Page 17

Branwynn huffed and sipped her tea. “Whatever’s wrong in this town, that elf’s hand is in it. That one wants more power than his Chair gives him. He even had his men tearing up the garden.”

The words sent a chill through Wren. The community garden was a small slice of nature preserved in the center of the district—a place where people could gather food for themselves free of charge. She’d been so fixed on her own concerns, she’d missed the bigger truth. Theordrin’s grip wasn’t creeping anymore. It was closing.

“Have hope, dear. These people, this village…they won’t let him tear it apart,” Branwynn said gently. “You’ll see. They stand up for what’s right when it matters.”

The words were meant as kindness but hit sharp enough to sting. Wren remembered every time she’d felt alone. Ignored. Watched from a distance. Never truly welcomed. If Branwynn was right, then she simply hadn’t mattered enough to the people in Thistlehold.

“I guess so. Only sometimes it—”

A scream split the air.

“Tommi!” Branwynn was out of her chair and through the door in an instant. Wren stumbled after her, bursting into the yard—and froze.

Thick chokevines writhed around Tommick’s small frame, dragging him toward the gnarled base of a root. The tendrils pulsed, swollen, unnaturally large, their slick surfaces twitching like muscle under skin. They constricted with every breath, squeezing his small limbs.

Branwynn clawed at them, desperate, but they only thickened, pulsing as if alive. Wren dropped beside them without thinking. Her hands pressed to the vine’s slick surface, and her magic leaped within it. The vine’s threads coiled beneath her fingertips, stubborn as storm clouds. She didn’t ask, didn’t weigh the risk. She reached in and pulled.

The weave bucked hard, trying to stitch itself back together. She pushed deeper, teeth grating, the heat of the effort burning through her chest. Then, with a final shove, the cords snapped. The vines shriveled, curling back from Tommick, crumbling into black husks that blew away like ash.

Tommick slumped forward, Branwynn catching him tight against her chest. He shivered, eyes wide, but he was safe.

Wren reached for him—

Pain seared across her forearm, white-hot, pulling her breath into a gasp. She clutched her arm, vision blurring.

Black roots splitting stone. A tree bleeding sap. A whisper, low and heavy: It is weakening. She blinked, and it was gone, leaving only the throbbing pain beneath her skin.

Branwynn’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Are you hurt, dear?”

Wren forced herself to shake her head, to steady her voice, even as the dread brought on by the visions coursed through her.

“I’m okay.”

It wasn’t true. But it let Branwynn turn back to Tommick.

When she was sure they weren’t watching, Wren tugged her sleeve back. A mark had bloomed into her skin—neither wound nor scar. A waning crescent moon—Thornsmile—its outline cradling delicate flowers that climbed into the light.

The rest was shaded black, a velvety sweep of shadow. Moonlight caught mid-phase, split between light and darkness. The mark pulsed, aching but manageable—a second heartbeat beneath her skin.

She didn’t know what it meant, but it didn’t feel like a curse or a bad omen. It was simply there, etched into her skin. She pulled her sleeve down, hiding it. People stared too easily. Even if they cared for you on the surface. Especially when you were already a little strange.

Once Tommick’s breathing eased, Branwynn gathered them back inside.

“I try to keep up with the vines, but I’ve never seen them grow that fast.” She busied herself pouring a cup of tea with shaking hands as she spoke. “Do you think Garin might have a potion to keep it from growing back? I can’t have Tommi playing out there with the plants so…” she mumbled, shaking her head, gaze drifting toward the back door. “…aggressive.”

“It is strange,“ Wren agreed. “I’ll talk to him for you.”

Branwynn nodded gratefully. Tommick detached himself from his mother’s skirts and tugged at the hem of Wren’s. He barely reached her knee, his curls soft as his mother’s. Wren knelt, and he leaned in, small hand brushing the curve of her horn.

“Thank you, Miss Wren,” he whispered, his voice small and hoarse. The tenderness nearly undid her. She hugged him close, whispering that she was glad he was safe.

Branwynn embraced her too, then pressed a bundle of honey cakes into her hands. Wren left quietly, picturing Tommick curled against his mother, over-sugared and safe.

Her thoughts lingered on Tommick’s thanks. She’d used her weaving without hesitation in front of others—to heal, not to harm. That should have brought peace. Instead, the mark throbbed beneath her sleeve, a reminder that nothing came without a cost.

The sun stretched higher. She hated the thought Theordrin might see her mark, so she tugged the cloak over her arm and rushed onward. No matter how much she wanted to turn and run the other way, she had to head toward Rootkeep Glen.

Theordrin despised lateness.