Page 24

“Is this all you do? Brood and stare at strangers?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, weariness stripping the edges bare. “There must be something more interesting to glare at.”

He looked up, eyes widening, mouth slightly parted as though words had abandoned him—like he hadn’t expected her to come closer, let alone yell at him. The mug tilted in his hand, liquid threateningly close to the rim. Still, he didn’t speak.

She rolled her eyes and turned on her hooves before he could find an answer, making her way past the merchant carts.

Spirits, did I really snap at a stranger with a sword?

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look back. He’d deserved the harshness of her words for so blatantly scrutinizing her not once, but twice. She kept her shoulders square, feigning composure she didn’t really feel, hooves clipping fast away from the courtyard.

Leather creaked behind her—armor shifting, boots closing the gap. Panic coiled in her chest. He looked like a mercenary. Why had she said anything?

Surely, he wouldn’t harm her in such a public place. She didn’t like her luck that anyone would step in to help if he did. Instead of steel, his voice hit her—low, awkward, and a little breathless.

“I wasn’t brooding.” A pause. “My face just…looks like that.”

He slowed to match her pace, clutching the mug like a lifeline. Each step sent little flecks of liquid leaping out, splattering the cobbles between them.

Her steps faltered, more in confusion at the sheer audacity of chasing her down to say something so strange than in fear. “Your face just follows people it doesn’t know?”

He winced. “Okay. That came out weird. I only meant—” His brow furrowed, and he gave a half-hearted shrug. “You looked like you had a lot on your mind yesterday. I was trying to be…I don’t know. Friendly.”

“What an excuse.” She huffed and sped up. “You don’t know me. You can stop following me now.”

“I’m not following you,” he said quickly. “I’m walking. In the same direction.” He grimaced, clearly aware of how that sounded. “Sort of following…but not creepily!” His voice cracked on the last word, and he raked a hand through the long dark hair falling over his brow.

Wren kept a quick pace as the road rounded into the Craftsman District. “You simply happened to be heading in the same direction?”

“Listen…my name’s Orzen. I’m looking for odd jobs.” He pointed—too fast—at the cluster of shops ahead. “I’m new here. Figured someone might need help, and you looked like you knew your way around.”

She said nothing, eyes narrowed, taking stock of him, the way she’d assess which part of a plant needed pruning: sword, armor, the weight of his boots tramping behind her. He was telling a story, but not the whole story.

“You obviously do deliveries,” he added, softer now, like it had sounded better in his head.

“Obviously,” she echoed flatly. “You saw me give one package at the Root.” Her gaze flicked to him, cool and steady. “How do you know that wasn’t the only one?”

He opened his mouth, maybe to protest, but she was already pushing through Pell’s door. The bell over it gave a bright, cheerful chime that clashed with the tension trailing behind her.

“So,” she said over her shoulder. “You are stalking me.”

Pell glanced up from his ledger, unimpressed stare magnified by thick, round glasses. He looked between the two of them for a long beat.

“Miss Wren,” Pell said at last, “stealth is required to stalk someone. And he is…quite large.”

Orzen stalled halfway through the door, weighing whether to come in or back out entirely and pretend this never happened.

Wren smothered a snort. “Well, he’s certainly trying his best.”

The scent of grain, dried herbs, and ink—comforting and familiar—hit her as she strode between the meticulously stacked shelves, stopping at the halfling-sized counter.

Pell shut his ledger with a faint thump and raised a neatly trimmed brow at Orzen, who finally stepped inside but looked like he regretted it instantly.

“I don’t bite,” Pell said, voice dry as wheat lying in the sun.

Orzen relaxed slightly, reaching to set his mug on one of the counters beside the door.

“Not on the wood!” The words shot out of Pell’s mouth in a panicked rush.

Orzen froze mid-motion, the cup hovering over an empty spot on one of the shelves. He pulled it back quickly and gulped from it instead. His eyes darted around the well-organized shop, and he blinked at the sign by the grain barrels: Self-serve does not mean self-spill. All messes will be charged accordingly. He looked back, somehow more rattled than before.