiring for murder, falsifying identification, trafficking, and more.

  Authorities were tipped off to her whereabouts by an anonymous source, leading to her capture deep within an abandoned den outside of Laudendale. She was found weak and disoriented but still attempted to resist arrest.

  She will be executed publicly in the town square of Laudendale at sundown today.

  Finn let out a slow breath.

  It was over.

  The woman who had made his life hell, who had threatened everything he had built, was finally being put to an end.

  A part of him had expected to feel relieved.

  Instead, all he felt was a strange, hollow emptiness.

  “Bad news?” the traveler asked, nodding toward the paper.

  Finn exhaled and set it down. “No. Just... old ghosts finally being put to rest.”

  The man gave him a knowing look. “Funny thing about ghosts,” he said, taking a sip of his ale. “Even when they’re gone, they’ve still got a way of sticking to you.”

  Finn forced a smile. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He slid the newspaper back to the man and made his way back to the bar, his mind whirling.

  Vraska was going to die today.

  By nightfall, one of the most powerful figures in the underworld would be nothing more than a grim memory.

  Finn wasn’t sure what that meant for him yet, but one thing was certain—it was finally over.

  Or at least, it should have been.

  The Velvet Ladle carried on as it always did.

  The hours passed. Drinks flowed, meals were served, and laughter echoed through the tavern.

  By the time the sun had set, Finn had almost convinced himself to stop thinking about Vraska.

  Almost.

  But just as he was wiping down the bar, the door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside.

  The town courier.

  A young man, no older than twenty, dressed in a simple brown tunic with a satchel slung over his shoulder. He scanned the room, then locked eyes with Finn.

  “Got something for you,” the courier said, fishing into his bag.

  Finn’s stomach twisted.

  He wiped his hands on a rag, forcing himself to move casually as the courier pulled out a folded piece of parchment, sealed with a wax stamp.

  Finn took it. “Who’s it from?”

  The courier smirked. “Didn’t open it myself, but the name on the back says ‘Baldor Tumblepot.’”

  Everything inside Finn stilled.

  The letter.

  His father’s response.

  After weeks of waiting, wondering—here it was.

  Finn swallowed, nodding to the courier. “Appreciate it.”

  The young man gave a polite nod and disappeared back out the door.

  For a long moment, Finn simply stared at the letter.

  Marla and Grog had noticed the exchange from across the room. Marla raised an eyebrow, silently questioning.

  Finn took a breath, then carefully broke the wax seal.

  The parchment inside was simple. A single, short message written in neat, precise handwriting.

  I will be there in a month.

  —Baldor Tumblepot

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  Finn exhaled, running a hand down his face.

  One month.

  His father was coming.

  No long explanations. No unnecessary words. Just a statement of fact.

  Finn wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or terrified.

  He looked up and saw Marla and Grog watching him expectantly.

  “Well?” Marla asked. “What’s it say?”

  Finn let out a slow breath.

  “He’s coming.”

  A slow grin spread across Marla’s face. “That’s good, right?”

  Finn hesitated.

  Then, finally, he nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

  #

  For the first time in what felt like ages, Finn was starting to believe he could breathe again.

  The Velvet Ladle thrived. The weight of Vraska’s looming shadow had vanished, and every day since the letter from his father arrived had felt just a little lighter.

  It was almost enough to make him think things were finally normal. Almost.

  Because just as the sun reached its highest point in the sky that afternoon, Finn was rummaging through his storage cellar, looking for a fresh keg of cider—when he saw it.

  The crates.

  The ones Vraska had stashed down here.

  A horrible, sinking feeling gripped his chest.

  He had completely forgotten about them.

  With everything that had happened—Silk, the ledger, the chase, Vraska’s arrest—it had slipped his mind entirely that his tavern’s basement was still filled with illegal goods.

  Finn’s hands tightened into fists.

  If the city guards ever came knocking and found this?

  They wouldn’t hesitate to throw him in chains.

  Cursing under his breath, Finn grabbed the nearest wooden crate and pried it open. The sight inside only made his stomach twist further.

  Pouches of rare and highly illegal powders. Bottles of mysterious liquids wrapped in cloth. A pile of carefully forged documents—passports, merchant licenses, things meant to give criminals new identities.

  Even just having this here was enough to ruin him. Finn ran a hand through his hair, thinking quickly. He needed to get rid of this. And he needed to do it quietly.

  There were only two people he trusted for a job like this. Orla and Kellen.

  Finn wasted no time.

  The moment he closed up the tavern for the afternoon break, he made his way through the winding streets of Puddlebrook, heading straight for Orla’s new shop. He had heard about it from a customer and took a mental note to stop by sometime. Now is better than ever.

  The apothecary was quiet when he stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs and brewed tonics. Shelves lined the walls, each stocked with bottles filled with powders, tinctures, and remedies that could heal or kill depending on the dose.

  Behind the counter, Orla was counting coins.

  She glanced up, raising an eyebrow when she saw Finn.

  “Twice in one month?” she said, smirking. “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” Finn muttered, closing the door behind him. “I’ve got a problem.”

  Orla sighed, setting her coins aside. “What kind of problem?”

  “The kind that needs to disappear.”

  Her smirk faded.

  Finn leaned against the counter and lowered his voice. “Vraska left things in my basement before everything went to hell. I meant to clear it out weeks ago, but…” He exhaled sharply. “I forgot. It’s still there. And if the wrong person finds it—”

  “You’re finished,” Orla finished for him.

  Finn nodded grimly.

  For a long moment, Orla was silent, her sharp green eyes calculating.

  Then she simply sighed. “How much?”

  “A dozen crates, maybe more.”

  She let out a low whistle. “And what’s inside?”

  Finn hesitated before answering. “Forged papers. Illegal drugs. Some other contraband I didn’t bother sifting through.”

  Orla clicked her tongue. “That’s not just ‘trouble,’ Finn. That’s a hanging offense.”

  “I know.”

  She tapped her fingers against the counter, thinking. “I’ll need Kellen.”

  Finn expected that. “Where is he?”

  Orla snorted. “Where he always is.”

  Which meant the docks.

  Without another word, she grabbed her satchel, slung it over her shoulder, and led the way out.

  They found Kellen right where Orla predicted—at the docks, standing near a fishing boat, gambling with a handful of dock workers.

  The burly, tattooed smuggler was in the middle of rolling dice when Finn and Orla approached. He barely had time to collect his winnings before Orla plucked a coin pouch off his belt and gave him a hard slap on the shoulder.

  “We’ve got a job,” she said flatly.

  Kellen glanced at Finn, then back to Orla. “What kind of job?”

  “The kind that pays well and needs no questions asked,” Finn answered.

  Kellen grinned. “My favorite kind.”

  That night, Finn led Orla and Kellen into the basement.

  Even in the dim lantern light, the crates looked ominous.

  Kellen let out a low whistle. “That’s a whole lot of ‘not my problem,’” he said, crouching to pry one open. When he saw the contents, he let out a sharp laugh. “You really were running with the worst kind of crowd, huh?”

  “I don’t need commentary,” Finn muttered.

  Kellen grinned and patted a crate. “Relax. This’ll be gone by morning.”

  And true to his word, they worked swiftly.

  They cracked open the crates, assessed what was inside, and divided everything into three categories:

  Anything useful that could be resold quietly (Kellen would handle that).

  Anything too dangerous to be left intact (Orla would see to that).

  Anything that needed to be burned (Finn would take care of it personally).

  By the time the sun was about to rise, the basement was empty.

  Not a single trace of Vraska’s empire remained. With the basement finally cleaned out, Finn realized there was one last problem. The locks.

  Vraska and Silk’s people had accessed this place too easily. And if one of them had left a key behind somewhere…

  No. Finn wasn’t taking any chances.

  So the next day, he hired Bix.

  Bix arrived in the afternoon, carrying a set of new iron locks and a bag of tools.

  “You’re replacing all of ‘em, then?” Bix asked as he set his bag down.

  “All of them,” Finn confirmed. “Front, back, and the basement.”

  Bix scratched his chin. “You expecting trouble?”

  Finn exhaled. “I’d rather not find out. But I got to get to work, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Bix nodded in understanding and got to work.

  It took several hours, but by the time the evening crowd started filtering into the Velvet Ladle, every single lock in the building was new.

  Finn tested the basement door himself, locking and unlocking it twice to be sure. For the first time since Vraska entered his life, he felt like he had full control of his tavern again. By the time Bix packed up his tools, Finn handed him a pouch of extra silver.

  Bix frowned. “This is twice what I charged you.”

  “Call it peace of mind,” Finn said.

  Bix shrugged, tucking the gold into his coat. “Fair enough.”

  With that, he gave Finn a nod and disappeared into the night. Finn stood in the doorway, watching the lantern-lit streets of Puddlebrook, listening to the faint sound of the bustling tavern behind him. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and finally—finally—felt like he could let go of the past.

  Finn stared at the letter for a long time that night, the words looping in his head like a song he couldn’t forget.

  "I will be there in a month."

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stir something deep in his gut.

  Memories. Regret. A strange, simmering excitement.

  He let out a slow breath and tucked the letter away. He had spent years running from his past. Maybe it was time to face it. And what better way to do that than with a plate of food?

  The idea hit him all at once. A dish to mark the occasion. A testament to his past—everything shady, everything fishy that had once haunted him—now cooked, seasoned, and served on a damn fine plate.

  Finn grinned to himself as he grabbed a scrap of parchment and started scribbling down ideas. By the time dawn arrived, he had it all planned out.

  The Velvet Ladle’s newest specialty: Finn’s Haddock Filet.

  The haddock itself? Freshly caught from the ocean, flayed and cleaned before being coated in a batter made from dark ale, crushed black pepper, and a pinch of smoked paprika.

  He wanted it crispy but light, with just the right kick of heat to keep people coming back for another bite.

  The sides?

  A golden root mash—potatoes blended with caramelized onions, butter, and just a splash of honey to balance it out. And then—his favorite part.

  A drizzle of citrus-herb butter, melting over the top of the filet, pooling into the crispy nooks and crannies of the batter. It smelled heavenly as he plated it up for the first time.

  Perfect.

  When Grog stumbled into the tavern that morning, still groggy and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Finn was waiting.

  The massive orc barely made it two steps inside before Finn thrust the plate in front of him.

  Grog blinked. “What’s this?”

  Finn folded his arms, grinning. “Breakfast.”

  Grog stared down at the haddock, then back at Finn. “You expect me to eat fish first thing in the mornin’?”

  “I expect you to love it.”

  With a grunt, Grog grabbed a fork and tore off a chunk of golden-crusted filet. He shoved it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  Then his eyes widened.

  “Oh, that’s good,” he muttered, taking another bite. “Real good.”

  Finn smirked. “Knew it.”

  Marla emerged from the kitchen next, apron already dusted in flour. “What’s all this fuss about?”

  Finn slid another plate across the counter toward her. “New menu item. You tell me.”

  Marla raised an eyebrow, but after the first bite, her skeptical look melted into something far more pleased.

  She swallowed. “I don’t say this often, Finn—but you might’ve outdone yourself.”

  Finn grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  By midday, word had already started to spread.

  A few regulars came sniffing around, curious about the “new dish” the tavern owner was pushing. Finn was more than happy to show off.

  He served up plate after plate of haddock filet, watching as people took their first bite—then their second—then immediately ordered another round.

  The tavern buzzed with praise.

  “The batter’s got a bit of a kick—what’s in it?”

  “Best fish I’ve had in years!”

  “Finn, you’re a damn genius, I tell ya!”

  He stood behind the counter, arms crossed, watching his friends and neighbors dig into something that was more than just a dish to him.

  It was a statement. A reminder. That his past didn’t define him. He could take everything he’d done, everything he’d been—and turn it into something worth savoring.

  Finn lifted a tankard, letting the moment settle in his bones.

  This?

  This was exactly where he was meant to be.