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Chapter 25

  The afternoon air in Puddlebrook was humid, a faint mist curling through the narrow streets as the town slowly went to bed. The Velvet Ladle had a regular day for the most part, but Finn could already feel a strange energy stirring in the air—a shift, subtle but unmistakable, like the tide pulling away just before a wave. He didn’t realize why until the first group of gnomes arrived.

  At first, it was just three of them, stepping hesitantly through the door, their small frames wrapped in travel-worn cloaks. Their boots were thick with dust, their cheeks rosy from the brisk air, and their eyes—wide, glimmering with curiosity—darted around the tavern like they weren’t sure whether they were about to be welcomed or turned away.

  Finn knew the feeling.

  He wiped his hands on his apron and strode toward them with an easy grin.

  “Welcome, travelers,” he greeted warmly. “You must be Alden’s friends.”

  One of them, a young gnome with wild, curly blond hair and round glasses perched at the end of his nose, perked up. “That’s right! Name’s Doten.” He gestured to the other two. “This is Pim and Loria.”

  Finn’s gaze flicked to Loria, and for a moment, he nearly forgot how to speak. She had dark auburn hair tied in a loose braid over one shoulder, with a small cluster of silver rings threaded through it. Her eyes, a sharp and playful green, met his with a quiet confidence, and she tilted her head just slightly, as if sizing him up.

  “Finnrick,” she said, testing his name on her tongue. “Alden’s told us a bit about you. You’re taller than I expected.”

  Finn smirked. “And you’re later than I expected. Hope the roads weren’t too bad.”

  Loria chuckled. “Bad enough that I’m going to need a strong drink before I think about heading back.”

  “You’re in luck,” Finn said. “We serve the best in Puddlebrook.”

  He waved them toward an open table, but before they could settle in, the door swung open again, letting in even more gnomes—five, then seven, then more, each stepping cautiously over the threshold before their eyes went wide with wonder at the sight of the tavern. They spoke in quiet, excited murmurs, their accents lilting and familiar to Finn’s ears, the same rolling syllables of the homeland he had long since left behind.

  His heart swelled.

  But even as the tavern filled with the newcomers, Finn caught the shift in the regulars.

  The usual patrons of The Velvet Ladle—tall, broad-shouldered humans, a few stout dwarves—were watching. Some stiffened in their seats. Some whispered behind their mugs. Others simply frowned, finishing their meals quicker than usual.

  Finn had seen this before.

  Puddlebrook was a friendly town, but like many places, it wasn’t particularly used to gnomes in large numbers. One or two? Sure. A whole tavern full? That was different.

  It didn’t take long before the first few regulars stood up, tossing coins on the table and muttering their farewells. One by one, they filed out, until the entire tavern belonged to the gnomes.

  For a moment, Finn wasn’t sure how to feel.

  Then he heard laughter.

  It started as a chuckle, then a full, unrestrained burst of amusement from a gnome by the bar. Another picked up the energy, and soon the whole room was alive with joy—the kind of joy Finn had only ever seen among his own kind.

  And just like that, the tension in his chest dissolved.

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Guess it’s a gnome’s night, then.”

  At that moment, the door swung open once more, and Alden stepped in, followed closely by Baldor.

  The old man gave the room a once-over, taking in the sea of gnome faces, and let out a low chuckle. “Hells, Finn. I knew you were bringing in customers, but I didn’t realize you were opening a whole new market.”

  Finn grinned. “I aim to impress.”

  Alden slid into a seat beside Doten and clapped a hand on the young gnome’s shoulder. “Told you he was the real deal, didn’t I?”

  Doten nodded eagerly. “You weren’t lying! This place feels… like home.”

  The words hit Finn harder than he expected. Because for the first time in a long time, he realized he felt the same way.

  He cleared his throat, shaking the warmth from his chest before it could settle in too deeply. “Well, if this is home, then it’s about time we make it feel like one. Grog!”

  From behind the bar, the half-orc perked up.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  Finn leaned against the counter with a grin. “We’re going to need drinks.”

  Grog’s lips curled into a toothy smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He reached for the top shelf, pulling down bottles of Puddlebrook’s finest mead, followed by casks of dark stout and fragrant berry wines. Finn wasted no time setting the first round on the tables, where eager hands reached for mugs and goblets, the room already warming with the promise of a proper feast.

  As Finn passed a mug to Loria, their fingers brushed—just for a second.

  She smirked. “Careful, Finnrick. Keep giving me special treatment, and people will talk.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what will they say?”

  Loria sipped her drink slowly, her gaze never leaving his. “That you’ve got good taste.”

  He didn’t have a response for that.

  Mostly because his heart was suddenly beating a little too fast.

  But before he could dwell on it, the first toast of the night rang out, followed by cheers, and just like that, the Velvet Ladle came alive.

  Gnomes clapped each other on the back, swapping stories of home. Someone had pulled out a small wooden flute, playing a lively tune that got boots tapping against the wooden floor. More drinks were poured.

  The Velvet Ladle hummed with energy, a pulse of lively conversation and boisterous laughter filling the air. Gnome voices, so often drowned out in larger cities, now dominated the space, weaving in and out of the music, the clinking of mugs, and the low murmur of Baldor and Alden’s conversation at the corner table.

  Finn stood at the bar, watching the scene unfold with a quiet smile.

  He had never seen the tavern so alive.

  The gnomes had made themselves at home, pushing tables together to form one long communal gathering, as if it were a feast hall back in their homeland. Some sat atop barrels, others stood on chairs, gesturing animatedly as they swapped tales of adventure, mishap, and mischief.

  A handful had gathered around Grog at the bar, watching in wide-eyed amusement as the massive half-orc poured drinks with perfect precision, his hands moving shockingly deftly for someone of his size.

  One gnome, a wiry fellow with a shock of white hair, leaned in toward Grog, peering into the deep tankard of stout he had just been handed.

  “Do you drink this often?” he asked, looking up at Grog with curious skepticism.

  Grog let out a low chuckle. “Aye.”

  The gnome nodded, steeling himself before tilting the tankard back.

  He nearly choked.

  Finn had to stifle a laugh as the poor man’s eyes went wide, his entire body shuddering as he swallowed the heavy, bitter brew. His companions roared with laughter, clapping him on the back as he coughed into his sleeve.

  Grog, for his part, merely smirked. “You get used to it.”

  The music shifted, the flute player from earlier now joined by a second musician, a gnome woman with a small wooden drum. She tapped out a steady, upbeat rhythm, and soon, a few of the braver gnomes took to the open space near the fire, moving in a quick-footed dance, spinning and stomping in perfect sync.

  It had been years since Finn had seen a true gnomish revel. Years since he had heard the rhythms of home. Something inside him stirred. Before he could dwell on it, a new voice cut through the noise.

  “You’re not joining in?”

  Finn turned his head, finding Loria standing beside him.

  Her cheeks were flushed—whether from the warmth of the room or the drink, he wasn’t sure. She had shed her traveling cloak, revealing a simple linen blouse tucked into leather trousers, a few silver bangles glinting around her wrist.

  She tilted her head, watching him expectantly.

  “I don’t dance,” Finn said, smirking as he sipped his drink.

  Loria arched an eyebrow. “A gnome who doesn’t dance? That’s a crime against our kind.”

  “I never said I couldn’t dance,” he countered. “Just that I don’t.”

  She grinned. “Not even after a few drinks?”

  Finn let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Not even then.”

  Loria hummed thoughtfully, her eyes flicking toward the musicians. “Pity. You seem like someone who could use a little fun.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He snorted. “This isn’t fun?”

  Loria lifted her mug. “It’s a good start.”

  They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, watching the celebration unfold.

  Then, quietly, she asked, “So, what made you stay?”

  Finn glanced at her. “Stay?”

  “In Puddlebrook,” she said. “We’re told you could’ve gone anywhere, but you stayed here. Why?”

  Finn hesitated.

  He could have given her a dozen answers—the business, the safety, the chance to build something of his own—but none of them felt entirely true.

  Instead, he simply said, “It felt right.”

  Loria studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she smiled.

  “That’s a good reason,” she said softly.

  Finn didn’t know why, but her approval meant something.

  Before he could think too much about it, the gnome with the flute called out.

  “A toast!”

  Mugs lifted into the air.

  “To Finnrick Tumblepot, a gnome who built a home in a world too big for us!”

  A chorus of cheers erupted, and Finn felt his ears burn as every gnome in the room drank to him.

  Loria smirked. “Like I said, good taste.”

  Finn laughed, shaking his head. “I think they just like the drinks.”

  The celebration raged on, the air thick with warmth, the clinking of mugs, and the rhythmic stomp of boots on the wooden floor. Laughter echoed off the walls of The Velvet Ladle as the gnomes reveled in what was likely the most carefree night many of them had ever experienced outside of their homeland.

  Finn couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such ease.

  His father, Baldor, sat at the bar beside Alden, the two of them watching the gnomes with amused expressions. Despite his usually gruff demeanor, Finn noticed Baldor looked more relaxed than he had all night, a half-finished mug of ale in his hand.

  "Been a long time since I’ve seen this many of our kind in one place," Baldor mused, his voice carrying just enough volume for Finn to hear over the din.

  Alden chuckled, wiping foam from his mustache. "Aye, and they drink like they’re making up for lost time."

  Finn smirked, watching as a trio of gnomes tried to convince Grog to join their dance, only to be met with a grumbling refusal. One particularly bold gnome had climbed onto the bar to slap the half-orc’s shoulder in encouragement, only to nearly topple off in the process. Grog, without so much as looking up, caught the poor fellow by the collar and set him back down like a wayward kitten.

  Finn turned back to his father. "So, you still bored of Pendrin’s food?"

  Baldor huffed, rubbing his beard. "That depends—have you decided what’s on the menu for me yet?"

  Finn crossed his arms, feigning deep thought. "I’m thinking something special. The kind of meal that makes a man question everything he’s ever eaten before."

  Baldor raised a brow. "That so?"

  Finn grinned. "That so."

  His father chuckled, shaking his head as he lifted his mug again. "Well, you’ve got one hell of a night to follow up, lad. This lot already thinks you’re a king."

  Finn shrugged. "I’d settle for being their cook."

  Before Baldor could respond, the tavern door creaked open.

  Finn barely noticed at first, too caught up in the noise of the celebration. But when the warmth of the room met with the cold air from outside, a hush rippled through the gnomes nearest the entrance.

  Finn’s stomach twisted.

  Someone was standing in the doorway, soaked through, her cloak heavy with water and her boots leaving dark prints on the wooden floor. She was breathing heavily.

  Silk Renna.

  Finn barely had time to register her face before she took another step forward, allowing the light of the tavern to illuminate her bloodstained clothes.

  A collective gasp rippled through the gnomes nearest to her. Some scrambled back, pushing their chairs away from the long communal tables, at least they were long to them. Others stiffened, instinctively reaching for blades they may or may not have had.

  Finn, however, didn’t move.

  He met Silk’s wild eyes with a stare of his own, his grip tightening at his sides.

  “You,” she spat, her voice hoarse.

  A single drop of blood fell from her sleeve, landing with an audible patter on the tavern floor.

  Finn tilted his head. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  Silk’s hands twitched at her sides.

  “You ruined my life.”

  Finn sighed. "You did that yourself."

  A flash of rage crossed her face, her teeth bared like a feral animal. "Vraska had everything lined up. She had power, wealth, and I—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "I had a place in it."

  Finn didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t need to.

  Silk took a shaky step forward.

  "You took it away from me."

  Finn could see it now. The exhaustion in her limbs, the slight shake in her stance. She had been running. Whether from the law, from enemies of Vraska, or just from herself, Finn wasn’t sure. But she was desperate.

  Desperate people did stupid things. Her hands moved. Steel glinted in the firelight as she drew two curved blades from her belt.

  The gnomes at the tables scrambled back in alarm. A few shouted warnings, others moved toward the back, eyes darting toward Finn, toward the exit, toward anything that could save them.

  Finn, however, stood his ground. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His heart beat steady.

  Silk charged. And then—Baldor moved.

  Before Silk even realized what was happening, Finn’s father had stepped in from the side, his hands moving faster than a man of his age should have been capable of.

  The glint of steel met the dull shine of something else. The meat knife. Finn hadn’t even seen him grab it.

  Silk staggered, her body jerking mid-step. A gurgling noise caught in her throat. She fell to her knees. Her blades clattered to the floor.

  One hand clutched at her throat, her fingers trembling around the hilt of the knife that Baldor had plunged into the soft flesh beneath her jaw.

  Her eyes, still filled with rage, locked onto Finn one last time. Then, she collapsed.

  The room was silent.

  A long, heavy silence, broken only by the sound of Silk’s shallow, failing breaths. Then, finally—nothing. For a moment, no one moved.

  And then, as if a spell had been broken, the gnomes erupted. A cheer tore through the room, a sound of relief, triumph, and sheer celebration all at once.

  Grog was already moving, his massive frame looming over Silk’s lifeless body, his eyes flicking toward Finn for direction. Finn barely heard him. His hands were shaking.

  Not with fear.

  Not with shock.

  But with something else entirely. He turned his head slowly to face his father. Baldor was staring down at Silk’s body, his expression unreadable. His fingers flexed just slightly, still slick with blood.

  Finn took a breath.

  Then, quietly, he stepped forward.

  He placed both hands on his father’s shoulders, gripping them firmly. And then, in a voice just loud enough for Baldor to hear. "I owe you, Father. Thank you. I love you."

  Baldor’s shoulders tensed. Then, after a long moment—he exhaled. His arms lifted, returning the gesture.

  The cheers of the gnomes still echoed through The Velvet Ladle, the warmth of relief washing over the room like a wave. Silk Renna lay motionless on the floor, a stark reminder of the life Finn had once lived—one he had finally left behind.

  Grog worked wordlessly, scooping up Silk’s body with an ease that suggested he’d disposed of corpses before. He moved toward the back, where she would be dealt with far from the eyes of the tavern’s patrons. No one protested.

  The celebration, though briefly interrupted, resumed. Ale splashed into mugs, laughter returned in bursts, and the gnomes—bless them—chose to focus not on what had nearly happened, but on what had been prevented.

  Finn, however, stood still.

  His hands remained firm on his father’s shoulders, as if grounding himself in the moment. Baldor Tumblepot, the man who had left him behind, had saved his life.

  Their eyes met.

  Baldor exhaled sharply, his posture relaxing just slightly beneath Finn’s grip. "That was a close one, lad."

  Finn scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah. You could say that."

  A beat of silence. Then Baldor’s lips quirked in a dry smile. "Didn’t think I’d have it in me."

  Finn let out a breath of laughter, his shoulders finally loosening. "Neither did I."

  Alden, who had remained silent throughout the ordeal, stepped forward, his mustache twitching as he peered at the bloody knife still clutched in Baldor’s hand. "You planning on keeping that, Baldor? Or do you want me to find a way to polish it up and make it a family heirloom?"

  Baldor let out a deep chuckle, finally tossing the knife onto the bar with a wet clatter. "Don’t be ridiculous, Alden. Finn’s already got a better legacy than I ever did."

  Alden arched a brow. "That so?"

  Finn, caught off guard, blinked. He looked at his father.

  "You mean that?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.

  Baldor nodded. "I do." He gestured around the tavern, at the gnomes laughing and drinking and sharing stories as if this were their home. "You’ve built something here, Finnrick. Something real. Something to be proud of."

  For a moment, Finn didn’t know what to say.

  Then, he smiled.

  "Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I’d still like to cook you that meal I promised."

  Baldor’s grin widened. "I was hoping you’d say that."

  With a deep breath, Finn turned toward the kitchen, finally allowing himself to embrace the joy of the evening.

  The feast carried on long into the night.

  Finn worked tirelessly in the kitchen, preparing a dish for his father that would set the bar so high, Baldor would never be able to look at the food in Pendrin the same way again, Loria watched—infatuated.

  He plated a seared venison steak, glazed in a reduction of wine and wild honey. A side of roasted root vegetables, caramelized to perfection. A small dish of creamy mushroom stew, made with herbs Finn had foraged himself. And, finally, a fresh loaf of bread, warm and golden, perfect for soaking up every last drop of flavor.

  When he set the plate in front of Baldor, the older gnome stared at it for a long moment.

  Then, he picked up his fork.

  The first bite was met with silence. Then a second. Then a third.

  Finn waited.

  Finally, Baldor set his utensils down, swallowed, and looked his son in the eye.

  "This," he said, voice gruff, "is the best damned meal I’ve ever had."

  Finn laughed, genuine and bright. "Told you."

  Baldor’s smile softened. "You did. And for once, I’m glad you were right."

  The night passed in a blur of joy. The gnomes continued swapping stories, singing songs of home, and Finn—for the first time in years—felt truly at home.

  Not because of the tavern.

  Not because of the town.

  But because, for the first time, he was surrounded by people who understood him. People who chose to stay. The Velvet Ladle was quiet in the early hours of dawn.

  Most of the gnomes had either retired to their inns or were passed out at their tables, snoring lightly beneath the warm glow of the hearth. The night had been long, the revelry had been excessive, but Finn didn’t regret a moment of it.

  He sat with his father at the bar, a comfortable silence between them.

  "Still leaving in a few days?" Finn asked.

  Baldor sighed, staring at his empty mug. "Yeah. Pendrin’s still home." He glanced at Finn. "But, maybe I’ll visit more often."

  Finn raised a brow. "You saying that for my sake or yours?"

  Baldor smirked. "Both."

  Finn nodded, accepting that answer.

  After a pause, Baldor turned to him fully. "You ever think about visiting? Seeing where you came from?"

  Finn leaned back, thoughtful.

  "Maybe," he admitted. "Someday."

  Baldor gave a slow nod, as if satisfied with that.

  Then, after a moment, he reached into his coat.

  "Before I go," he said, pulling out a small, metal object, "I want you to have this."

  Finn took it, studying the piece carefully.

  It was a simple gear, old and slightly rusted, but sturdy.

  Finn looked up at his father. "What is it?"

  Baldor smiled. "The first piece of metal I ever shaped as an apprentice. Kept it all these years."

  Finn’s breath hitched.

  "You sure you want me to have it?"

  Baldor nodded. "You’re my son, Finnrick. It belongs with you."

  Finn swallowed, gripping the gear tightly.

  "Thank you," he said, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name.

  Baldor just patted his shoulder.

  "Take care of yourself, lad."

  And for the first time in years, Finn believed he truly would.

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