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“Just a few bites. You’ll feel better if you try,” Jessa crooned, her voice low and gentle like a tone she’d use with a startled animal.

Wren nodded absently and brought the bread to her mouth, but it was clear she wasn’t really tasting it. He slipped Quillbury’s berries from his pocket and quietly set them beside the bread.

“Thought you might like these,” he said, ready to turn back to his own cottage. Before he moved, she slid her hand over his. His heart jolted hard enough that for a moment he forgot why he’d meant to walk away at all.

“Thank you,” she whispered, pulling her hand away.

It was the first words she’d said in days.

Jessa caught his eye over Wren’s shoulder, the concern in them softening to hope. She nodded encouragingly and her shoulders dropped when Wren rolled one of the berries between her fingers.

He’d come back later, when she needed him. Right now, she needed space. As he stepped through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of her slipping one of the berries into her mouth. It wasn’t healing, but it was progress.

Garin’s words settled heavier now. Wren might be the one who believed in preserving the goodness in the world. That was fine. Orzen would simply make sure it didn’t break her for trying.

Chapter 52

In the Keeper’s Shadow

Wren barely remembered trudging back to the Glade with the others after leaving the Heartwood. Days passed but the memories refused to stay whole. They flickered in bits and pieces, but it always started with Hollis’s rites.

Ivon had clasped his son’s hand until Wendall dragged him away. The pyre smoke, thick with sage and rose. Lyrah’s broken wail. Mira’s anger, fragile and bitter. So many tears by the end of it that Wren’s whole body was sore from them.

Leora did her best to make things normal. The broken seed was replaced without ceremony. Velhya’s final sacrifice, the seed that grew from her sapling, now sat on the pedestal, glowing like a golden beacon. Now present even in death.

The Gladeans wept and baked, danced and mourned—living the only way they knew how. But the sadness never really left.

It woke Wren in the middle of the night. The quiet ache that reminded her others had died because of her choices. Another family fractured like hers had been, like Calen’s, like Orzen’s. Like so many others in Thistlehold. She hadn’t caused them all, but it was still evidence of hurt she couldn’t heal. Pain without end.

She’d always believed her weaving could help others, but even that was out of reach now—as if her Spirit was locked within a vault she couldn’t touch.

So she lay beneath her blankets, staring at the wooden beams, letting the world care for itself for once.

On the fourth day—her body heavy and hollow—she lay half-awake, when she heard Jessa and Orzen whispering about her. They must have thought she was asleep. She was too tired to correct them.

“I think we need to switch places,” Jessa said, voice low and careful. “You stay here. I go next door. Nothing I’ve said has helped. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Orzen’s silence spoke louder than any words. She didn’t want to overhear what he might say anyway. She’d already spent days feeling guilty over the sympathy in his voice. Instead, she tried to sleep for real.

Hours later, she opened bleary eyes to find Orzen still there. He stood beside her bed, rolling his mat out on the floor.

“There’s another mattress in the loft,” she mumbled, half-awake. “More comfortable up there.”

He looked over his shoulder at the abandoned loft before lying down. “Pretty far away,” he said. “Too far if you need me.”

She hugged her pillow and nodded silently. She didn’t want to argue about something so simple, but she hated that they worried about her.

The Glade had already begun settling into its new rhythms after Velhya’s death. There were things she could be doing to help—things she should be doing to thank them for all they’d done for her. She wasn’t ready, but listening to Orzen settle on the floor beside her, she knew she needed to try.

Tomorrow. She’d do something useful. Something small.

Even if it felt like treading through wet sand.

Sunlight fell through the window, casting long shadows against the folicrafted floor, when she finally opened her eyes late the next morning. She let herself lie there, watching the dust float across the beam. She needed to get up, but the heaviness in her bones dragged her down.

Orzen’s heavy footsteps pulled her attention back. He bent beside the stove, shoving another log within and closing the grate. She curled her knees to her chest and let herself watch him. He set the kettle in place, then he wandered, opening and shutting drawers, muttering absently as he searched for tea.

He’d taken to wearing borrowed Gladean clothes again instead of his armor. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing the thick muscles of his forearms. He was comfortable in a way he’d never been before—settled like he finally belonged somewhere.