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“Tomorrow,” he continued, “the other Weavers will begin. Maelis is honoring us with the retelling of the First Thread. Then, I will introduce you.”
The tea churned in her stomach. Of course he would.
Framed by his words, even truth sounded like obedience.
“This is more than a mere festival. It is a reminder of our place in the Cycle,” he said. “Creation bows to mortal will, not to the whim of gods who no longer care what becomes of their work. Let them see it disciplined by faith. The Cycle falters, and only we can keep it turning. People need proof that we are worthy stewards of what the gods have neglected.”
The gods he spoke of were strangers, twisted into weapons for obedience. Wren knew the stories—everyone did—but hearing them in his mouth made her skin itch. To her, the gods were more like wind and soil—something lived, not preached. Whatever Theordrin worshipped, it wasn’t the same Cycle she knew.
His words hung between them, holy and hollow.
“Don’t forget, you’re representing me.” His voice dropped lower, smooth and cold as a snake sliding through grass. “Do not embarrass me.”
Wren said nothing, watching Nesta’s nimble fingers work the hem, feeling Frinna’s careful hands settle the veil against her hair.
She wasn’t alone, but her heart still raced as if she were.
Theordrin adjusted his cuffs, turning toward the exit. “Ah, one more thing. I’ve reserved seats near the front—for your mother, that smith girl, your friends.” He looked back with a thin smile. “Close enough to be protected should any whims of defiance take hold.” Wren’s spine stiffened. His words dripped with honey, but the meaning oozed venom.
“Of course,” he went on, almost musing, “one seat will remain empty. A shame. I had hoped your mercenary’s loyalty might prove less fleeting.” He let the words hang for a heartbeat then added softly, “Strange. He came to see me this morning. Said he had a few questions.” He gave a casual shrug, as if commenting on the weather.
“Perhaps he knew when to walk away.” A bitter smile ghosted his lips. “Or perhaps he needed reminding.”
The air froze around her, the words knocking her heart out of rhythm. One of Frinna’s hairpins slipped and jabbed her scalp. She muttered an apology as she fixed it with trembling fingers.
“Rebellion is a lack of faith, Miss Wren. Remember that.”
Theordrin slipped out, the tent flap falling shut behind him.
Silence swept in, heavy as the mist over the bog.
“He can’t get away with this,” Wren whispered.
She stared at the canvas walls, eyes burning. She wiped her tears, furious with herself. Behind her, Frinna exhaled sharply, breath hot against her neck. Nesta stilled long enough to lift her gaze—sorrow flickering there.
“He won’t,” Frinna said—soft, but steady. She met Wren’s gaze. “Orzen’s strong. I’ve seen the Fist underestimate men half his size. He wouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”
But not if he was taken by surprise.
Guilt surged through her like floodwater. If he’d truly been on Theordrin’s side, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Maybe there was a reason people called Spirit Weavers cursed. But she couldn’t afford to think like that anymore—not when survival meant standing, not shrinking.
Frinna leaned in, tone casual on the surface but heavy beneath. “I tucked a special pin in your hair. Holds everything together nicely. But mind your fingers when you put it in tomorrow.” Her voice dropped lower. “It’s sharper than it looks.”
When the final stitches were done, Wren slipped back into her simple tunic. It was like reclaiming herself, though the fit was different now—heavier somehow.
The anger still boiled inside her, hot and relentless. There was a new hardness in her spirit—one she wasn’t sure she should welcome. It reminded her too much of the Fist she’d struck in the garden—the same dark pulse, waiting for a reason to surge.
Her fingers found the squirrel carving in her pocket, tracing its ridges with her thumb. She wondered what advice her father might have given about how to make it through this without losing herself along the way. She closed her eyes and pictured him: dark hair curling around his horns, eyes bright with love and pride.
Your real power comes from how you use what you were given. And when the time comes, you’ll make the right choice.
Wren exhaled slowly. She wanted to believe that. She just wasn’t sure she did.
Frinna lifted the bundle, then set the pin carefully on top. It was simple and elegant—about the length of Wren’s hand—with the wire bent into a clover at one end and the other tapering to a fine, wicked point.
“You’re not wrong to be afraid. Or angry. Or however you’re feeling. But remember—you’re not alone.” She nodded toward the pin. “And if things change…don’t hesitate.”
Outside, townsfolk lingered near the Fist tent, clapping as armored men shattered boards with their weapons. They smiled as if this were any other festival performance. But it wasn’t. The display wasn’t meant to entertain—it was meant to remind them all of Theordrin’s power.
