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Orzen looked at Wren with exaggerated consideration, lips twitching. “Still weighing the evidence.”

Brunna returned carrying a small iron bell wrapped in cloth, her hammer now slung on her hip instead of ready for battle. “Here you are, Acorn,” she said, handing it off to Wren. “You should stay a bit. Catch up for a while and let me feed you before you go runnin’ off again.”

Wren smiled. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”

“Good. Haven’t had time to sit with you proper in weeks.” Then she turned to Orzen, the barest glint of humor in her eyes. “Not you. You can leave.”

He raised his hands, backing a step toward the door.

Tavrin smirked, glancing between them. “Sounds like our cue to clear out. I’m not getting roped into peeling potatoes.” He turned to Orzen. “The Root’s not far. I could use an ale. You in?”

“Sure,” Orzen said. He shifted the bundle of wood under his arm and looked to Wren. “Let me take the bell—I’ll drop everything off with Marda, if that’s all right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Thanks for the help. And for not being terrible.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around. Seems likely—it keeps happening.” He lingered half a beat longer than necessary, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Tavrin pulled an exaggerated over Orzen’s shoulder—wide eyes, arched brows—the picture of wordless teasing.

Brunna caught Tavrin’s grin immediately. “Don’t start.”

Wren glared at him when Orzen wasn’t looking. The last thing she needed was Tav reading into things that weren’t there. She’d barely met Orzen. No sense making things awkward between them from the start, even if Orzen had looked distractingly competent fixing Marda’s house.

“I didn’t say anything.” He shrugged like he wasn’t sure what they were both on about. “We should probably go now.”

“Smart man,” Brunna called after him. “Come home late. Wren and I need time to talk.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tavrin gave a quick salute, eyes sparkling.

Orzen followed him out, glancing once over his shoulder as he cleared the threshold. Wren gave a small wave in return. When their shadows disappeared into the square, Brunna exhaled, shaking her head.

“Men,” she muttered, setting her hammer back on the bench.

Wren’s lips twitched as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her skin flushed with the glow of the coals. Behind her, Brunna moved through the familiar motions of her work—the clatter of tools, the hiss of the cooling metal, and Furnie’s clipped yips as she followed at her heels. The sounds were soothing. A small comfort on a strange day.

Chapter 13

Cinders and Silver

Hours later, when she was done for the day, Brunna tugged off a glove and pressed her fingers to her lips, releasing a high-pitched whistle. Furnie darted from a dark corner where she’d been chasing mice, tail puffed and twitching soot into the air. She stopped at Brunna’s hooves, dark eyes gleaming eagerly.

“Fire’s all yours now, love.”

The emberkit yipped once, then leaped into the smoldering pit. She circled, curled up like a cat, and settled into the glow. Her fur was a sunrise of colors. She soaked in the warmth and the coals beneath her faded to gray.

Brunna wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over. “You look like you’ve got more words to spill than a beehive’s got bees.”

“There always seems to be too much to say and not enough time.” Wren shrugged, her voice soft. “I never want to bother you with it all.”

Brunna waved her words off like she was swatting smoke. “Nonsense. C’mon inside. We’ll throw a stew together. Nothin’ gets the truth flowin’ like a full belly.”

Heat followed them through the side door into the adjoining home, a shimmer of brightness in the cooler air. It was a handful of small rooms and a loft where Brunna slept. Simple, but alive with the same passion as its owner.

The kitchen held an old chest turned prep table, a pot-bellied stove, and a washbasin tucked in the corner. The floor was patched with mismatched rugs, bright with character, except for the tiled ring around the stove. Metal scraps Brunna had salvaged and stamped with her own designs—curling leaves, stars, her family’s guild crest—pressed into the floor in a gleaming patchwork.

Brunna hung her apron on a peg and rolled up her sleeves. The cool clang of metal underhoof carried memories Wren had nearly forgotten. Quiet evenings filled with the scent of iron and tea. Brunna’s laughter, ringing above the stove’s crackle. A love that always lived within these walls, whether Wren chose to reach for it or not.

They worked in easy silence preparing the meal. It would cook low and slow while they talked of simple things. When the first vegetables hit the broth, the pot hissed with a contented sigh. Soon, the scent of herbs filled the air.