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Hennah moved at once, uncorking her ink and scribbling onto a scrap of parchment with swift, practiced strokes. When she finished, she dusted it quickly and pressed the page into Wren’s trembling hands.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she said. “It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it matters. Keep this. I don’t know what it means yet. But you might…one day.”
The parchment wavered in Wren’s grip. She folded it and tried to tuck it away like it was simply paper and ink—like the weight of the words hadn’t shifted something inside her. She wanted to believe she wasn’t ready because maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to be. There was still time. There had to be.
But Hennah’s gaze told her otherwise.
The brightness in her eyes had dimmed, shadowed not by fear but by sorrow—for the burden she had handed over.
“I don’t blame you,” Wren said softly, her voice catching with insistence. “You didn’t choose this any more than I did.”
Something eased in Hennah’s face. Maybe she was as lonely as Wren, but simply better at hiding it.
“You have much to think on,” Hennah said softly. “But if you ever want to learn more about this power,” she gently touched Wren’s forearm where the mark still tingled, “Mirror Vale would welcome you with open arms.”
Mirror Vale, Velhya’s Glade, so many new places she’d never dreamed of visiting before, but Tavrin’s journal weighed heavily in her satchel—a silent reminder that she could, if she tried. Wren told Hennah she’d consider it, then quietly stepped outside. The mild mid-morning air wrapped around her like a cloak. She walked slowly through the rows of tents, the parchment pressing unseen against her ribs.
The prophecy would remain between them. Not something secret, something sacred. A thread stitched between two Spirit Weavers, sewn into that quiet place where truth and burden met.
Chapter 10
A Good Deed for the Damned
Orzen’s boots hit the cobblestones hard as he stalked the alley flanking the outer wall—actually doing his job for once. Wall-watching didn’t require stealth, which was a blessing, since he was apparently incapable of subtlety.
The conversation with Wren looped in his head like a bad refrain. There wasn’t a curse strong enough to cover that disaster. He hadn’t even been watching her—not really.
She’d come storming across the square like she meant to fight a god, and she’d happened to catch him looking. Lucky him.
And then he’d chased her down like a madman.
Not creepily.
He groaned, dragging his hand down his face. What was he thinking? She’d caught him completely off guard, and he’d cracked like a poorly tempered blade. And Pell—gods, that man was terrifying. Half his size and somehow twice as intimidating. Worse still, Orzen kind of respected him.
Wren was quiet, yes, but not in the way he’d expected. There was a steadiness to her, a meekness that looked weak to anyone not really paying attention.
He wasn’t foolish enough to read it that way.
She’d been right. He had followed her, and he knew more than he should’ve for a simple stranger. The townsfolk arced around her, avoided stepping too close, whispering at her back when she passed. She had every reason to leave. He’d seen people run from worse. Hells, he’d run away himself, more than once.
The fact that she was still here after the treatment she endured, stuck in his chest. It took more than sheer will to weather disdain for that long.
And now here he was, breaking one of his rules—taking a job that made him linger too long. He’d learned that staying made leaving harder, and leaving was the only thing he’d ever been good at. With Dravek still alive, and the Brand at his heels, running was the only safe option. But it didn’t feel that way this time, and he refused to examine why that was.
Had he forgotten everything he’d promised himself?
Easy jobs. Don’t get attached. Leave quickly.
Gods help him—he was failing at all three.
He was supposed to be watching for trouble. Not thinking about people. Not caring about whether they deserved better. Whatever Theordrin was planning, Orzen needed to stay vigilant, or he’d get caught up in something far too complicated.
Theordrin reminded him of a Zephrite—the traveling Air Weaver bards that performed sleight of hand while spinning grand tales. He was an expert at distraction with fine words and grand displays of power, all the while slipping a blade to their backs. Orzen wasn’t interested in being his next victim.
No distractions. No more slip-ups. Be ready to walk away.
Nothing to note along the northern wall. Most of the damage was along the patch nearest the Virewood. He needed a good meal and some strong alcohol to knock the day from his memory, but the square was choked with bodies when he tried to reach the Root. Voices rose; every eye turned toward the statue of Elaren.
