Finn hadn’t slept.

  Not properly, anyway. He had tried—had closed his eyes in his upstairs room, had listened to the familiar creaks of the tavern settling in the night, had let the patter of rain against the window lull him into something close to rest. But his mind wouldn’t quiet. His thoughts kept circling back to the two strangers who had walked into The Velvet Ladle last night, their careful questions, their too-casual manner. They had been here for a reason, but what gnawed at him most was the fact that he didn’t know what that reason was. Only thing he could really come to conclusion with was his bounty.

  He knew they weren’t locals. Knew they had assessed him, sized up his tavern, poked at the edges of his life like they were testing the weave of a net. But when they left, there was no attack, no threats, no sudden movement. Just a lingering feeling in his gut, that old rogue’s instinct whispering that something wasn’t adding up.

  And now, as the morning stretched into midday and the warm scent of fresh bread and simmering sauces filled the air, Finn was still waiting for the answer to why.

  He kept himself busy, kneading dough for the afternoon rush, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease only slightly as his hands worked. The tavern was quieter than usual, the rain from the night before having turned the roads into thick, muddy paths that kept most people indoors. Marla hummed to herself as she wiped down tables, and Grog was methodically sharpening a cleaver by the kitchen fire. For a brief moment, everything felt normal.

  Then the door opened.

  Finn didn’t look up right away. He felt the shift first, the sudden pause in movement from Marla, the way Grog’s sharpening slowed just slightly. That was enough to tell him whoever had just walked in wasn’t a regular.

  He finished shaping the dough, dusted the flour from his hands, and turned to face the newcomer.

  Thorne.

  The scout stood just inside the doorway, his cloak damp from the lingering drizzle outside, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on Finn. He moved with the same quiet confidence as before, stepping toward the counter as if this was just another casual visit. But Finn could read him now—the small stiffness in his shoulders, the way he carried himself just a bit tighter than before. He had news.

  Finn grabbed a rag, wiped his hands, and leaned slightly against the counter. “You look like a man with something to say.”

  Thorne smirked faintly, reaching into his cloak and withdrawing a folded slip of parchment. “I said I’d get you information,” he said, tapping the paper against the counter before setting it down. “Took a little digging, but I’ve got what you need.”

  Finn didn’t rush to open it. He let the moment stretch just a second longer before reaching for the parchment, unfolding it carefully. The names were there—the same ones Thorne had given him before—but now there were details. Confirmed skills. Routines. Possible weaknesses.

  A hunter named Reddric Stonehand, a tracker known as Jessa Quick, a knife fighter called Valtis, a spellcaster named Brevin Hollow, and a brute called Murdock the Bull.

  Finn studied the notes, letting each name settle into his mind, forming an image of the kind of people he was about to deal with. This was the group Madame Vraska had sent after him. The ones who would come for him soon enough.

  But something was missing.

  Finn frowned slightly, flicking his gaze up to Thorne. “The two men from last night. They’re not on this list.”

  Thorne exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Two men from last night?”

  A quiet pause.

  Finn set the parchment down carefully. “You’re telling me the bastards who walked into my tavern, sat there for half the night, poking around, weren’t part of Vraska’s crew?”

  Thorne nodded once. “Apparently now, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  Finn felt his jaw tighten. “So who the hell were they?”

  Thorne sighed, sliding into a seat at the counter. “Best guess? Independent bounty hunters. Saw the price on your head and figured they’d try to make a move before the real professionals got here.” He tilted his head slightly. “They were testing the waters. Trying to see if you were an easy target.”

  Finn let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wonderful.”

  It made sense. A thousand Silver Coins was a lot of money—enough to draw out anyone desperate enough to take a shot. But what bothered Finn most was the timing. If bounty hunters were already showing up, that meant the word had spread farther than he thought.

  And that meant his window for action was shrinking.

  Before he could respond, the tavern door swung open again, and a gust of cool, damp air swept through the room, carrying with it the rich, spiced scent of cinnamon and pepper.

  A familiar voice followed it.

  “By the gods, it smells good in here. Finn, tell me you’ve got something warm to go with this miserable weather!”

  Finn turned toward the entrance and felt a bit of the tension in his chest ease.

  Bixby “Bix” Muldoon, spice merchant, traveler, and occasional pain in Finn’s ass, stood in the doorway with a wide grin and a satchel nearly bursting with parcels. The halfling was drenched from the rain, but it hadn’t dampened his mood in the slightest. He stomped the mud off his boots and strode forward, beaming as he dropped his heavy bag onto the counter.

  “I swear, Finn,” Bix said, shaking water from his sleeves, “I almost drowned trying to get here. You owe me something hot for my troubles.”

  Finn smirked despite himself. “You bringing me the good stuff, or just trouble?”

  Bix placed a small, carefully wrapped package onto the counter with an exaggerated flourish. “Only the best, my friend. Fresh pepper from the eastern markets, ground cinnamon straight from the Southern Isles, and a little something extra you’ll thank me for later.”

  Finn arched a brow, unwrapping the edge of the package, letting the warm, spicy aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg rise from the parchment. It was good. Really good. Bix always came through with the best stock.

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  Marla swept past them, rolling her eyes. “Just what he needs—another excuse to make the kitchen even more complicated.”

  Bix grinned. “Complicated? Marla, my dear, you wound me. Finn’s a man of culture.”

  “Finn’s a man with too many knives and too much time on his hands.”

  Before Finn could respond, the door opened a third time.

  This time, the air that swept in was colder.

  And the tavern went quiet.

  The shift was immediate. Finn felt it in his bones, the way the warmth of the moment evaporated, the way the easy conversation snapped into silence. He knew before even looking that whoever had just walked in wasn’t here for the food.

  Slowly, carefully, Finn turned his head toward the entrance.

  And his stomach tightened.

  Two new figures stood in the doorway.

  Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to.

  The real hunters had arrived.

  The cold that followed the two figures into The Velvet Ladle wasn’t from the rain.

  It was the kind of cold that came with uninvited trouble, with the kind of people who walked into a place like they already owned it. Finn knew the type well—the ones who didn’t need to make a scene because their very presence was enough to shift the air in the room.

  He kept his posture relaxed, kept his hands loose at his sides, but his stomach was already knotting.

  The taller of the two had a thick, brutish frame, his shoulders nearly filling the doorway. His dark, weather-streaked cloak barely hid the bulk of his chest, and when he moved, Finn caught the heavy clink of steel beneath the fabric. His skin was pale, but his face was lined with scars, the kind that weren’t from battle but from deliberate, ugly work.

  The second was leaner, wiry in the way a whip was dangerous not because of its size, but because of how fast it could move. His hair was cut short, his eyes sharp and predatory, the kind of look that told Finn this was a man who liked the hunt.

  Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

  Finn let the silence stretch, let them feel the weight of the room.

  Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, reaching for the rag he had tucked into his belt, wiping his hands with the casual ease of a man who wasn’t remotely bothered by the fact that killers had just walked into his tavern.

  “Welcome to The Velvet Ladle,” he said, keeping his voice even. “You looking for a table?”

  The larger man took a slow step forward, boots thudding against the wooden floorboards, shaking off the damp from his cloak. His mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  “Looking for Finnrick Tumblepot.”

  Finn tilted his head slightly. “You found him. Now you gonna order something, or just stand there blocking the doorway?”

  Bix, still standing at the counter, let out a short, nervous laugh. “Gods, Finn, you’ve got a way with customers. Real warm welcome.”

  The wiry man’s gaze flicked toward Bix for half a second before settling back on Finn. Finn could almost see the calculation happening behind those sharp eyes—assessing, measuring, deciding whether the halfling was relevant to their business or just an obstacle to be ignored.

  Finn didn’t give them time to finish that thought.

  “You got names?” he asked, tossing the rag onto the counter and stepping forward. Not too close. Just enough to own the space between them, to show them this was still his territory.

  The larger man exhaled, slow and steady. “Murdock,” he said, tapping his own chest. He nodded toward the wiry man. “That’s Valtis.”

  Finn nodded once. “Great. Now I know what to call you while you’re wasting my time.”

  Murdock grinned at that, a wide, toothy thing that wasn’t friendly at all. “Oh, we’re not here to waste time, Tumblepot.”

  “No?” Finn arched a brow. “Then sit, eat something, and maybe I’ll let you walk out of here with all your teeth.”

  Valtis actually smirked at that. Not an offended smirk. An entertained one. And that was worse.

  Finn had dealt with men like this before. They weren’t just here for a fight—they were here for a game.

  That meant they weren’t in a rush.

  That meant this wasn’t the kill.

  That meant they were still feeling him out.

  He could work with that.

  Murdock glanced toward an open table near the fireplace, then actually sat down, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. Valtis followed, more measured, his sharp eyes never leaving Finn as he settled into the chair across from his partner.

  A slow, lazy game, then.

  Finn could play that.

  He turned slightly, nodding toward Marla. “Two of our best, on the house.”

  Marla’s brow twitched slightly, but she didn’t argue. She moved back toward the kitchen without another word, disappearing behind the curtain.

  Finn let his fingers drum against the counter, his mind moving fast. If they were here for just a job, they wouldn’t be waiting. They’d be forcing his hand. Which meant they were still assessing the risk.

  Good.

  That meant he still had a little control over how this played out.

  Bix shifted uncomfortably beside him. “Finn,” he muttered, voice low, “you’re giving out free food to the lads who want you dead now? I know you like to fatten up your customers, but this is a little excessive.”

  Finn exhaled slowly. “I like to know what kind of appetites I’m dealing with.”

  Bix grimaced. “Well, I’m hoping they choke on it.”

  Valtis heard that. Finn saw it in the way his mouth twitched, the slight shift of his fingers against the table, as if he had to physically stop himself from reaching for something sharp.

  Good.

  Finn could use that.

  Grog emerged from the kitchen a moment later, moving slow and steady, carrying two plates of Shadow-Smoked Venison Pie. He set them down in front of the two men without saying a word, his massive form casting a long shadow over the table.

  Murdock looked up at him, grinning again. “Big lad.”

  Grog didn’t blink. “Eat.”

  Murdock chuckled but didn’t argue. He picked up his fork, stabbed into the pie, and took a bite. The moment he did, Finn caught a flicker of something behind his eyes. Just for a second. A brief, fleeting moment where the man’s expression shifted.

  Finn knew why.

  He had dosed the pie.

  Not poisoned. That would have been too obvious, too easy to trace back. But the Storm Salt he had used? A little extra heat, a little extra shock to the system, just enough to make the heart beat faster, make the nerves a little more alert.

  A test.

  Murdock swallowed, exhaling through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Damn.”

  “Too much?” Finn asked innocently.

  Murdock’s grin returned, wider this time. “Not at all.”

  Valtis, however, was watching Finn closely now. Too closely. He hadn’t touched his own food yet, but his fingers were drumming against the table, slow and thoughtful.

  They were seeing each other now. Fully.

  Finn had sent a message.

  And Valtis had received it.

  Finally, the wiry man picked up his fork and took a bite. He chewed slowly, then tilted his head slightly.

  “We’ll be back,” Valtis murmured.

  Finn exhaled, tilting his head. “Looking forward to it.”

  Murdock pushed his empty plate forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before standing. “You’re an interesting one, Tumblepot.”

  Finn smirked. “You’re not the first to say so.”

  The two men left without another word.

  The moment the door shut behind them, Finn finally let his fingers unclench from the counter.

  Bix exhaled loudly. “Well. That was fun. Let’s not do that again.”

  Finn rubbed his temples. Oh, they were definitely going to do that again.

  The real question was when.

  And if Finn was going to be ready for it.