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“And Mira showed me her clubhouse!” Tommick went on breathlessly. “There was so much neat stuff and she said I should name my sword, so I named it Oak-Ender because it sounds neat.” Tommick finally paused for a breath. “But now I’m hungry.”

Before Orzen could respond, chaos erupted in the path. Mira burst from the same house carrying three dish-sized toads with too many rubbery legs. She grinned at Tommick and sprinted toward the lake, the creatures wriggling in her arms.

A middle-aged woman stormed out, shouting, “How many times have I told you to keep the polifrogs outside? There’s mud all over my—oh!” She stopped short when her gaze caught on Orzen, and she attempted to cover her shouting with a smile. “Be back before supper, dear!”

Orzen blinked, momentarily disoriented by how disarmingly normal it all felt—mud, frogs, a mother scolding her child while her eyes still shone with love. She didn’t seem angry, not really, only exasperated in the way people often got with particularly devious house cats.

“Sorry about that. You must be one of the newcomers.” She extended her hand. “Lyrah.”

“Orzen,” he said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm and unguarded. “She seems…lively.”

Lyrah laughed, eyeing him with open curiosity. “She’s a menace,” she said, fondness softening her words. “But she’s mine. Hollis is too—you’ll meet him eventually, unless the twins’ve dragged him across the whole forest on patrol again.” She gestured him inside. “Come on, we’ve got new clothes for everyone. Surely you’ll want to get out of that armor now that you have the chance. Ivon’s are certain to fit you best.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Orzen began, already turning toward escape.

Tommick reached high and grabbed his hand. “They’ve got loads of clothes. Nice ones! Come on, Orzen. You can’t wear armor all the time. We’re safe here.”

Orzen hadn’t even noticed Tommick’s new green-and-brown woven outfit. He exhaled slowly and followed.

A large man with a rough red beard—clearly Lyrah’s husband, Ivon—met him in the front room with a solid nod. “Can see why Lyrah said mine would fit.” He clasped Orzen’s hand. “Could use someone like you on patrol, if you decide to stay.”

Orzen rubbed the back of his neck. “Not sure what my plan is yet. But…thanks.”

The house was cozy, if you looked past the odd muddy splotches dotting the floor. Shelves of sewing supplies lined one wall, cluttered with forest trinkets that were clearly Mira’s doing. A painted family portrait hung over the mantle featuring Lyrah, Mira, Ivon, and a young man around Jessa and Calen’s age that must’ve been Hollis. It was lived in and well-loved—joyful in a way Orzen had rarely experienced.

Two open wardrobes sat by the window, stuffed with clothes in every size—donations from past visitors and Gladeans alike. Orzen shifted, leather armor creaking in the hush until Ivon pulled free a dark green tunic and black trousers, handing them over. The fabric was sturdy but light. Easy to move in. Softer than anything Orzen would’ve chosen for himself, but they looked like they’d fit.

“Thank you.” Orzen folded the clothes with precision and tucked them under his arm. “Really. They look great,” he told Ivon as he edged toward the door. “I’ll uh…I’ll go try them on.”

“Have you rested?” Lyrah asked gently. “You look exhausted. Maybe a visit to Wendall would do.”

“Oh, I’m good,” he said, trying for a calm smile.

“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.” Her expression softened like she’d seen right through him. “It’s okay to rest. We all came here for different reasons. Running from things, people, situations we never should’ve found ourselves in…” Her hand came to his shoulder, tender and safe. He had to fight the urge to flinch against it.

He looked away before she could see whatever had crossed his face. His heart hammered against his ribs. For a beat, flames flashed before his eyes, but he blinked them away.

“I’d offer you tea, but I won’t hold you captive.” She patted his arm. “And Orzen…?” He’d turned to leave, but she added, “Don’t forget to stop running when you get where you’re supposed to be.”

It sounded a lot like Tavrin’s words to him all those days ago in Thistlehold. He swallowed around the knot in his throat. “I’ll uh…try to remember that.” Then he stepped outside.

“Where you going now?” Tommick beamed up at him, hugging Grub like a moss-covered pillow. “Can I come too?”

Orzen shrugged and jerked his chin toward the clearing where he’d noticed the scent of baking. “Come on, kid. You said you were hungry. Let’s find you something to eat.”

Grub chirruped in Tommick’s arms as the boy trotted behind him, balancing Oak-Ender in one hand. They circled the lake, where Mira was ankle-deep chasing more polifrogs through the reeds. Smoke curled ahead.

“Oooh, I smell bread!” Tommick tore off toward the ovens.

The scent hit Orzen, thick and rich. He slowed when laughter rang out. He didn’t even have to look to know it was Wren. He hesitated. He could come back later. Tommick would be safe here. He didn’t need to—

Tommick’s curly head popped back around the trees. “Are you coming? Wren’s here too.”

Orzen ground his teeth and trudged forward until the stone ovens were barely visible. Wren leaned against the worktable, a half-eaten scone dangling from her fingers. She was laughing at something Wendall said—some booming, animated tale about baking Orzen couldn’t make sense of from this distance.

The joy of it caught him in the ribs. She hadn’t laughed like that since the pebblet races. Her shoulders were loose, her eyes bright, at ease for the first time in days. Good. She deserved that.

So why was his jaw still so damned tight?