Page 23

The men froze, and their faces twisted. What they saw wasn’t real, but she made them see it anyway: boils and sores, bubbling and bursting across their skin. Not neat illusions easily dismissed, but images born of jagged fury. The foreman ripped at his cloak and bolted for the far wall, the other two scrambling after him in a tangle of fear. The whisper inside her laughed as they clawed at themselves.

Their howls echoed in Wren’s chest, painful and terrible—and gods help her, part of her thrilled at it. For one breath, she wished their pain had been real.

It hadn’t been the gentle rise of Spirit she was used to. This had been a flood, violent and wrong, fed by something broken inside her that had simply been waiting for the chance to run free.

Then the rush drained. The hum faltered. The light burned out of her eyes. She staggered, arms hugging her chest as she sank to her knees in the churned soil. For a heartbeat, both the garden and her mark listened, waiting to see if she’d breathe steadily again.

The whispered voice was gone. But the brief joy she’d felt, the satisfaction at harming those who’d harmed others, sank into her skin like an echo of that voice.

“No,” she murmured to herself. “No, that’s not what I am.”

Reaching for a lavender bush half-torn from the soil, she called her magic once more, desperate to prove the violence she’d chosen hadn’t changed it. It answered the way it always had—a soft thread plucked in her chest.

For a moment, it trickled outward, safe and familiar. But the second it touched the plant, the magic slammed back into her—black and choking, thick as sap bleeding from a dying tree. She gasped, yanking her hand back, tears springing hot to her eyes. Her stomach heaved. Bile rose fast, but she forced it down. The mark on her arm itched, and she hid it beneath her sleeve.

Did corruption grow too strong here, or had she carried it inside her all along? She wasn’t sure which scared her more.

Chapter 8

Woven by Chance, Bound by Choice

The house was dark and quiet when Wren slipped into bed. The mark had stopped thrumming, but warmth still lingered under her skin. Exhaustion pulled her down the moment her head hit the pillow—but it wasn’t restful.

Images tore through her sleep: the faces of the Fist contorted in fear; chokevines coiling around Tommick’s limbs; the flare of the mark burning into her arm. And beneath it all, a creeping, suffocating sense—something was coming. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

Then the world shifted.

She stood in the darkened heart of the woods. A ruined shrine rose before her, its broken stones jagged, gnarled roots blackened but still clinging to life as they crawled up shattered steps. At the center, a tree stretched, its trunk split wide. The wound pulsed like a heartbeat, forcing black sap to bleed down the bark, pooling thick at its roots.

Beware. The seal weakens. The words stretched toward her like a seedling through soil.

Another voice followed, cold and ravenous. I am waiting.

The tree throbbed, and in the silence that followed, the earth breathed—sweet and foul at once—alive with hunger.

Wren woke up with a gasp, breath jagged in her lungs. The house was dark. Marrowen’s soft snore drifted from the other room, grounding her, pulling her back.

She dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her eyes, her fingers brushing over the solid spirals of her horns. She forced herself to breathe slowly through her nose, letting the cool, herb-scented air fill her lungs. Her pulse steadied, but the soreness in her shoulders wouldn’t ease, as if the voices had slipped into her bones.

Whispering. Waiting.

The morning sun eased over Thistlehold, but Wren was anything but gentle. Sleep hadn’t come readily—the dream’s shadows still snagged in the corners of her mind. Her mark pulsed faintly, a reminder of the power she’d unleashed in the garden…and the intense bloom of satisfaction that followed.

The village was waking fast: crates slamming onto carts, shutters banging open, voices too bright, too cheerful. Every sound scraped, a claw dragging across her already frayed nerves.

Pell’s waiting order of wakeroot tea had been the only thing dragging her from bed. That, and the guilt of keeping him waiting.

She was passing the fountain, the statue of Elaren looming beside it, when she saw him. The man from the inn—the one Brunna had confronted yesterday.

His tall frame leaned against the Turning Root’s post, steam curling from the mug in his hand. Black leather armor hung over broad shoulders, scuffed enough that it wasn’t only worn for show. A slight crook in his nose suggested he was more familiar with fights than quiet towns like Thistlehold. Over his shoulder, she could make out the hilt of his sword. A weapon that large wasn’t carried for protection. Especially not one maintained as carefully as his seemed to be.

Inky black hair fell long across one side of his brow, nearly shadowing the right half of his face in the sharp morning light. But it wasn’t enough to obscure his warm brown eyes—too wary and observant for her liking. His gaze found hers and held.

Wren slowed, the sounds of the courtyard fading as she narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. Most strangers at least pretended to mind their own business. He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the steam curling from his mug. His expression pulled into a mask of indifference that she could see right through.

Townsfolk’s suspicion was one thing. Strangers staring, like they knew her better than she knew herself—that slithered under her skin like splinters.

She should’ve ignored it, but she was tired of being watched and whispered about and far too exhausted to stop herself. She drew a breath, set her jaw, and crossed the space between them.