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Orzen straightened slowly, giving them a wry half-smile.

“Sounds about right.”

Then he nodded and continued down the path as if spending silver on a painted stone were the most reasonable thing a man could do.

Wren’s hooves clopped behind him, quickening to catch up.

“No wonder you need coin,” she muttered when she slowed her pace to match his. “Wasting it on painted stones. They’ll start to believe someone will always come along. What happens when no one stops?”

The question hung in the air, carried by the murmur of passersby and the growing clatter of carts as they neared the Craftsman District. His eyes flicked back toward the children. They bent their heads together, holding the silver between them like a prize.

“Kids like that waited on every corner in the Row,” he said. “Coin’s the difference between eating and hunger. Maybe they don’t get more coin.” He shrugged and looked ahead. “But for today, they’ve got enough. That’s not such a waste.”

“I didn’t mean—” she started. Her steps slowed. Something in the set of his shoulders—the tired way he said it—pulled at her chest before she could stop it.

“Don’t worry.” He huffed in what could have been a laugh. “You’re not the first to think I’m too soft.”

It wasn’t that. She appreciated the compassion. So often, she was used to the cruelty. It was beginning to feel like that was all there was in the world. It was nice, knowing someone else found value in little moments of grace. But she’d never expected it from someone who looked like him.

Guilt tingled beneath her skin. It hadn’t been a fair assessment. There was more to him than she first realized. “Honestly, the sword makes sense now,” she said after a moment. “Hard to scare people off otherwise.”

“Ah, yes, well…” He nodded self-consciously. “Certainly didn’t work on you.” He shot her a dry look that couldn’t hide his amusement, mouth twitching.

He was right. She’d been annoyed, maybe, but never frightened. Hard to be scared when he was more likely injure himself fumbling over his words than he was to harm her.

“Takes more than a sword to send me running.”

“I’m starting to believe that.” His gaze shifted toward the rooftops and the crowds ahead. “You’ve certainly stayed here longer than I would have. First time someone spat in my direction, I’d be gone.” He said it lightly, but something in the set of his jaw told her he was being honest.

The air smelled faintly of roasting chestnuts and spices from a nearby stall as they kept walking. Laughter rang out somewhere ahead, punctuated by the clatter of carts over stone. Wren studied him, unsure if he meant it as admiration or a warning not to expect him to stay long.

“Is that why you left?” She brushed her hands against her tunic. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. And yet they were clammy. “You mentioned Kettle Row. My cousin Tavrin never talked about it. Is it close?”

“The Row…it’s where I grew up,” he said after a pause. “Not a place anyone visits. Not anyone with good intentions, anyway.”

He was quiet for so long Wren wasn’t sure if he would say more. A breeze swirled between them. The scatter of leaves it drove along the road almost stole the words when he finally spoke again.

“No one chooses to live there. You get stuck there, and you survive. Or you don’t.” A beat passed before he added distantly, “The sword is how I survived.” He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press him.

They turned the corner into the Craftsman District, where the noise of the market swelled—a jumble of merchants shouting prices, strings of festival ribbons snapping above the archway. The sounds carried them forward until the pristine whitewashed walls of Pell’s shop came into view.

Orzen slowed. “You should go first.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Wren said, suppressing a smile. “Give me a minute, then come in. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Orzen raised a doubtful eyebrow but nodded.

The bell jingled when she opened the door, releasing the scent of fresh grain and wax. Ration and Reason was as spotless as ever—shelves gleaming, rows of jars and tins arranged with military precision, every item labeled in neat block lettering.

A pair of customers stood near a shelf, debating prices over a jar of honeycomb. Another hummed tunelessly as she flipped through bolts of bright fabric, filling the air with a quiet, industrious hum.

Beside the counter, a man was in deep conversation with Pell. He leaned a hip against the high side of the counter, at ease in equal measure to Pell’s tense wariness. His hair was the golden blonde of dried wheat, shaggy, fine and cut shorter than she was used to seeing in Thistlehold. Over the lean muscles of a man used to traveling on foot, his clothing was frayed—threads old but well mended—and a crossbow sat at his hip.

When she entered, he turned, green eyes catching hers immediately, as if he’d been expecting someone. Something about him made her pause in the doorway. The stranger nodded in greeting, a subtle dip of his head, a small smile curving at his lips. Then his attention was drawn back to Pell.

“Miss Wren,” Pell said in the dry tone he reserved for only the foolhardiest of people. “Please help me convince this young man that a trip through the Virewood is quite a useless death wish.”

She stared between them as the bell chimed behind her. Pell peered over the rim of his owl-eyed glasses toward the door as Orzen entered. Recognition flashed in his eyes and his mouth dropped open in abject consternation.