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Any man with coin could buy gossip—it was the currency of the Auric Shore. But the mention of Dravek pressed against his ribs. Names like that didn’t fall in a room like this by accident. He should have left. Stood, thanked them, and went. Instead, the memory of the promised coin caught like a hook in his side.

Just a few days, long enough to fill his purse.

“Let’s get to the job,” he said. “What kind of security?”

The hulking man beside Theordrin barked a laugh, the sound echoing like Orzen’s question was a particularly funny joke.

Theordrin’s smile was small, but pleased. “Straight to business. How efficient.” He set his mug aside and leaned forward, voice dropping like a confidant. “It’s simple, really. Both our people and our walls here in Thistlehold are fracturing. Hearthroot is an important event, and it must proceed without incident. You will root out the weakness in both structure and citizen, for the good of the town.”

So that was the job. Marking walls and people Theordrin found suspicious. Orzen had run from the Brand to escape this kind of shadow-work, but it had a long reach.

“I’ll watch and report,” Orzen said flatly. “Your guard can break bones. I’m not here for your politics.”

“Report back before the festival,” Theordrin said lightly. “Safety depends on vigilance. Small fractures collapse if ignored. You understand that, don’t you?”

Theordrin’s smile thinned, humorless. He drew a folded parchment from his cloak and slid it across the desk like a blade. It rasped beneath Orzen’s thumb, dry as old bone. A heavy purse followed, landing with a dull thud that resounded in Orzen’s chest. The key was in his pocket, the parchment under his palm. The noose tightened.

“I won’t hurt anyone for you,” Orzen said.

Theordrin’s look was patient—a father to his confused child. “You’ll do what the job demands. When you see the rot spreading through this town, you may find your resolve…adjusted. The Cycle does not pause for sentiment.”

“We’ll see,” Orzen said. He took the purse anyway—his morals carried less weight than the opportunity inside. It soured his stomach even as he slipped it onto his belt.

The coin was heavier than it should’ve been.

He didn’t need to count it to know what it cost.

Theordrin didn’t bother to reply. He rose—cloak settling like a closing curtain—and left. His guard followed behind with a smug sneer. Frinna lingered in the doorway, her eyes carrying a brief judgment before she slipped away.

Silence pressed in until Orzen couldn’t stand it. He carried his mug back to the main room, settling at a corner table, shadows at his back. He unfolded the note, the parchment crinkling under his fingers. It wasn’t only a list of people to watch—it was charges against those Theordrin didn’t like; names twisted into verdicts. A ledger penned by a man who mistrusted anyone who didn’t fit neatly in his design for order. At the bottom, a scrawl of flagged locations, tossed in with hurried ink as if they were an afterthought.

First, a dwarf named Garin. Blind. But do not underestimate. Sees more than he lets on. Next, Brunna, the faun smith. Gets in the way too often. Watch closely. Then a halfling named Pell: Owl-eyed tyrant. Keeper of goods. Meddles in charms.

Orzen snorted. Tyrant was colorful. He could almost respect that. These were less petty grudges, more unusual folk. He’d half-expected a roll of tedious villagers who’d annoyed the Elder. Then he read the next line, and the air shifted.

Marrowen—faun herbalist.

Her daughter—Wren—Spirit Weaver.

Spirit Weaver…now that was interesting. That was a mark few carried. It made men greedy. And afraid. He’d met a handful in his life. They’d always inspired more curiosity than fear in him. Silly to fear something just because you didn’t understand it.

Theordrin’s note beside the Spirit Weaver’s name: quick, bitter, dangerous. Do not be deceived by her magic.

Dangerous in ledger-ink could mean violent…or simply inconvenient. Either way, the word stuck.

The beads of Jessa’s braids chimed as she reappeared with a carafe, steam curling from its spout. She refilled his mug with a steady hand, eyes too keen for someone so young.

“Not everyone walks away from a meeting with Theordrin,” she said. Her glance flicked to the sword at his back. “You must have stories.”

For a moment, it seemed she might press for them. Then she caught the last stubborn drips of coffee with a stained towel, slid the mug back toward him, and let the silence fill in the rest.

He caught a better look at her fingers—ink-stained, nails short and worn. Interesting. He’d have to be careful around this one. She might truly collect stories, and his was one no one needed to be drawn into. He thanked her for the refill, and she offered a small nod before slipping back through the heavy kitchen door.

Light narrowed into thin bars along the wooden floor through the windows. A widening shaft of light cut across the scuffed floorboards as the front door sighed open, followed by a gust of damp air. A faun stood framed in the threshold. Female, a few years younger than him by the look of it.

“Wren!” Jessa squealed, darting forward to greet the faun. The kitchen’s clatter spilled into the room with her joy.

So, this was Wren? Theordrin’s so-called threat looked…small. Brittle. Careful. But Spirit weaving meant power, and power was rarely obvious at first glance. He kept his gaze casual, attention soft, storing every detail—the measured steps, the way each one apologized for being there.