Page 136

“There’s more.” Orzen dragged a hand through his hair, breath hissing through clenched teeth. “He’s the one who planned the attack with Theordrin. He let the Witherborn in. He was there from the start…at the chokevine, all of it.”

Her stomach clenched. Her mind raced backward—days, nights, every moment since Silas found her in the forest after Tavrin died. Had he made the Witherborn grab her so he could swoop in and save her? At the cost of Tavrin’s life? All so he could slide into her trust with a hero’s mask…

He’d separated Orzen from her—almost killed him in the chokevine. Made her believe Orzen had abandoned her—lied to her—when it had been Silas’s doing the whole time.

“I insisted we follow him.” Tears gathered before she could stop them. “Tommick…he nearly killed Tommick. Almost killed you.” Her voice cracked like dry soil in her hands.

“I’ve been so stupid.” She squeezed her eyes shut as if darkness could undo the choices she’d already made. “You never trusted him. And I didn’t listen. I kept pushing you away.”

Orzen shifted. His hand twitched toward her before curling into a fist beside his knee. His voice—quiet and painfully gentle—cut through her spiraling. “You weren’t stupid. You see good in people. He used that against you.”

“Because I let him.“ Heat shot through her, shame and grief tangling. “I didn’t want to judge him too harshly. I tried to keep the group together. I ignored what was right in front of me. He was the first steady thing after Tavrin died, and I held onto it, because I didn’t want everything to break again.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. That’s who you are.” Orzen’s tone softened. “It’s not your fault he twisted it. Doesn’t make it a weakness.”

The truth cut anyway. Tavrin’s face rose again. The scream. The fall. The blood. Her own helpless hands frozen by the Witherborn’s poison. “You don’t understand,” she choked. “Tav’s dead because of it. Because of me. I couldn’t stop it.”

The words scraped at her on their way out. Her breath stuttered, cracked. She folded in on herself, grief punching through her ribs. The sobs tore loose, a storm she’d pushed aside for so long it was impossible to hold back now.

Orzen slid beside her before she could fall apart alone. His arm hovered, then settled around her like he’d been built for this and never allowed it before. She collapsed into him, her fingers curling into a fist at the front of his shirt, clinging as though she might drown if she let go. He simply held her.

Sobs shook through her. The wall she’d kept around her grief shattered into dust. Finally, the tears eased, leaving her hollow.

“Tavrin chose to fight for you because he loved you,” he said softly. It was the truth, and she knew it, but it hurt all the same.

She loosened her grip on his shirt but didn’t lift her face from his chest when she whispered, “I miss him so much. And all I see when I think of him now is how he died.”

Orzen’s voice was low and careful beside her ear, like he was afraid too many words might break her again. “The only thing you can do is try to hold onto something good…a memory you love.” He stiffened, his chest shifting beneath her cheek. “Not that I’ve had much success with it either. But maybe it’ll work for you.”

Wren wiped her eyes and lifted her head, putting a little space between them again. There were so many good memories—laughing in the kitchen, naming stars on the rooftop, watching her father fall asleep beside him with books in their laps—but they slid through her fingers when she reached for them.

So many were built on shared grief…Tavrin joining them when he had no one else, the days after her father died, the years of slowly learning how to be a family again.

One memory settled. Of course.

She swallowed, throat rough, and shuffled aside to kneel across from him. “I have one…I think. Could I share it with you?”

“Of course you can,” he said.

His brow softened, but when she leaned forward brushed her fingers at his temple, he flinched and let out a quick gasp under his breath. She froze.

“I’m sorry, I meant to show you it. Is that okay?” She started to pull back, but he caught her hand gently, thumb brushing her knuckles before letting go again.

“I was only surprised,” he murmured. “I’d love to see it.”

She could feel the tension in him, a faint tremor under the steadiness of his voice. But he closed his eyes, and when she put her hand to his temple again, he didn’t pull away.

Wren let her focus slip inward. Memories flickered past like the pages of a book caught in a breeze. She sifted through them until she found the one she’d treasured for years. Only then did she let her weaving flow into him. Spirit settled pleasantly between the connection as the memory unfurled.

Brunna at ten or eleven filled Wren’s vision—horns comically large for her small frame, a fierce, toothy smile splitting her face. She roared, flapping her arms like wings, stomping across the dirt with all the menace of a pint-sized dragon.

Swords and Maidens. Their favorite game.

Then a battle cry split the air from the smallest warrior imaginable. Little Wren barreled into view—Lady Acorn in all her glory. Her horns were barely budding, tiny spikes in a halo of soft, brown curls. A tea towel hung from her shoulders as a cape.

She brandished a wooden spoon like the deadliest blade the world had ever seen. With a flick of her wrist, she charged Brunna with the confidence of a knight three times her size.

Something tender shivered along the connection—not from her, but from Orzen. Humor, yes, but also a softness she didn’t have a name for—something that ached.