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Leora caught her gaze and smiled gently. “Not quite. That’s Aelori Briarhand. She’s Arboradin too—Highbough like Meriel in Thistlehold.” The image floated back to Wren—Meriel had been a woman like Aelori, like Velhya—a quiet presence that tended gardens and fixed broken fences. She’d been gone so long, Wren had nearly forgotten her.

Jessa gasped, already elbow-deep in her pack.

“Tour pause. Artistic emergency. If I don’t sketch this now—” Jessa’s ords cut off as she sat in the grass and uncapped her ink, scribbling furiously across the page.

“A tree spirit?” Tommick stared, mouth agape. “Miss Leora, why’s she dancing like that?”

Aelori noticed them and lowered her hands. The roots hovered as if waiting for her next command. “Folicraft,” she said, voice rich as a breeze through flower beds. “We needed more communal space for meals, so I’m helping the forest to grow it.”

“You grew all of these?” Wren asked. The buildings growing from the ground. They really were a living part of the forest.

“I did my part, as the other Highbough before me.” Aelori bowed her head. “It is our tribe’s duty and our honor to call the branches and roots to grow—to shape them to our design. The forest thrives, and we take shelter within its arms.”

“Creating without destroying in the process…” Orzen said, looking around at the buildings again. “We could use more of that in the world.”

“It takes time to learn how to grow without harm,” Aelori’s golden gaze caught his and held until he looked away. “But it is a skill worthy of practice and patience.” She bowed low to Leora, green linen swishing as she returned to her work.

They moved deeper into the Glade. It was larger than Wren ever expected but somehow still cozy. Children peered out of the lattice schoolhouse windows with wide eyes. A tangle of toddlers played in a fenced area at the back.

“Willowmay cares for our most vulnerable,” Leora explained, nodding toward a woman playing with the children.

Her hair hung long like willow branches, leaves shivering with every step. Her pale skin, the color of moonlight, was marked with ribbons of amber—like tree rings. Not quite an Arboradin, but clearly fae-touched. Her laugh faded like a twinkling of bells as she chased the toddlers over a mossy hill.

The girl they’d called Mira burst through the schoolhouse door and ran toward them at full speed. Her hair was a wild snarl of red curls. She stood nearly as tall as Branwynn, though she couldn’t have been much older than Tommick. She bowed quick and low to Leora. Then she turned toward the halflings.

“Ma said we can house two visitors!” She seized Tommick’s hand. “I chose you two.” Her freckled face split into a wide, toothy grin. Tommick stared at her, then at his mother, a hopeful smile blooming on his face.

Branwynn said, “That’s very sweet of you, dear. We’re honored you chose us.”

“Momma’s already getting the beds ready. You’re gonna love it,” Mira said in a rush. “I’m Mira, by the way. Momma’s Lyrah to everyone else. Poppa and Hollis are off with the guard, but they’ll be back later.” She curled her fingers around Tommick’s and tugged him forward. “Wait until you see our clubhouse. We have so many treasures.”

Branwynn hurried to keep pace, calling back, “We’ll find you later on. Get some rest!”

“Come,” Leora said, affection softening her voice. “I’ll show you to the cottages. We keep extra for wanderers and people seeking refuge.”

The cottages were small but beautiful. A dozen buildings paired side by side down a dirt road that led to the lake. Each pair of cottages shared a porch draped in ivy and blossoms that glowed with soft golden light.

Jessa rushed from behind as they approached. “This one’s ours, Wren!” She bounded onto the porch. “Calen, you and Orzen take the one next door.”

Calen missed a step, caught himself on the vine railing, and straightened too casually, as if he’d planned it. “Sure,” he said, nodding coolly. “That sounds great. Good plan. Stay close and all that. Right, uh…Orzen?”

“Feel like I’m chaperoning you both,” Orzen grumbled. Calen blushed, but Jessa’s eagerness drew him away. Once they were gone, Orzen gently pulled Wren aside. “Go on. I’ll catch up. I just…” A flicker of the Hollow’s terror crossed his face. “I need a moment to think.”

Wren placed her uninjured hand over his. She glanced at Jessa—already squealing over the crafted walls, dragging Calen toward their house.

“Remind them to rest too,” Wren murmured.

Orzen nodded, but she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. His thoughts were clearly still tangled in the memories the Matriarch left behind.

“If you want to talk to someone…” Wren squeezed his hand.

He blinked and looked at her, pain flickering in his eyes—the type of deep pain he usually hid. “You’ll be the first,” he said quietly. “When I’m ready.”

She nodded and followed Leora and Garin away from the cabins. The scent of baking bread drifted toward them—warm, yeasty, and irresistible. A deep hum rose from ahead, a tuneless song of joy punctuated by the clatter of pans. Several stone ovens—tall enough that Wren would need a stool to peer into them—glowed with steady flame.

Garin sniffed the air and Crumb poked his little wrinkled cap from beneath his collar. “I see we’re in agreement, then,” he murmured to the sporeling. “Bite to eat before rest.”

Wendall’s dark curls bobbed as he popped up from behind a folicrafted counter, hoisting a massive earthen bowl of dough. His tanned skin was already dusted with a thick layer of flour, and the tattoo around his upper arm peeked out whenever he shifted.