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“I talk about things on occasion,” Orzen said, then he swallowed against the heat gathering in his throat. “Not sure I love the attention, though.”

Calen’s smile softened, and he caught Orzen in a look that held wisdom far beyond his years. “Guess we all have to decide how much we want others to see us. Wren’s cares the same way. I haven’t seen her give up on someone yet. Doubt she’d start now…certainly not with you.”

Orzen cleared his throat hard. “Right. Uh.” He set a hand awkwardly on Calen’s shoulder. “Thanks. For the walk.” It was strange to lean on someone half his age, but Calen was steadier than he looked.

Calen slid his hands into his pockets and stepped back a pace. “Whatever it is…you’ll be all right. Maybe not now, but sometime. And we’re here if you need us.” Then he gave a small nod and turned back down the path.

Calen’s words followed Orzen long after he’d disappeared. Orzen wasn’t sure what to do with kindness so freely given. No one had ever made belonging sound so ordinary.

Being alone was much less complicated. No one there to make sure you’re all right. That was the whole problem. He’d grown used to their concern. Worse, he’d started to enjoy knowing someone else was watching his back.

He kept walking. He knew he needed to go back sometime—basically promised as much when he’d left her—but not until he could speak without anything slipping.

Seeing his father again—finally knowing the truth—it was worth more than anything she’d ever given him. He’d nearly forgotten Brannon’s voice. Echoes of it had haunted him for years, but they were built from lies he’d told himself. Now, for the first time, he had something real to hold onto. Something solid. He needed to explain why he’d run. To find a way to thank her.

Moonlight reflected off the lake, polifrogs croaking in a stilted chorus. There was movement ahead. At the far edge of the pools, a pair of eyes flashed in the dark. Orzen slowed, squinting in the low light. An emberkit slunk out of the shadows, fur blackened like banked coals. It cocked its head at him, then skittered through an opening in the trees with a high-pitched bark.

Orzen stared after it. A moment later, it returned, looked at Orzen, yipped, and bounced back a few steps toward the underbrush. Well? Hurry up.

Great, he was talking to animals now. “Not like I have anywhere to be,” he muttered. And because she clearly expected him to follow, he followed.

It was almost too dark to see, but he pushed through the brush by instinct, ducking low branches until the trees thinned and opened into a small moonlit clearing. A large leafless tree, bent and ancient, rose at the center. Beside it sat a wide pit filled with dry foliage and brittle branches. They hadn’t simply fallen there. They’d been collected. A thin trickle of smoke curled from its middle, weak and dying.

The emberkit barked once and sat primly beside the pit.

Three small pale-orange kits poked out of a hollow beneath the tree, wobbling into the clearing. They toppled over each other, sending tiny sparks popping off their fur as they raced around their mother. The vixen tilted her head at the firepit, then at him.

He didn’t know much about forest creatures; the soft, strange magic of things that lived and grew was Wren’s world. But he’d met Furnie in Brunna’s forge. Some smiths welcomed them, said they soothed the heat.

He’d never seen one in the wild. Never seen an animal looking at him with such clear intent. She wanted him to light it.

“Oh.” A flicker of fear stiffened along his spine. He held his palms up. “You’re asking the wrong person. I can’t…” He trailed off, feeling stupid for even trying to explain it to a fox.

The kits tumbled closer, one launching itself onto his hand with a delighted chirr, claws prickling against his skin before it bounded off again, sparks scattering in its wake. The mother watched him with expectant patience. He wondered if she sensed his weaving beneath his skin—saw it with the practical eyes of a creature that needed help.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “I can’t control it like you think. Could be dangerous for you.” He started to step back, but before he could, she sprang forward and nipped his fingers—stinging but not breaking the skin.

“Ow—okay!” He shook out his hand. “All right. I’ll try. Gods, bullied by a fox...”

She lay down in front of the pit, paws out, her eyes bright and unblinking. Waiting.

He grumbled under his breath and knelt by the firepit, stretching his fingers out as he tried to calm the rising panic flaring in his chest. They only needed a spark, something small, something safe. He swallowed. Closed his eyes and curled his hands into fists, then loosened them again.

It started in his chest, like it always did, a warmth that spread, crawling down his arms. The urge to clamp down grew, but he forced himself to breathe through the fear. When heat flooded into his fingers, he dared to open his eyes.

A flicker of flame burst at his fingertips.

Startled, he yelped and instinctively flicked it at the kindling.

It caught, spreading across the pit. He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his palms together, willing the heat to retreat. For once, it listened.

The emberkits dove into the new flame immediately, tumbling and rolling with delighted chittering squeals. He settled back on his heels, resting his hands on his knees. Their mother stepped to the edge of the pit, her fur flickering with soft ember light as her kits spun circles around her.

His fingers still trembled. The heat had ebbed already—far quicker than usual. For the first time, shame didn’t surge up in its place. He didn’t hate this part of himself. Not right now. Not with these tiny creatures looking at him like he’d done something good.

He sat on the grass as they played. Soon, yawns interrupted their wrestling. The flames faded to a dull glow; the kits munched the blackened ash before stumbling back to the hollow beneath the old tree. One by one, they disappeared into the dark.

It was still too dim to see well, but dawn was coming. Black softened to blue, then purple, then a bruised red along the horizon. He still didn’t know what he was going to say to Wren. Maybe the words would come when she was there.