Dark Whisperer

Daithi Breslin was a man built for labour, with broad shoulders and a sturdy, stocky frame that spoke of years spent lifting crates, hauling supplies, and managing the daily flow of goods in and out of Halrest’s largest storehouse. He might not have been the tallest, but there was a weight to his presence, a sense of solidity that made people feel secure in his company. Yet, tonight, as the early evening light slanted through the cracks in the shutters, that solidity seemed to waver.

He sat hunched over his desk, the flickering light from the oil lamp casting shadows across his parchment. The ink was smeared on his fingertips, a testament to the hours he’d spent scribbling numbers, recalculating figures, and making desperate adjustments. He muttered to himself, barely audible, as if speaking the words aloud might ease the burden that pressed against his chest.

His hair, a practical brown kept short to avoid distractions, was slightly tousled, and his usually neat beard looked unkempt from where he had run his hands through it countless times. The storehouse around him was quiet, but the silence felt heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of paper as he flipped through a ledger with hands that trembled slightly. Supplies were running thin, and no matter how many times he rearranged the figures, the results were always the same. Not enough.

He rubbed his temples, trying to push back the dull ache forming behind his eyes. For weeks, he had assured the townspeople that everything was under control, but how much longer could he keep up the charade? His quill hovered over a blank line on the parchment, then slowly tapped against the desk, a rhythmic beat that betrayed his agitation.

Maybe if the last shipment from the eastern traders had been larger… he thought, or if they hadn’t had to divert half the resources due to those damned bandits. His mind drifted back to the failed agreements, to the promises that had been broken and the resources that had slipped through his fingers. He had pushed for those trade routes, convinced the council they were a risk worth taking, a step toward growth and prosperity. Now, those plans felt like a noose tightening around his neck.

Daithi could already imagine the backlash at the next council meeting. Orla would be terse and unforgiving, eyes sharp as she questioned where the funds had gone. She had been hesitant from the start, reluctant to invest the town's coffers in ventures that strayed too far from what had worked for decades. And Leora… she’d probably make light of it, her usual dry humour masking genuine concern. Something about missing horses, perhaps, a playful jab at the grand promises he’d made. But Daithi knew she, too, would be watching him closely, waiting to see how he’d respond. They all would be.

He thought of the looks on the townsfolk’s faces—wary, uncertain, and growing more desperate with each passing day. He had seen it in their eyes, a quiet but growing fear that was beginning to spread like a sickness. The shipments had been a lifeline, a way to bring new resources into Halrest, to build connections beyond the town’s borders. Now, they were just another reminder of his failings.

Daithi’s hand moved to a map spread out across the desk, his fingers tracing the marked routes of traders that once flowed in and out of Halrest. Now, those lines seemed more like broken veins, cut off and bleeding out, and he found himself staring at the empty spaces, wondering how everything had unravelled so quickly. There were other plans tucked away beneath the piles of ledgers—ideas for expanding the harbour, opening new lines of trade to the north, maybe even attracting a new kind of commerce to the town. But those were just lost dreams now, buried under the weight of more immediate problems.

I’m supposed to keep this town running, he reminded himself, gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. I’m supposed to know what to do. But there was no easy solution, no straightforward answer that would set everything right. The lake was different, the council was divided, and the people were starting to look at him with the same cautious suspicion they once reserved for strangers.

Friendly and approachable, Daithi was known for his big heart and tireless work ethic. He had an open, easy manner that made people feel comfortable, and it wasn’t unusual to see him stopping to chat with townsfolk as he made his rounds, asking after their families or offering a few kind words. But beneath the smiles, he was a man of resolve, driven by a vision of Halrest’s future. He wanted to see the town grow and prosper, to become a bustling city that could thrive on its own terms, without relying on old traditions or the gods that others still clung to. He had big ideas—plans that could pull Halrest out of its current troubles and set it on a new path. If only he could find a way to keep things afloat long enough to make those plans a reality.

Tonight, however, there was no one to reassure but himself. He pushed the ledger aside, reaching for another, his eyes scanning the numbers. If things continue like this, we won’t make it through the next month. The thought gnawed at him, and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. He could almost hear the accusations now—the council’s cold, questioning tones, the subtle hints that he wasn’t doing enough.

For a moment, his gaze flickered to the window, where a sliver of evening light crept through the cracks in the shutters. Outside, the town continued its steady, cyclical rhythm, unaware of the chaos churning beneath its surface. He envied them—the simple, blissful ignorance of not knowing how close they were to the edge.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, tapping his quill against the desk once more. If I fail… if we don’t find a solution… He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. The consequences loomed like shadows at the edge of his mind, dark and unyielding, but he refused to let them take root. He had to believe there was a way, even if it meant pulling a miracle out of thin air.

The storehouse was his domain, a place of order amid the town's growing chaos. But as he glanced around at the shelves, which should have been filled to the brim, he felt a pang of fear. There were too many gaps, too many empty spaces. The council meeting is soon, he thought, a faint, desperate hope stirring within him. Maybe we can come up with something, maybe… But even as he tried to cling to the possibility, a part of him knew the odds were slim. They were all scrambling for answers, and none of them had any to offer.

A soft knock on the door interrupted Daithi’s thoughts, and he looked up to see Finnian stepping inside. The tavern owner's easy smile lit up the dim room, contrasting sharply with Daithi's anxious demeanour. Finnian moved with a kind of effortless grace, his confidence almost palpable, as if the weight of the town’s troubles hadn’t touched him at all.

“Ah Finnian, it’s good to see you,” Daithi said, trying to mask his worries behind a practiced grin.

“Not too busy for your favourite tavern keeper, are you?” Finnian replied, his charm as effortless as ever. He leaned casually against the doorframe, a picture of confidence. “I already know things have been tight around here,” he added, glancing at the ledgers and half-empty shelves. “I’ve heard it all—people are talking, and not just in the tavern. I thought I’d see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Daithi’s gaze lingered on Finnian’s face, noting a slight pallor beneath the usual cheer. “You look a bit pale, Finnian,” he said, his voice soft with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Ah, nothing to worry about,” Finnian replied with a wave of his hand, brushing off the comment. “Just a long day at the tavern. You know how it is—people need a drink more than ever these days.”

Daithi shifted, his gaze flicking instinctively toward the ledgers on his desk. “Just the usual shortages,” he said lightly, though his tone was strained. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

“Of course,” Finnian murmured, stepping further into the room, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “But you know I’m always happy to help keep things stocked. It’s the least I can do for an old friend.” He gestured to the shelves, as if surveying them. “Salt, dried meat… we could arrange a trade. I’ve got some barrels of ale, and a few other things set aside.”

Daithi hesitated, then shrugged, forcing a lighter tone. “Always something that needs restocking, isn’t there?” He gestured vaguely at the shelves behind him. “Can’t have the town running dry.”

Finnian chuckled, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t want to be caught unprepared, now, would we?” he teased, his eyes crinkling with humour. “Tell you what—why don’t I swing by tomorrow and we’ll go over what’s needed. You know I’ve got a few choice barrels set aside.”

“Only the best, right?” Daithi replied with a wry smile, his tension easing just a fraction. “You always did know how to keep people happy.”

Finnian winked. “What can I say? It’s a talent.”

The two shared a brief laugh, the ease of old friendship settling over them like a worn but familiar cloak. Yet, as the laughter faded, Daithi felt the familiar weight pressing back against his chest, the reality of the town’s troubles creeping back in.

Finnian, sensing the shift, leaned in slightly, his smile widening. “You know, Daithi, I’ve always admired how you carry all of this on your shoulders. But it’s a heavy load for one man,” he said, his tone casual, almost playful. “You don’t have to be the only one thinking about solutions.”

Daithi sighed, a weary smile tugging at his lips. “Someone has to. It’s not like we can afford to wait around for answers to fall into our laps.”

Finnian chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, but that’s why we have the council, isn’t it? To talk things through, find a path forward together. Remember that time we had the issue with the grain rot? Took a few long discussions and a lot of ale, but we figured it out. Sometimes it’s not about bearing the weight alone; it’s about sharing it.”

Daithi’s expression softened slightly, but he remained guarded. “That was different. We knew what was causing the problem. This… this is more complicated.”

“It’s true,” Finnian conceded, his voice gentle. “But complicated doesn’t mean unsolvable. It just means we have to be a bit cleverer about it, that’s all.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “What is it, Daithi? What’s really eating at you?”

Daithi hesitated, his gaze flicking to the ledgers on his desk. “It’s the bandits,” he admitted finally. “They’re making it harder for traders to reach us. We’ve had to divert resources, and even then, some of the shipments just… don’t arrive. I’m considering bringing up the idea of forming a militia at the next council meeting.”

Finnian’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile remained. “A militia? That’s a bold move.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “But think about it—if we start pulling people away from their fields and boats to train them to fight, what happens to the food? The fish? You’re solving one problem, but you’re creating another.”

Daithi bristled, though he knew Finnian had a point. “I’m aware of the risks, but we can’t just let the bandits keep bleeding us dry. If we don’t do something, we’ll be at their mercy.”

“I’m not saying do nothing,” Finnian replied, his tone calm, measured. “But a militia… that’s a commitment, Daithi. You’d need training, equipment, resources we’re already stretched thin on. And what if it escalates? What if they decide to hit us harder? You know as well as I do that farmers with pitchforks aren’t going to stand up against seasoned raiders.”

Daithi’s shoulders slumped. “Then what? Do we just accept it and hope they stop?”

“No,” Finnian said, his voice firm. “But we need to think strategically. Maybe we strengthen our defences, organise a guard duty and pay a few coins for it, keep things subtle. Less of a provocation, more of a deterrent.”

Daithi considered the suggestion, nodding slowly. “You might be onto something there,” he admitted. “Running a guard duty would be less disruptive than pulling people off their farms. It could show strength without provoking a full-blown conflict… but getting Orla to agree to spend the council’s coffers on guardsmen?” He gave a short, rueful laugh. “She’d rather seal them up and toss the key into the lake.”

Finnian’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and he chuckled. “Ah, Orla and her coffers. She doesn’t part with a coin easily, does she?”

“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Daithi said, a hint of a smile breaking through. “We’d have to convince her it’s a matter of security, and even then, it won’t be an easy sell.”

Finnian nodded, letting Daithi's words hang for a moment before speaking again. “Still, it’s worth thinking on. We need to be prepared, even if it means getting a bit creative with the budget.”

The moment of levity faded, and Daithi’s brow furrowed as his thoughts turned to the next obvious option. “But even if we bolster our defences, it doesn’t solve the immediate issue. If we don’t find a way to stretch what we have… rationing might be the only way to keep the town running.”

Finnian remained silent, watching Daithi intently, letting the man speak his thoughts aloud. Daithi took a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself before diving into the unpleasant topic.

“Rationing would give us more control over the supplies,” Daithi said, his voice tentative. “We could make sure there’s enough to go around, prevent any one group from hoarding… but it’s a drastic measure. It would mean telling people they can’t have more, even if they need it. And the moment we start doing that, morale will plummet. People will panic, start fearing the worst, and then…” He trailed off, his hands fidgeting with the edge of a ledger.

Finnian listened, his expression calm and patient, waiting for Daithi to finish. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “Rationing would send the wrong message, make people feel like they’re already losing. We’d be putting out one fire only to start another. Panic spreads fast in a place like this.”

Daithi let out a slow sigh, frustration bubbling up again. “It’s just… we’re running out of options. Every plan has a risk, and we don’t have the luxury of waiting around. We need to act.”

Finnian nodded slowly, as if carefully weighing his next words. “You’re not wrong, and I don’t envy your position. But maybe we’re thinking too narrowly. It’s not just about supplies or bandits—it’s about the bigger picture. We need to find a solution that addresses all of this, something sustainable.”

Daithi glanced up, caught off guard. “Sustainable? You mean like… a longer-term plan?”

“Exactly,” Finnian said, his voice warm but measured, guiding the conversation without seeming to push. “Short-term fixes can only do so much. Maybe it’s time to think about the roots of the problem, not just the symptoms.” He let the words hang for a moment, then gave a small nod, as if to say that was all there was to be said. “But hey, let’s not get too lost in the weeds tonight, hmm?”

Finnian’s tone lightened, his smile widening as he deftly changed the subject. “Besides, when was the last time you took a break and didn’t spend the whole night buried under those ledgers?”

Daithi managed a small, tired smile. “I suppose I could use a drink… and a good night’s sleep.”

Finnian clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture both friendly and firm. “That’s the spirit. We’ll figure it out, Daithi. We always do.” He lingered for a moment, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “And who knows, maybe a bit of ale will help bring some brilliant ideas to the surface.”

They exchanged a few more quips, the tension in the room easing as they bantered about their daily lives. “So, when are you going to finally marry Leora?” Finnian teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Daithi rolled his eyes, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I’d rather marry one of her horses! At least then, I could keep my peace of mind.”

Finnian laughed heartily, the sound warm and infectious. “Just remember, if you ever find yourself in a horse marriage, you’ll have to learn to groom them properly.”

“Not a problem,” Daithi shot back with a grin. “I’ve already mastered the art of avoiding Leora’s glares. A horse will be a piece of cake.”

Finnian clapped him on the shoulder, still chuckling. “You’re impossible! But I have to say, I admire your persistence.” He glanced around the storehouse, his eyes settling on a few crates near the back. “By the way, where did you stash the salts and the dried meats? I’ll need to arrange for transport tomorrow.”

Daithi pointed toward a row of shelves against the far wall. “They’re over there, take some with you now. We can sort out the rest of the order tomorrow morning, and I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you. I’ll have the boys load up the cart.”

“Perfect,” Finnian said, nodding with satisfaction. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Daithi.” He gathered his things, preparing to leave, then added with a grin, “And don’t forget—I’ve brewed something new that I think you’ll find rather invigorating after a long day of work.”

Daithi hesitated for just a moment, then nodded, a warm feeling settling in his chest. “I’ll make a point to stop by. I could use a good drink.”

With a final grin, Finnian stepped toward the door. “Take care, my friend. We’ll sort this out together.” He left, the light from the oil lamp spilling into the hallway as he disappeared.

As the door clicked shut, Daithi leaned back in his chair, the laughter still echoing in his mind. He stared at the flickering flame, the weight of his worries slowly lifting. Finnian had a way of turning burdens into banter, and for a moment, Daithi felt lighter.

But as the laughter faded, the reality of the town’s troubles crept back in. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. How does he do it? he wondered, still marvelling at Finnian's ability to cure people’s bad thoughts. It was as if the tavern owner possessed a magic of his own, effortlessly brightening the spirits of those around him.

The concerns that had knotted his stomach earlier seemed less pressing now, softened by the exchange. Maybe it’s the camaraderie, he thought. The laughter shared over mugs of ale and stories told by the fire. Finnian had a gift—a talent for turning even the darkest moments into something bearable, as if he could draw out the sting from a wound with just a smile and a well-placed joke.

Daithi sighed, glancing at the scattered papers on his desk, each one a reminder of the town’s plight. But he couldn’t rely solely on that magic. Solutions must come from action, he reminded himself, determination rising anew. We must address the lake's issues, find a way to unify the council, and keep the townspeople hopeful.

His thoughts drifted to the Shorewalker, the enigmatic figure who served as a neutral arbiter within the council. Whatever decision I come to, the Shorewalker must see the merit in it, Daithi thought, feeling a pang of uncertainty. If even he is not convinced, then how can I expect the others to follow? The Shorewalker’s voice held a quiet power, and earning his agreement could mean the difference between success and failure.

He took a deep breath, letting the lingering warmth of Finnian’s visit encourage him. The problems weren’t solved, but perhaps, with the right approach, they could find a way forward. And maybe, just maybe, he would gain the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead guided by the laughter of a good friend and the promise of brighter days.

Daithi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The more he pondered, the more he realized that there was no perfect answer. Every solution seemed to come with a host of complications, a set of consequences that could ripple out in unexpected ways. After several moments of deliberation, he sighed deeply, the weight of indecision pressing heavily on his chest. This shouldn’t be so complicated, he chastised himself, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. Why does it feel like every choice could lead to something worse?

Shaking his head, Daithi picked up his quill with a decisive motion. Enough of this, he thought. He glanced at the remaining work on his desk, and while the tasks felt daunting, they seemed preferable to this endless cycle of consideration. Numbers he could control, people, not so much.

With a heavy heart but a clearer mind, he resolved to finish his work and head to the tavern later that evening. At least I can drown my sorrows in a good drink, he mused, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. But even as the thought of Finnian's new brew excited him, he couldn’t shake the lingering frustration. It’s a good option, he acknowledged, but it’s still not simple.

Whatever lay ahead, he would face it with resolve—and perhaps a little help from a friend at the tavern. Because in times like these, he thought, sometimes all it took was a moment of ease, a laugh shared over a drink, to clear the fog and see the path forward.

As Finnian stepped out of the storehouse, the early winter evening was settling over the town like a soft blanket, the last rays of sunlight fading into the horizon. The air was crisp, with a bite that made his breath visible in the dimming light. The town, still bustling with activity, was a flurry of motion as adults hurried to finish their tasks before the sun disappeared completely. From this vantage point, he could see the market square alive with people gathering their evening provisions, the sounds of haggling and laughter mingling in the air. The scent of fresh bread wafted through, intermingling with the earthy aroma of winter crops being sold.

The thoroughfare, a cobbled path lined with stalls and shops, was beginning to glow under the soft light of lanterns and oil lamps. Each vendor lit their candles, casting flickering shadows that danced along the ground, their warm light offering a stark contrast to the encroaching cold. This town was modest, the kind that echoed a simpler time—just the warm embrace of wax candles and the steady burn of oil lamps. But as Finnian looked around, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of discontent.

He took a moment to compose himself, donning his customary smile as he stepped back into the throng of townsfolk. Put on the mask, he thought, keep the people happy. His eyes swept across the bustling thoroughfare, taking in the familiar faces—people who’d known him since he was a boy, who trusted him without question. It was a trust he had cultivated carefully, and he wore it like a second skin, even if, underneath, he felt it chafing against something deeper.

As he made his way through the stalls, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes. The way people rushed now, heads down, driven by their own concerns. There was a time when the market would quiet at dusk, and folks would gather to share stories, sing the old songs, pay their respects to the gods before heading home.

“How’s the bread today, Elen?” he called to a stout woman behind a stall, her hands covered in flour.

“Better than yesterday, I promise!” she replied with a chuckle, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Drop by the stall later, Finnian, I’ll set aside a loaf for you.”

He smiled warmly, his voice carrying just the right mix of friendliness and charm. “You spoil me, Elen. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to fatten me up.”

The woman let out a hearty laugh, the sound carrying through the square. “Someone’s got to, with you working so hard at the tavern!” she called as he moved on, nodding to the next group.

“Finnian! Good to see you!” came another voice, this time from Bram, a retired fisherman who spent his days tending a modest garden near the square. His weathered face broke into a grin as Finnian approached. “When are we going to get to try that new batch of ale in the tavern? Heard it’s your best yet.”

Finnian gave a modest shrug, the kind that made it seem as though he were truly humbled by the praise. “Oh, you know how it is, Bram. I like to tinker. You’ll have to be the judge of it yourself. Stop by the tavern tonight, and I’ll let you have a taste,” he said, downplaying the quality of his brew even as he extended the invitation.

The old man’s grin widened, a few others pausing to join in the conversation. “Ah, something new from the likes of you, Finnian? It’s a guaranteed winner! We’ll all be there to taste it, don’t you worry.”

He kept moving, his smile unwavering as greetings came from every direction. Some merely nodded in respect, while others offered bits of conversation, asking after his family or sharing small snippets of town gossip. A few teased him about his influence in the council, laughing good-naturedly when he brushed it off with a wave. “The council only listens to me because I bring the best drinks,” he quipped, eliciting another round of laughter.

He passed by a small shrine at the edge of the square, a simple stone structure with offerings of dried herbs and tiny carved figures. It was mostly ignored, a relic from another time, and Finnian’s smile faded slightly as he glanced at it. They don’t even know who they’re neglecting, he thought bitterly. He continued walking on.

The lanterns glowed brighter as he neared his tavern, The Golden Keg. It’s windows spilling light onto the cobblestones, and Finnian felt a familiar, comforting warmth spread through him at the sight. Here, at least, he could control things. Here, he could be the one who reminded people, gently, of what they’d forgotten. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. He needed to do more. He needed to make them see.

For now, though, he would play his part, smile, and be the friendly barkeep everyone loved. Because if there was one thing Finnian had learned, it was that change didn’t happen through force; it happened slowly, like the tide creeping in, until one day, everything was submerged.

He glanced at the lively faces around him, the sound of their laughter ringing in his ears, and wondered how many of them saw the same flaws he did. No more worship to the gods of the lake, no reverence for the land’s spirits like before. Instead, they had turned to Daithi’s way of thinking—practicality, focus on trade, putting their faith in coins and plans rather than the gods themselves.

He blamed this shift for all their problems—the shortages, the weak harvests, the dwindling fish in the lake. The lake was not just a body of water; it was alive, it was sacred, and they had abandoned it. Just keep smiling, he reminded himself as he forced the warmth back into his demeanour.

As he made his way further down the thoroughfare, a stray dog darted across his path, its lean body weaving between legs like a shadow. Finnian recoiled slightly, his lip curling in a momentary flash of disdain. He hated these creatures—their aimless wandering, their unpredictability. They were filthy, selfish things that contributed nothing and expected everything, much like the new breed of people who had forgotten what it meant to serve the gods.

The dog paused near him, head cocked to one side as it sniffed the air, its gaze confused and wary. For a moment, it felt as though the creature were truly looking at him, seeing something beneath the smiling mask he wore for the world.

“Shoo!” he barked sharply, stepping forward and waving his hand in a shooing gesture. The dog yelped, startled, and scrambled away, its tail tucked between its legs as it fled into the shadows.

A few people looked up, eyebrows raised, but they quickly shrugged it off. “Might want to get that pup a proper meal, Finnian,” a butcher joked from his stall, hefting a side of salted pork onto a hook.

“Maybe after it learns some manners,” Finnian replied, his tone light and good-natured, the smile back in place as if it had never slipped. The butcher laughed, and the moment passed without incident. But as Finnian walked on, he couldn’t shake the lingering feeling of irritation. It wasn’t just the dog—though it symbolized everything he found distasteful about the town’s current state. It was that so many of them had become just like it: wandering, aimless, without respect for the gods and traditions that had once defined this place. They needed to be reminded. They needed to be led back to the truth.

And he would see to it that they were—one way or another.

With a practiced smile and a nod to the next person he passed, Finnian continued his stroll, the glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the square. He still had much to do, but for now, he’d play his part. The beloved barkeep, the confidant of the people. For as long as it took.

Finnian’s pace quickened as he moved through the thinning crowds, his eyes set on the one place in the town that always managed to lift his spirits—the tavern. Even from a distance, the building stood out like a beacon amidst the simpler, more utilitarian structures of Halrest. While other homes and shops huddled close to the earth, stooped against the winter winds, The Golden Keg rose proudly on its sturdy foundation, its warm glow spilling out onto the cobblestone street.

Workers—farmers, craftsmen, and fishermen alike—drifted in and out, their boots crunching against the frosted cobblestones as they exchanged tired greetings and slipped inside. Some entered alone, seeking a brief reprieve from the day’s toil, while others arrived in groups, their voices rising in lively chatter that mingled with the faint strains of a fiddle playing within.

But for all its inviting warmth, Finnian skirted the main entrance, his mood still dark from the earlier encounter with the stray dog. He slipped around the side of the building, weaving his way past a small storage shed and toward the back entrance. Here, the sounds of the town faded, replaced by the softer noises of the tavern’s inner workings—the clatter of dishes being cleaned, the low murmur of kitchen staff preparing the evening’s fare.

In the back of the tavern the supportive staff bustled, in a rush to prepare for the coming evening rush. Finnian ignored them as he often would, passing directly through the kitchen.

As he entered, Eamon was quietly polishing glasses behind the bar. Finnian's gaze moved to a small altar, nestled at the far end, partially visible yet ignored by most. It was a rough wooden shelf adorned with a few carefully chosen trinkets. A carved idol of the gods of the lake stood at the centre, flanked by small bowls filled with dried herbs and a single, unlit candle. It was not hidden, but not overtly displayed either—just enough to catch the eye of those who still cared. Finnian’s expression softened as he approached it. Soon, he thought, a shadow passing over his face.

He lit the candle with practiced hands, the flame sputtering before catching, its light casting erratic, twisting shadows over the idols. The flickering glow seemed to make the carved faces move, their expressions shifting in the dimness, almost as if they were waking. Finnian’s gaze was fixed, unblinking, as the shadows danced across his features, highlighting the sharp lines of his face. “Great ones, I haven’t forgotten you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carried a reverence that was unsettling. “The town has, but I will make them see. I will bring them back to you, no matter the cost.”

The air around him felt heavy, as though the room itself was holding its breath. His fingers brushed the carved surface of the idol, trailing over the intricate lines, and for a moment, the flame bent toward his touch, as if drawn to it. “Soon, there will be offerings again. Soon, they will know your power,” he said, his words deliberate, each syllable infused with quiet intensity. The flame flickered violently, casting the room into jagged, shifting light and shadows.

Behind the bar, Eamon had been silently polishing a glass, his movements slow and mechanical, almost as if he were trying to remain unnoticed. At the sound of Finnian’s voice, he paused, glancing up. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—nervousness, perhaps, or disapproval, but it was quickly masked. The unlit room seemed to press in, the shadows deepening as if they, too, were listening.

Eamon’s gaze lingered on the candle for a moment, then shifted to Finnian, who caught his eye. The silent exchange passed between them, the tension thickening. Eamon’s hand tightened around the glass he was holding. He nodded, a slight, jerky motion that seemed more like a plea than an agreement.

Finnian’s eyes narrowed, a slow smile curling at the corners of his mouth, but it was a cold, detached expression. He straightened, the mask slipping effortlessly back into place, as if he hadn’t just been whispering dark promises into the shadows. He reached out and extinguished the candle with a flick of his fingers, plunging the corner of the bar back into darkness.

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that seemed to stretch on endlessly, filled with unspoken words and hidden fears. Then, without another word, Finnian turned back to the room, his smile broadening, bright and warm once more.

“Evening, everyone!” he called out cheerfully, his voice carrying through the room as he stepped behind the bar. The growing evening crowd turned to greet him, raising their mugs and calling out his name, and just like that, the mask was back in place—the jovial barkeep, the friend to all.

But even as he smiled and laughed with them, a small, secret part of him whispered of the things to come. Of change, and devotion, and the return of the old ways. Of the town bending, and breaking, until it was exactly as it should be.