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The ties of Garin’s blindfold swung as he nodded toward the counter, where a kettle sat on a rune-etched stone. It was a hot plate used in potion-making. He remembered his Da selling some on the side, etching the fire runes into stone late at night while the forge cooled. Orzen poured himself a cup with a deep sigh as the heaviness crept back in.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about his Da without the forge following close behind. Too much softness lately. He set the kettle back on the plate where it steamed in the morning light.

“You’ll need something to cover your armor,” Garin said, setting a folded cloak on the table. “Thought this one might fit.” He tossed a gloamguise on top of it. “And that, too.”

Orzen set the cup down and pulled the mask toward him. The surface mimicked stone—dark and rough-edged with smooth planes across the bridge of the nose and cheekbones. It stopped above the mouth in a jagged line, as if broken from something larger and reforged into what it was now. Faint veins of orange-red ran through it, catching the light like cooling magma.

It wasn’t far from what he would’ve chosen himself.

He supposed his Da’s spirit would recognize him in it…if he cared to try, wherever he was. Whether he’d forgive him was another matter. If this was how Garin saw himself, maybe he was a little shadow-touched too.

Orzen draped the cloak around his shoulders and clipped it in place at his right shoulder above the baldric strap. The brass pin caught the light—a delicate curl of vines and leaves, oddly refined for something of Garin’s. Finer than anything Orzen had ever owned. Everything here seemed finer than he deserved.

His gaze swept back across the room to where Wren still slept, curled toward the hearth. His jaw clenched and he looked away. He hadn’t earned any of this. Not Garin’s cloak. Not the coffee warming his hands. Certainly not Wren’s healing after he’d lied to her for days. He returned to the table, clutching the coffee like a lifeline.

“Garin, I, uh, I wanted to—”

“I don’t need your thanks,” Garin grunted around his cup.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I can hear it in the way you’re sitting.” Garin set his mug down with a thunk. “You don’t think you belong here.”

“Not sure I do.” Orzen shifted, letting the bitterness of the coffee linger on his tongue.

“I wasn’t about to leave a man bleeding in an alley,” Garin said gruffly. “Doesn’t matter who they are. And Tallis vouched for you. That’s enough.”

Orzen brushed the hair from his eyes, trying to mask the sudden tension rising in his shoulders. He’d spent too long in places where kindness was a debt waiting to be claimed.

“Not everyone would’ve done the same,” he said quietly. “So…thank you.”

Across the cabin, Wren stirred, blinking blearily and raking her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tame the tangles. She busied herself with quick motions—folding, tucking, collecting what she’d left out the night before—as if the morning was too fragile for noise. He watched longer than he meant to, but looked away when she turned.

Three quick knocks split the air. Orzen straightened and started to rise, reaching for his sword, but Garin lifted a hand.

“That’s Marrowen.”

Orzen made a disbelieving sound. “Come on. You can’t possibly know that from a knock.”

“I’ve known that knock longer than you’ve been alive.”

Garin’s mouth twitched—the faintest ghost of a smile. The affection in his voice caught Orzen off guard. For a man who measured every word like an ingredient, the note of fondness was almost wistful. Still, Orzen crossed the room, half expecting Garin to be wrong.

The door swung open before he got to it. Standing behind it was an older faun—dark hair streaked with silver, horns swept back. Garin was right. This had to be Wren’s mother—same fierce eyes, same bone-deep steadiness. Her gaze swept over Orzen once. Then it stopped on the pin at his shoulder. Her breath hitched. She was staring at the cloak now.

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to tug it off. “Uh. Morning,” he managed. “Garin said it would be you. Wren’s here. She’s fine. Nothing’s—” Marrowen lifted an eyebrow, and the rest of the words died in his throat.

“Boy, either hold the door open or move,” Garin called.

Orzen cleared his throat and stepped aside. Marrowen brushed past him without a word, hooves snapping against the boards. She bent to hug Wren, brushing the hair back from her horns, murmuring things too low for him to hear.

Wren caught his eye over her mother’s shoulder. Her gaze dropped to the brass pin fastening the cloak, then flicked toward Garin, still nursing his mug at the table. She hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping closer, a tender sadness in her eyes.

“This was my father’s,” Wren murmured, her hand brushing over the wool like she could feel the memory of him in the weave.

Suddenly he understood why the cloak hadn’t seemed like Garin’s. It wasn’t. He glanced at Marrowen. Her arms were folded, her expression unreadable, but the tension in her stance said she’d recognized it too, and wasn’t taking as kindly to him wearing it as Wren was.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t know. Garin lent it to me—I can find another.”