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Another time, it might’ve been a joke. Now, it was quiet hope wrapped in fear and desperation, the urge to hang on to something living when everything else had withered.

“They helped us heal,” Jessa continued. “Said you might be alive in the forest. We figured you’d need help, but the Fist caught sight of us before we made it all the way. Thankfully, he was there to distract them.“ She gestured at Silas, whose nod was brief, as if embarrassed at her thanks.

Wren closed her eyes and sighed deeply, trying to take it all in. An attack on the village, the Fist watching those she loved, Theordrin already scheming toward a goal she couldn’t fathom…it was all knotted together in her mind.

Silas cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to make things worse for you, but there’s more.” Silas shifted beside Wren, rummaging through his pack. “I was going to give you time before we talked about this, but you should know what you’re up against.”

He pulled a wrinkled parchment from the pack and gingerly handed it out, as if it were a blade. The golden tower seal flashed in the low light. Her heart sank as her eyes scanned the page.

The Havelle Registry Tower

Urgent Request—Reward Available for Verified Information

The following individuals are wanted for questioning regarding their involvement in the Witherborn attack.

Wren of the River Glen—faun, female, large horns. Spirit Weaver. Approach with extreme caution.

Orzen of Kettle Row—human, male, dark hair, armed. Crimson Brand. Considered dangerous.

Garin of the Marshland—dwarf, male, short stature. May carry volatile chemical materials.

Known associates:

Jessa of the Fountain District (young human female, dark skin, braided hair)

Branwynn of the Fountain District (halfling, curly hair, may be traveling with a small child)

Calen of the Pasturelands (young human male, light hair, nondescript)

Beneath the names were crude sketches—ink-blotted shadows of their faces. Not accurate enough to recognize them, but the names were all that mattered. Everyone already knew who she was.

Her name. Her face. Spirit Weaver. Approach with extreme caution. Wren’s stomach turned. Everything she’d tried to do at the festival—every fear she’d tried to ease—was undone by a single sheet of paper.

“They’ve put a price on us,” she muttered. “Of course.”

The parchment wrinkled in her grip. She glanced across the clearing. Orzen sat hunched near the embers, cradling his tin of coffee like it was the only normal thing left. She was still hurt. Still angry. He hadn’t been there when she’d needed him.

But he could’ve left since then.

She wouldn’t have blamed him if he had, especially after how dismissive she’d been. Instead, he’d followed her into the forest. Let her yell at him. Given her space when she wanted it and stayed nearby when she didn’t. And somehow, he was still here.

He couldn’t go back to Thistlehold. Not now. The moment he’d stood against Theordrin, he’d lost whatever place he might’ve carved out for himself there.

She didn’t want him dead. The Fist already tried once…

Orzen looked up like he heard her thinking about him.

Their eyes met, and something passed between them—quiet and heavy. Not forgiveness, simply an understanding that something new was wrong.

Wren stood, hooves whispering over fallen leaves. She didn’t speak, only held the parchment out, watching the quiet surprise flit across his features. He took it, his eyes moving across the page. The further he read, the deeper his brows furrowed.

“Burn it all,” he muttered. “Of course he did, the bastard.” He exhaled hard, then added with a bitter laugh, “Don’t need my face plastered everywhere. The Brand’ll come running after us too, if they see this.” His scowl deepened. “They got my brows wrong, though. Too bushy. A travesty, really.”

“Orzen, be serious,” Wren said, crossing her arms.

”I am serious,“ he said, eyes flicking up. “No one’s going to recognize us from these masterpieces. Whoever drew them clearly hates art.”

She sighed and half turned away, ready to argue, but Garin plucked the page from his hands. “Someone read this to me,” he said, holding it out. “I want to know why he’s hiding fear with humor again.”