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Marda beamed. “He’s been so good to me. So polite. Except for that curse, young man—is your thumb all right?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’ll heal.”

“It’s lovely seeing you with such a caring friend, dear.” Her gaze drifted somewhere between them. “You’re both cut from the same cloth, I think.”

Wren kept her gaze fixed on the mourningveil, fingers narrowing around the stems. “We’re not exactly—”

“I should probably let you two talk,” he said quickly, backing down the path. “Busy day ahead—things to do, so—”

“Nonsense.” Marda waved a dismissive hand. “You’re going to at least stay for lunch. Can’t go off without a good meal in you.”

He hesitated. “That dinner yesterday was filling, I—”

“How are you two supposed to get to know each other if you don’t talk?” Her brow arched—so sharp it could’ve carved runes into stone. “You’re so awkward it hurts to watch. The only cure is spending more time together.”

Wren fidgeted with the strap of her satchel. She could feel Orzen’s gaze hovering at her back—uncertain, caught between amusement and a silent plea for rescue.

“Marda, really, we aren’t—”

“Wren, dear,” Marda said sweetly, “indulge an old woman for a moment.” Turning toward him, she added, “Young man, come in for a meal. The world’s too lonely without friends, and you’ve got a perfectly fine one right here.”

There was no mischief in her tone—only calm, rooted firmness; the kind that came from living long enough to stop wrapping truth in lace.

Wren turned slightly, meeting his eyes. A silent understanding passed between them: Marda would not yield, and objection was pointless. He nodded and disappeared toward the back to wash up. She tugged absently at one horn while Marda turned inside and bustled between cupboards. Once Marda had momentum, there was no stopping her.

“Be a dear and start some water for us,” Marda called over her shoulder. “We’ll need tea for this conversation.”

Conversation? Wren’s stomach flipped. She loved Marda, but this wasn’t shaping into the calming morning she’d hoped for. Still, she carried the mourningveil to Ferlan’s altar, tucking it gently into the old vase. Then she turned to the hearth, filled the pot from the jug, and set it over the fire.

Marda was already seated when Wren brought the hissing pot. The table held delicate cups. Soft biscuits lay on mismatched plates, and porridge steamed in a pot at the center.

Heavy footsteps followed. Orzen paused in the doorway as if he was still considering if he could get away, then gave up and lowered himself into the chair across from Wren with a dangerous creak of wood. She scooped a large enough spoonful into her mouth to keep it busy. Slightly sweet, simple, and filling—exactly what she needed.

The company, less so.

He grimaced when he sipped his tea but didn’t complain. Lifting his spoon, he said around a mouthful of biscuit, “Never thought porridge could taste this good.”

“It’s the honey,” Marda said as if sharing a secret. “Fresh from my neighbor’s hive last week.”

He nodded as though it was fascinating. Wren rolled her eyes, studying him quietly. Without the armor, he looked less dangerous—even ordinary. Almost. Ordinary men in Thistlehold weren’t built like him—all muscles and scars. And they certainly didn’t carry themselves like him—haunted by the weight of the steel at his back.

“So,” Marda said brightly, “you’re new around here. How did you two meet?”

Wren coughed into her mug and risked a glance over the rim. Across the table, he stared down into his bowl like a man hoping to disappear. Marda waited, patient and unblinking, reading the silence between them better than sight ever could.

“He was staring at me,” Wren said finally, fighting the twitch of a smile as his eyes narrowed.

“I was glancing in her direction,“ he corrected, tone too careful to be casual.

“Glancing hard enough, Brunna saw you as a threat.”

“Dear, Brunna sees threats around every corner.” Marda barked a laugh. Her amusement softened as she turned toward him. “Why were you staring? Don’t tell me you’re one of those fools who think Spirit weaving’s a curse?”

His brow creased, as if the idea were absurd. “It’s a tool, same as any other magic. No different from Earth or Water.”

Her father had said almost the same thing once—People aren’t afraid of saws or hammers. They’re tools, just like Spirit. All depends on how you use them. The memory caught her off guard. She swallowed her next bite slowly.

“Because she’s a faun then?” Marda asked. “Not many in your homeland?”