Page 3

Across the market, Wren spotted a face she recognized—Lenora, the Water Weaver and healer in Thistlehold. Her small brown horns curved straight back from a closely cropped mane of graying hair. It’d been years since Wren had last seen her.

Her daughter, Leora, had been one of the few fauns in the River District who played with Wren when she was little. She mostly tried to avoid Lenora now if she could manage it. Between her presence at Pa’s death and Lenora’s grief when Leora disappeared, there was too much quiet between them.

The soft, melancholic notes of a bone-reed flute caught Wren’s attention, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Calen was only sixteen, but he regularly tended the farmstand for his father—usually alone, since his twin Cerys passed two cycles ago. Today, he sat on an overturned crate, dusty blonde hair falling long into his eyes as his fingers moved effortlessly over the instrument.

His skin was the warm yellow of dried wheat, and he often carried an easy smile—one of the few who shared the like with her here. An ever-present sadness hid within his eyes, a look she recognized. It was a grief they shared. She’d always been protective of him and his gentle heart.

“You’re getting better,” Wren said cheerfully.

Calen flinched, the flute slipping into his lap. “Oh—Miss Wren. I didn’t see you.” He stood quickly and tucked the flute into a pocket of his worn trousers. “Thank you for the compliment. I’m practicing some new songs. Jessa’s asked me to play behind her tales at Hearthroot.”

His gaze darted across toward the Turning Root, where Jessa would soon be serving drinks and clearing tables within. He blushed and rubbed the faint scruff on his chin, eager to change the subject.

“What can I get for you?”

Wren pulled her coin purse from her pack. “Ma said we need some turnips. Maybe a few onions, too. And a sack of sugar if you still have it.”

“Of course.” He nodded toward the crates with a shy smile. “I’ll grab you the best we’ve got. One moment.”

She wondered if he’d noticed the strangeness she’d seen in the plants, too. It wouldn’t be such a risk to ask him. A tug at her elbow caught the words in her throat, pulling her attention away.

She turned, and there was Frinna, Theordrin’s halfling housemaid. Her white bun was slightly askew, cheeks flushed, mouth set in a rigid line. Wren’s heart gave a small stutter. If Frinna was looking for her, it meant nothing good. The High Elder himself was not one to be ignored.

“Finally. I’ve been trudging over half the marketplace searching for you,” Frinna complained. “Would’ve given up, if Theordrin hadn’t been so insistent.”

The Elder never asked. He commanded.

Wren leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Is it the mintshade again? We sent more a few days ago.”

Frinna shook her head, brisk and weary. “No. He’s got enough to last him through Hearthroot. Still sour as vinegar, but that’s nothing new.” She flicked her gaze toward Calen and dropped her voice lower. “He needs to see you at the performance tents tomorrow.”

“Theordrin does?” Wren’s fingers dug into the leather coin purse, spine stiffening like a stem caught in frost. “Did he say why?”

Frinna shrugged, the motion clipped and controlled. “Didn’t hear much. Something about Hearthroot. As always, the Elder keeps his reasons close.” Her eyes cut to Wren with a pointed look, a warning more than an answer.

Wren had nothing to do with Hearthroot. She hadn’t even attended in years. “Could I not just…get it over with now?”

Frinna shook her head. “The Elder is quite busy,” she said stiffly, as if the words were so commonly spoken, they’d lost all meaning. “He has an appointment in the morning that he can’t delay. I’ll wait by the entrance to the Upper District before the midday bell and escort you.”

Calen’s gaze drifted between her and Frinna, brows knitting tight. Everyone understood who the halfling served and what it meant to be summoned. But he didn’t ask. No one questioned the Elder. Still, his curiosity lingered as he set the brown sack on the edge of the stand.

Wren nodded silently and set some coins beside the bag. “I’ll be there,” she mumbled to Frinna.

The halfling patted her hand and said, “Try not to think about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That was quite easier said than done. Wren clenched her teeth and slipped the coin purse back onto her belt. She wanted to tell herself it was nothing, but that was never the case with Theordrin.

Calen studied her, worrying thin, chapped lips until he finally blurted out, “There are people here watching out for you, Miss Wren.”

She nodded and mumbled a quiet thanks. He waved goodbye, then sat back down on his crate, boneflute resting on his knee.

The air thickened with each quick step away from Thistlehold, the day growing heavier than her pack. Slipping through the River Gate, she followed the dirt road down the slope, past the town’s grand waterwheel, toward the river’s edge. She had a few hiding spots along the walk home—quiet pockets where eyes couldn’t follow—but this one was her favorite. A quick stop would help clear her mind.

The hum of the village still reached her, softened by the river’s steady murmur and drifting birdsong overhead. She stepped down the slope to the fallen oak—long dead but still rooted—its gnarled base clinging stubbornly to the riverbank’s muddy edge. Tilting her horns back, she let the sunlight pour over her brow, heat loosening the worry knotted there.

She’d come here often, on days when the world pressed in and silence was the only thing that didn’t hurt. One memory rose clearer than the rest. Tavrin hadn’t said a word. Simply sat beside her, skipping stones across the water while she cried.

Thirteen years ago.