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Orzen froze mid-sip. The question landed like a punch. The parchment of names Theordrin gave him burned in the pocket of his belt. He wished he’d abandoned it all before he’d really met her. If Tavrin had known the truth, if she did…they’d be having a far different conversation. He cleared his throat and tried for a level of calm he wasn’t feeling.

“Worried for Wren? About what?”

“About you and her,” Tavrin said easily. “You planning on making things complicated?”

Orzen nearly choked. It hadn’t been the question he’d been expecting at all. “What? No. I don’t—” He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the floor. “That’s not—”

“Easy.” Tavrin’s grin turned foxlike. “I’m only asking.”

“No intentions. No plans.” Orzen scrubbed his hand through his hair. “She’s just…different.”

Different wasn’t the right word. Kind people had been rare, but he’d met them before. Brave ones too. She had a quieter kind of goodness. She expected better of people, and somehow it made disappointing her feel worse than disappointing himself. She was a stranger, really. How she saw him shouldn’t have mattered.

He wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. He clenched his fist. That was exactly the problem. He found himself wanting to linger. A dangerous, stupid prospect. Wanting to stay was selfish in a way he couldn’t allow himself to think about, not while the Brand was still searching for him.

“I grew up with her,” Tavrin said, “and half the time I still don’t know what to make of her. There’s no one like her. She’s persistent—kind, but relentless. Once she decides you’re worth knowing, you don’t stand a chance. So,” he grinned over his mug, “I fear you don’t have long.”

Orzen swallowed. “Feels that way.” He tried to laugh but it came out more like a wheeze.

“If you ever did try anything,” Tavrin said conversationally, “you’d have to go through Brunna first. And me second. You don’t want to mess with Marrowen. Or Garin either, honestly.”

Orzen winced. He’d seen the old dwarf from afar. Blind or not, he had the kind of presence that could knock a man down without moving a muscle. He didn’t care to imagine what Wren’s mother might be like. Somehow, imposing felt like an understatement and he’d never even met her. There were far faster ways of getting himself killed than by earning the ire of an angry mother.

“Right. Uh, glad it’s not like that, then,” Orzen muttered, staring into his ale. “It won’t matter soon anyway. I’m…leaving after the festival. Probably best.”

Tavrin’s quiet assessment made the hair on Orzen’s arms raise.

“Best for who, exactly?” Tavrin took a slow sip of ale then rested his elbows on the table, patient as stone.

Orzen wanted to answer right away. Should’ve been able to.

Better for everyone, obviously, but he wasn’t sure anymore—and that was the dangerous part. If he’d simply left when he started seeing cracks in his plans, this would’ve been far simpler. He’d arrived in Thistlehold with a clear goal: make enough coin with this one job to keep running in relative comfort for another season. Meeting Wren had mucked it all up in ways he wasn’t willing to examine.

“Listen.” Tavrin drained his mug and set it down with a snap against the wood. “I don’t know you, not really. But it’s clear you’re hiding something from her. Whatever it is, it’ll come out sooner or later. Best it comes from you.”

Orzen wanted to protest but the words wouldn’t form.

Tavrin’s voice softened, but the weight behind it didn’t. “Wren’s trusted people before. They’d smile one day and sell her out the next.” For the first time all afternoon, Tavrin wasn’t smiling. His thumb traced the edge of his mug. “She doesn’t let people in, and it seems like that might be different with you. So If you’re going to do the same, do her a favor and step back now. Before she gets too close.”

The cold edge of the mug pressed against Orzen’s lip as he swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in his throat. He’d been so focused on his own concerns, he’d never stopped to consider her. The pit widening in his chest told him Tavrin was right. He’d hurt more than himself if he stayed much longer. He forced out a humorless breath that might have been a laugh.

“You don’t mince words.”

“Care too much for that,” Tavrin said simply. Then he met Orzen’s eyes, steady and clear. He laid a few silver on the table and rose. “Good men don’t always start that way. Sometimes they simply decide to be one. Take care, Orzen.”

The tavern laughter returned like a struck gong—loud enough to make his head ache. Orzen’s chest throbbed like he’d been punched. The ale burned on the way down. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse—Tavrin’s advice, or the fear that it was already too late to follow it.

The sky had deepened to violet by the time Orzen stepped out of the Turning Root. The festival lights burned brighter for it—lanterns swinging from every post, gold and amber against the dark. His armor weighed heavy but familiar across his shoulders, a comfort that didn’t quite remove the sting from his earlier conversation with Tavrin.

He wasn’t really listening to the music. Not that he could’ve avoided it. Even if he’d hidden in the Root itself, the square was spilling sound like a cracked cask—fiddles, flutes, laughter. All too much. He’d told himself he needed air—space to clear his thoughts. The truth was, he was standing in the dark so he could avoid thinking entirely.

Time was running out. He could feel it.

It was clear now that he’d fallen off the wrong side of this job—fully and violently. The second he met Wren, he should’ve handed Theordrin the scraps and walked away. But he didn’t.

He could still leave. Even now. Walk out of the square with the armor on his back, grab his sword, and never look back. He’d done it before. It hit differently this time—not painful, but slow and heavy, like mud dragging at his ribs. He didn’t want to dwell on it or what it meant. So he drank. Or tried to.

He was brooding. He knew it.