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Garin gave a huff—almost a laugh. “I talked. He listened.” He placed the moss gently among the offerings. “I still miss him…solid friend.”

Marrowen let out a long-held breath. Her voice was thick when she said, “Thank you for your offering.” She took another deep breath to steady herself. “It’s my turn.”

From a pocket, she drew a small, striped feather. “I offer a wren feather.” She swallowed hard, her voice catching. “You’d think after thirteen years, this would be easier.”

Garin didn’t touch her, but he placed his hand on the table beside hers—a small, silent offer of support. Her mother’s hand shook as she dabbed at her eyes, then slowly settled her palm over his rough knuckles. Her lips twitched into a wavering smile.

“I’m okay,” she breathed, more for herself than for anyone else.

She laid her other hand over Wren’s. “I knew for weeks that you were in there—even before your little hooves started kicking.” A watery laugh caught in her throat. “There were whispers in my dreams. Voices I didn’t recognize. Encouragement from family who’d passed. Some I’d never even met, but their voices felt like home. I couldn’t wait much longer to tell him.”

Her gaze grew distant. “One day in the garden, he’s staring at me, and I think—this is it. I should tell him. But then he says, ‘What should we name her?’ Just like that.“ She let out a soft, broken laugh, tears streaming freely now. “He was beaming. Said it was a doe. And then we hear it—a little bird singing like a sign.”

She looked at her daughter, fierce love in her eyes. “He said, ‘Her name is Wren.’ And he was right.”

Her soft, trembling hand squeezed Wren’s, and at last, Wren looked up. Firelight fractured in her eyes until every flame doubled. She blinked it away. Ma’s smile was small but filled with a depth of love that made her heart ache.

Wren had been loved fiercely, even before she was born. Her mother. Tavrin. Garin. Brunna. They still loved her the same way. But the whispers in town had clung to her skin like rot, building up over cycles until they’d become the only thing she saw—turning her into the Meyra of lore, into fear, into something other than herself. They’d convinced her she was born to steal souls, not carry memory and burden. And worse—she’d believed it. But it hadn’t always been true. It didn’t have to be now.

With care, Ma reached forward and tucked one end of the feather beside the clump of moss.

Wren swallowed, aware of the quiet shift in the room—the way all eyes now turned to her. The weight of it settled into her bones as if the words themselves had turned to stones, pressing against her ribs. Thirteen years she’d waited to offer this memory.

Chapter 3

A Memory Carved in Wood

Adeep bellow shattered the air. Wren’s head snapped up, quickly wiping her muddy hands on her already soiled tunic. It almost sounded like words. The sun pressed hot against her skin as the garden stilled. Something was wrong. A dread she couldn’t explain sank into her bones. She ran.

The garden blurred past, every leaf shivered with her. She tripped and caught herself hard against the rough trunk of the ash tree. Her palm stung, the bark biting into her skin, but she pushed herself forward. She reached the garden’s edge, breath hitching in short, uneven bursts.

The road cut through the fields toward the Virewood—too far to see clearly. She squinted against the bright sunlight. A figure, no, two of them, struggling, stumbling toward the house.

Another shout—closer now. It hit her chest like a stone.

Wren’s hooves skidded on loose stones. She slammed into the door, throwing it open. Her mother turned, her pointed glare shifting to wide-eyed concern when Wren burst through the door, eyes wild and unfocused.

“Marrowen!” The desperate shout came again, rough, and raw, echoing up the hill. Marrowen pushed past Wren, her skirt catching against the doorframe. Wren’s body tensed, her pulse drumming in her ears.

It was Garin. He’d been with Pa. She stumbled back over the threshold. The realization struck hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Her gaze flew to the figures at the gate—Garin’s broad form, jaw clenched, blue eyes wild with a panic so foreign on his features it sent a chill down her spine.

And the second figure. Leaner. Limp. Her father.

Pa’s head hung low, his face ashen. A dark crimson blotch slowly spread down his torso, staining his shirt. Garin hauled him forward, panting in ragged, uneven breaths.

No. Wren’s mind clung to the word. It reverberated in her head like a struck bell, repeating over and over—a desperate, silent plea.

Her mother reached Garin first, looping her arm under Pa’s other shoulder, her face pale but steady, and together they heaved him through the open door.

The world fractured into jagged bursts—sound, movement, color all warped, slow and wrong. Garin and Marrowen half-carried Pa into the kitchen, his hooves dragging against the rough wooden floors. In one sweeping motion, Marrowen cleared the kitchen table.

Everything flew—dishes shattering, clay splintering, glass cracking. Herbs scattered like dry leaves in a storm. They heaved him onto the table, horns hitting hard against the surface. His eyes stayed closed. His breath was a rasping gurgle.

Wren breathed heavily, her eyes unfocused, darting wildly from the bloody trail on the floorboards to her mother’s trembling hands. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath. The world narrowed to the thunder in her ears.

Garin was saying something. She saw his lips moving, but the sound was out of sync, distant and warped.

“—bigger than I’ve ever seen. Wasn’t right. Horns of stone. Shouldn’t have gone so far in. I’m sorry.” His words rushed out like water from a shattered cistern—too fast, too frantic to catch.