The sun shone brightly over Millstone Hamlet, casting warm golden light over the bustling village square. Laughter and chatter filled the air, mixing with the sweet scent of sugar and spice. The village fluttered in the gentle summer breeze, and in the center of it was a huge warehouse, often used for parties,events and celebrations. There the most anticipated event of the year was about to begin—the Annual Millstone Cake Competition.
Mayor Reginald Fairbrooke adjusted his waistcoat with an air of self-importance, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he surveyed the impressive display of cakes before him. “Ah, nothing quite like a bit of friendly competition to bring a community together,” he mused, though everyone knew the stakes were high. This was no ordinary bake-off—this was a battle of pride, skill, and secret family recipes.
At the mayor’s request, Father Lightwell had agreed to attend as a neutral observer, ensuring fairness in the heated contest. He stood near at the edge of the warehouse, his hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella, watching with quiet amusement as the contestants took their places.
One by one, they were introduced:
Beatrice "Bea" Hawthorne—an elegant baker with a sharp wit. Her talent was undeniable, but some in the village still viewed her with suspicion because of her being a Worgen. She stood with arms crossed, a confident smirk on her face. "Let’s just hope the judging is as refined as our baking," she quipped.
Edith "Edie" Penderghast—the beloved village grandmother, known for her golden touch in the kitchen and her warm smile. "Oh, I do hope everyone has fun," she said sweetly, adjusting her spectacles. "After all, it’s just a friendly little contest, isn’t it?"
Brunhilda "Bruni" Ironmuffin—a jolly yet fiercely competitive dwarven baker whose secret weapon was a generous splash of whiskey in every cake. "A proper cake should warm yer heart—an’ put a wee fire in yer belly too," she said with a hearty laugh, winking at the crowd.
Fiona "Fi" Redfern—a hot-tempered, sharp-tongued perfectionist who hates losing. She was infamous for throwing whisks and rolling pins when things didn’t go her way or at people who got in her way. "This year, I will win. No more second place!" she declared, arms crossed and fire in her eyes.
The competition was about to begin. The cakes were set, the tension was rising, and soon, one of them would be declared the winner.
A Bitter Aftertaste
The moment Mayor Reginald Fairbrooke took a triumphant bite of the last cake, the crowd held its breath. The competition had been fierce, and now, their beloved mayor was about to declare the winner. He chewed thoughtfully, smacking his lips in exaggerated delight.
"A delightful balance of flavor... rich, yet refined," he mused, raising a fork for another bite. "I dare say, this might be the finest cake I've ever—"
The words never came. His face contorted in pain. A violent cough. His hand clutched at his throat. Gasps rippled through the crowd as his eyes bulged, his breath rasping. Then, with a final, sickening gurgle, Mayor Reginald Fairbrooke collapsed onto the floor, knocking over plates, silverware, and half-eaten slices of cake.
Screams erupted.
"Someone fetch a healer!" shouted one of the villagers. But it was too late. The mayor was dead.
Father Lightwell stood solemnly beside the body of Mayor Fairbrooke, preparing to offer his final blessings. The town's healer had already confirmed there was nothing to be done—only the Light’s mercy remained.
As he leaned in, murmuring a quiet prayer, his sharp eyes caught something peculiar. A faint, unnatural sheen clung to the mayor’s lips, and his breath—despite the lingering scent of cake—had an underlying musk, bitter and earthy.
Father Lightwell frowned. He had encountered this before, in the war-torn ruins of Lordaeron, where desperate souls had resorted to poison to escape the Scourge’s grasp.
"Shadowcap."
A deadly fungal toxin, nearly tasteless when mixed with sweet foods. Slow-acting, ensuring its victim enjoyed their final meal before the poison took hold.
Lightwell straightened, his mind already working through the implications. This was no accident. No mere baking mishap.
This was murder.
After the body was taken away by the guards, Lady Eleanor Fairbrooke was lost in thoughts, her face was pale, her fingers trembling as she clutched a lace-trimmed handkerchief.
"Father Lightwell," she whispered, voice tight with grief. "I must ask something of you."
The priest stood across from her, calm yet attentive. "Of course, my lady."
"My husband was murdered before the entire town, poisoned like a common rat," she said bitterly, dabbing at her reddened eyes. "The guards are saying that —Beatrice Hawthorne—is the most likely suspect. After all, my husband took his last bite of her cake. But the things is.. Reginald had a bit of a tiff with all of the contestants..he fought with all of them before the contest.. expect Beatrice.."
She exhaled shakily. "I do not know what to believe. But you are a man of reason, Father. Please, find the truth."
Father Lightwell folded his hands in thought, nodding solemnly. "I shall speak to the contestants myself."
The Suspects and Their Secrets
The village square had lost its festive air. Where once there had been music and laughter, now there were whispers and fearful glances. Father Lightwell approached each of the contestants in turn, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
Bruni huffed, arms crossed as she leaned against a barrel outside the tavern.
"Ye ask if I had a reason to be mad at the mayor?" she said, shaking her head. "Course I did! The man wanted to ban me whiskey cakes last year! Said they were ‘inappropriate for a family event.’ Pfft! As if a wee dram ever hurt anyone!"
She snorted. "But murder? Ach, no. I might hold a grudge, but I settle me scores over a pint, not with poison."
Father Lightwell studied her carefully. Her frustration was real—but there was no true malice in her voice.
He found Granny Penderghast smilng and happily slicing generous portions of her cake, handing them to a group of wide-eyed children. Their eager faces were smeared with frosting, their worries lost to the promise of sugar.
Father Lightwell smiled, but his purpose was clear. “Lady Eleanor mentioned she saw you and the mayor arguing before the contest began,” he said gently.
Granny Edie’s knife halted mid-slice. She clutched her apron, her face tightening before she let out a weary sigh.
"Reginald always said my pies were ‘too old-fashioned,’” she muttered. “The nerve! I’ve been baking longer than he’d been alive! I told him tradition has value—but he only cared about trends.”
She shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “But… I’d never wish him dead. Heavens, no. He was a stubborn fool, but murder?" She crossed herself. "That’s not in my heart, Father.”
Fi Redfern was pacing furiously near the edge of the contest tent, her arms crossed and expression thunderous. When Father Lightwell approached, she turned on her heel.
"Let me guess," she snapped. "You're here to ask if I killed that pompous blowhard?"
Lightwell raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Fi scoffed. "Fine, I hated him! He always belittled my baking—said it lacked ‘elegance.’ As if he knew anything about real food!" Her fingers curled into fists. "Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to put your heart and soul into something, only for some entitled snob to dismiss it like it’s nothing?"
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "But murder? Please. If I were gonna kill him, I wouldn't have wasted a perfectly good cake to do it."
Father Lightwell studied her carefully. Fi’s temper was as fiery as her hair, but the rage in her voice felt raw, not calculating. Still, her resentment was undeniable.
Father Lightwell finally found Bea Hawthorne seated at the edge of the village, She was watching the Windmill turning in the gentle summer breeze. Unlike the others, she seemed at peace.
“You’re the only one without a grievance against Mayor Fairbrooke,” he noted.
She sighed, “Father, when I moved here, people looked at me like I was a beast lurking in the woods. But the mayor and his family? They welcomed me. Treated me like I belonged here.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I owe them that kindness back. Reginald was pompous, sure, but I’d never hurt him. Not for anything.”
Lightwell studied her for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “I believe you.”
He straightened, taking in the village around him. So many had their small grudges, their private annoyances with the mayor. But who had turned resentment into murder? He intended to find out.
A Revelation in the Shade
Exhausted and weighed down by unanswered questions, Father Lightwell found himself at a dead end. The threads of motive and opportunity wove a tangled web, but none led him to the true culprit.
With a weary sigh, he wandered toward the town’s small market, where a vendor sold fresh Wildsun Lemonade—a Kul Tiran specialty, made with honey and a rare citrus fruit that only grew in the coastal cliffs. He bought a cup, relishing the sharp, refreshing taste, and took refuge under the shade of a towering oak.
There, a young painter sat with her sketchbook, color-staned fingers rapidly working across the pages.
Father Lightwell took a sip of his drink and watched as she carefully outlined the familiar, lupine features of a Worgen woman.
He stepped closer. “That’s Beatrice Hawthorne,” he noted.
The artist nodded, barely glancing up. “Aye. I like to draw folks around town.”
Lightwell’s gaze shifted to the next page, where another Worgen figure stood beside Beatrice. A man.
His brow furrowed. “And this one?” he asked, pointing at the unknown Worgen.
“Oh, that’s Jackson Penderghast,” she said absently. “They say he turned so he could be with her. Such a tragedy, really.”
Father Lightwell stiffened. “Jackson Penderghast?” The surname struck him like a hammer. "May I take a look at the notebook, please” Father Lightwell smiled, as the artist gave him the book.
He flipped back a few pages and revealed their human likenesses. Beatrice, smiling and free-spirited. Jackson, with the same sharp jawline and stormy blue eyes as—
The priest inhaled sharply.
He rifled through the pages, and then, he found it.
"Ah..." he muttered, suddenly standing up with a spark of realization. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the artist to shrug and, with little interest, return to her drawing.
The Gathering of Shadows
The sun had begun its slow descent over Millstone Hamlet, casting long shadows over the village square. The pleasant hum of daily life continued undisturbed—Bruni Ironmuffin was dusting flour off her apron, Fiona Redfern paced near the bakery with an impatient scowl, and Granny Edith Penderghast was smiling and helping other contestants to pack their belongings. Beatrice had returned to the warehouse too and was sitting on a haypile, still lost in thought.
Father Lightwell stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “If I could have everyone’s attention, please.”
The suspects turned, exchanging wary glances. The priest’s piercing gaze settled on one in particular.
“Especially you, Mrs. Penderghast,” he continued, holding up the sketchbook. “You might want to hear this.”
Granny Edie scoffed, shoving a folded dress into her bag. “What now, Father? If this is about the contest, I already told you, I would not kill over a contest.”
“This isn’t about the contest,” Lightwell said. “This is about you—about the truth buried beneath years of whispers and half-truths. About the past you tried to leave behind.”
He turned the sketchbook toward the crowd, flipping to an old, weathered page—a drawing of a much younger Edith, her features sharper, her eyes filled with fire. And beneath her likeness, scrawled in untidy handwriting, was a name known only in hushed tones:
Edith Penderghast—The Warlock of Millstone Hamlet.
A tense silence fell over the square.
Bruni blinked. Fiona’s jaw tightened. Even Beatrice looked stunned.
Edith, however, merely let out a raspy chuckle. “That’s an old gossip,” she scoffed. “Started by a brat I scolded after he stole a pie cooling on my window. A n ugly gossip to get back at me.”
Father Lightwell’s expression did not waver. “Is it just another gossip too,” he asked, voice quiet but cutting, “that your son, Jackson Penderghast, chose to take the Worgen curse so he could be with Beatrice—the woman he loved?”
The air changed.
Edith froze. Her hands clenched at her sides.
“Mind your tongue, priest,” she hissed.
Lightwell did not flinch. “He loved her,” he pressed, “and because of that love, he sought a way to become like her. But the transformation wasn’t simple, was it? But he could do it with a Warlock's magic. He was desperate, reckless—so he turned to magic, to something dark.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Edith yelled.
“Oh, but I do,” Lightwell said solemnly. “You must have lost your warlock powers long ago. Stripped away—whether by the Tidemother’s clergy or by your own failing to control, I cannot say. But I do know, that with a Warlock's help, he could transform.”
Granny Edith’s breath hitched.
Then, with a shriek of rage, she lunged.
The glint of metal flashed in the dying sunlight—she had drawn a knife from her apron, her gnarled fingers clutching the hilt with surprising strength. The gathered villagers gasped and stumbled back.
“How dare you speak of Jackson?” she seethed, her voice raw with grief. “You weren’t there! You didn’t see what that curse did to him! He did it on his own! That foolish boy found my notes about Arugal’s research.. and he.. he tried them. When I knew what was happening it was already too late..I watched him die.” “He was my only child, my sweet boy, and she took him from me!”
She turned the blade toward Beatrice, her eyes alight with madness. “You ruined him!” She spat.
Father Lightwell stepped forward, raising a steady hand. “Edith,” he said, voice calm yet commanding. “Put the knife down.”
Her frail frame trembled. Her breath came in ragged bursts.
“I only wanted justice,” she whispered. “Reginald let her stay in this town like she belonged here, like she hadn’t taken everything from me. He called my Jackson’s love a blessing. A blessing! But it was a curse! And if the mayor wouldn’t see reason, then he deserved what he got.”
Tears streaked down her wrinkled cheeks.
“The Shadowcaps were the gentlest death I could give him.”
The weight of her words settled over the villagers like a burial shroud.
And at last, her fingers loosened. The knife clattered to the floor.
Father Lightwell stepped forward, murmuring a quiet prayer as two town guards approached, their hands firm but gentle as they took Granny Penderghast into custody.
She did not resist. She only wept.
The Weight of Truth
Before the guards could take Granny Penderghast away, footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestone. Beatrice stepped forward, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. There was no anger in her gaze, no resentment—only a deep sorrow and understanding.
Granny Edie turned, her face lined with exhaustion, and for the first time, the weight of her grief was plain for all to see.
Beatrice swallowed hard, her voice trembling.
“I loved Jackson with all my heart,” she whispered. “I loved him so much that I told him we could not be together... because I was afraid..afraid he might try to take the curse to be with me.” She let out a shaky breath, shaking her head. “I too, only knew what he had done when it was too late.”
The old woman’s lips parted, but no words came.
“That’s why I moved here,” Beatrice continued, her voice thick with emotion. “I came because I wanted to be near you. To be your support, if you ever needed it. Because no matter what happened, we both loved Jackson... and we both lost him.”
Tears spilled freely down Granny Edie’s wrinkled cheeks. For a moment, she seemed like nothing more than a mother—broken by the weight of her own choices, her own grief.
And then, as if some great force had finally left her, she gave Beatrice the smallest nod before turning away, allowing the guards to lead her through the square.
Epilogue đȘ
As Beatrice watched the frail old woman disappear into the distance, she felt a presence beside her.
The young painter—the same woman Father Lightwell had met earlier—stood close, clutching something to her chest. Her fingers fidgeted around the edges of parchment, as if nervous.
“I... I wanted to give you this,” she murmured, gently extending the a piece of a parchment.
Beatrice took it with careful hands and gasped.
The drawing was of her and Jackson—both as Worgens, laughing together under the shade of a great oak. Memories that Beatrice had long tucked away, now captured forever in a beautiful picture.
She pressed the drawing to her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Father Lightwell watched the exchange with warmth, nodding approvingly. The weight of the day still lingered in the air, but there was something lighter now—a sense of peace, even among sorrow.
The silence was broken by a loud huff.
“By the Light,” Bruni Ironmuffin groaned, wiping her forehead dramatically. “This has been such a long, bloody day. I dunno about the rest of ye, but I could use a pint strong enough to knock a dwarf off her stool.”
Fiona Redfern smirked. “So, a regular pint for you, then?”
Bruni snorted. “Ach, cheeky lass. But aye, we could all use a drink. And I say we drink to Jackson.”
Beatrice hesitated for just a moment—then, she smiled. “Aye. To Jackson.”
She turned to Father Lightwell. “Will you join us, Father?”
Lightwell chuckled, adjusting his robes. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
And as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the town gathered at the tavern, raising their glasses not just in memory of a lost love—but in honor of the truths, no matter how painful, that had finally come to light.
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