Page 22
Whispered Cries
It was well past time to head home. Theordrin had insisted his seamstress take Wren’s measurements, calling it an honor, as if new clothes could disguise the threat clinging to his “request.” His voice carried that cruel patience of his, the kind that cut deeper than shouting.
“A Spirit Weaver should look the part,” he’d said, like he was offering her a gift instead of binding her in silk and debt. He’d smiled when she flinched, as if he knew that discomfort was the only honest answer she could give.
A loud caw startled her out of her thoughts. The raven flew high overhead—too far to tell if it was Watcher or not. She chose to believe it was. The thought that he was there—that the place Leora mentioned in the mysterious letter might exist—was a comfort. As much as she’d like to run away from her problems, Wren had her mother to think about. She couldn’t abandon her. Not with Theordrin always one step away with plans she couldn’t discern.
She should’ve gone home directly, but Branwynn’s comment about the community garden nagged at her thoughts. Theordrin was systematically destroying Thistlehold piece by piece. First the red Xs posted on houses in the Lower District—condemnation of both the house and the family that lived within—now this. She needed to see it for herself.
She rounded away from the Upper District, cutting through side roads lined with packed dirt. When she came upon the garden, her hooves faltered.
It was worse than she imagined.
The iron arch at its entrance had been twisted back on itself, its base wrenched half out of the earth. Honeysuckle and starlight vine still clung stubbornly to the frame, but their blooms hung limp, roots torn and dangling like broken limbs.
Her stomach lurched. Three men she’d never seen before worked within. Two tore the garden apart with mallets and shovels, the third held a scroll half-unfurled in his grip—surely papers that sanctioned the destruction.
Even from a distance, Wren caught the glint of gold pinned to their shirts. Theordrin’s men. Fear twisted in her gut.
The foreman noticed her first. He lowered his scroll, dark eyes lighting with recognition—and something meaner behind it. His lips curled.
“Fellows,” he called. “Look who’s come to bless our work. The Spirit Weaver herself.”
The men traded smirks, as if they’d been waiting for her. The one with the shovel turned fully, his grin tugging at a scar that split his cheek.
“That twig’s the Spirit Weaver?” His laugh scraped rough as gravel. “You come to scare us off, little mouse?”
She should’ve let them be. Should’ve walked away and pretended she’d never seen them. It wasn’t her place to fix this. But staying small hadn’t kept her safe from Theordrin’s intentions, and it wouldn’t save Thistlehold either.
Her mother’s voice rose in her memory: You’ve always believed you could do hard things. She wasn’t a child anymore. This time, she couldn’t avoid the conflict. Not when they were tearing apart something she loved.
“You have no right to do this.” Her gaze swept the crushed herbs, the ruined vines. She tried to keep her voice level, but the tremor broke through anyway. “Why destroy this place?”
The other worker spat, dark phlegm sinking into the dirt. “Coin is coin, no matter how you earn it. Move along.”
Heat climbed up her throat, anger knotting with helplessness. “What could Theordrin possibly want with this land?”
The foreman barely looked at her. He waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. Behind him, a post ripped from a broken garden bed jutted from the soil—bark splintered raw at the edges.
A notice was nailed to it, ink bold and crisp:
Future site of the Havelle Registry Tower
The gap-toothed man only grinned wider. “Don’t concern yourself with politics, mouselette.” The others chuckled and bent back to their work, dismissing her like she was nothing at all.
Her mark flashed beneath her cloak like a warning.
The scarred one lumbered toward a splintered stump—once the base of a proud apple tree. At its roots lay a toppled nest, eggs cracked open in the dirt…all but one. He paused when he noticed it. Then he held her gaze, eyes flat and empty, as he ground it under his boot. The last egg cracked with a soft wet pop, the yolk dripping down the side of the stump.
Everything froze for one dreadful moment. Even the flies stopped buzzing. She couldn’t tear herself away from the sight. Rage boiled within her, tearing outward, clawing for release. The longer she stared, the stronger its pull became.
Something shattered inside her. Fury surged, ragged and uncontrolled, but it wasn’t alone. A whisper slipped in beside it—thick and cloying, sweet as overripe fruit.
Break them. Let them rot. They’ll learn only through ruin.
The voice wasn’t hers. But it braided with her grief, her rage, until she couldn’t tell where one ended, and the other began.
Her breath came sharp and fast. Magic buzzed beneath her skin, streaming toward her rigid fingers. She couldn’t stop it even if she wanted to—and she didn’t want to. Silver light burned behind her eyes, and the mark screamed in pain within her skin.
