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Brunna downed the rest of her cider, set the mug aside with exaggerated care, and snapped her fingers. Furnie bound over and pressed against her hand. The emberkit’s flames dulled within her fur from orange to black where Brunna stroked her, sparks drifting into the air like moths. The motion steadied Brunna too, though the heat under her skin didn’t leave.

“That dried-up strip of leather won’t scare me,” she muttered, teeth bared around the words. “No one threatens the people I love and walks away clean.”

“We’ll make a plan to deal with Theordrin after Hearthroot.” Wren’s voice trembled. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“He’s not askin’ this for nothin’, that’s for sure.” Brunna scrubbed her palms on her trousers and pulled Furnie into her lap. The emberkit curled there, rumbling like a coal chute. “The man’s got a scheme cooked up, and you’re the center of it. I don’t like it.”

Wren stared into her mug for a long beat, searching the cider’s dark surface as if answers might float there. Maybe he’d make her look dangerous. As if she wasn’t already terrified that the villagers might be right about her. The cup tipped and a drip slid down the surface like a tear.

“I don’t understand the point. It wouldn’t change much. They already fear me.”

“So what?” Brunna’s voice was a blade heated by coal. “Let them fear you. They always have. Nothin’ he does’ll make that worse. You can’t control him.” She leaned in, eyes bright and fierce. “But you can control what they see—write the story yourself.”

“How?” Wren asked, shaking her head as a cold coil of dread curled low in her gut. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You show them what Spirit really is. What I’ve seen.”

Wren wasn’t so sure. The only ones who’d ever approved of her weaving were those that loved her anyway—or wanted it for their own purposes, like Theordrin. Well…until Orzen. But she didn’t want to think about that right now.

Brunna stretched, joints popping, and rose to her hooves with a low grunt. Furnie barked indignantly at being thrown off, tail flicking before she turned a slow circle and dropped in front of the fire again, gold dust embers in her fur.

“I get it—you don’t believe me.” Brunna poured another cup, left it on the table, and started up the ladder to her loft. The old wood creaked under her weight. “I’ve got somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to give you. Maybe it’ll help you look the part long enough to feel it.”

Wren eyed her cup, frowning at the cloudy amber swirl. The scent hit with more intensity this time—sweet but strange, like fruit on the edge of turning. Spoiled maybe.

She hesitated, not wanting to insult Brunna’s pride, and took another sip. It burned pleasantly down her throat, warmth unfurling through her chest. She tilted her head. This wasn’t ordinary apple juice. It was fermented. She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed before, but it was too late to worry about it now. She downed the rest in a single gulp. It went down sharp and sweet, warmth spreading through her limbs in lazy waves.

Above her, Brunna rummaged through a chest, muttering. “Now where in the blazes did I—ah!” A clatter of metal rang from above, followed by a muffled curse and then a triumphant, “There you are! Knew I still had them.”

When she descended, something small gleamed in her palm, catching the candlelight as she sat across from Wren. She didn’t show it right away—simply cupped it in both hands like a secret hiding within.

“Since we can’t stop him outright,” Brunna said, voice steady but thick with conviction, “we’ll change the angle. He made you do this—but you’re not doin’ it for him. You’re doin’ it for yourself.” Her voice softened, the words as slow as the pulse of forge bellows. “You’re stronger than you think. And it’s about time you start feelin’ that way too.”

She opened her hands.

Wren’s breath caught. Two silver horn caps gleamed in her palms; the kind Brunna always wore on her own horns. But these were different, polished with care and etched in fine curling lines that echoed the embroidery on Wren’s performance tunic.

Each pointed tip bore a slender chain, and at the end of each chain hung a charm: one crescent moon, one blazing sun. The candlelight scattered off the metal, silver ripples gliding across the walls like reflections off still water—fragile and impossibly beautiful, meant for someone braver. But Brunna held them out like they already belonged to her.

She leaned forward, carefully fastening them to Wren’s horns, her fingers steady and sure. “Perfect. They make you shine. No one could fear somethin’ so beautiful.”

A tight knot inside Wren’s chest loosened. Maybe she couldn’t escape the performance. Maybe she didn’t need to. If she stepped into it fully—as herself, not Theordrin’s pawn—whatever he had planned might fail anyway.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “You’ll be there?”

“Front row,” she promised. Brunna cupped her face in one calloused hand, thumb brushing her cheek. Then her grin returned, wicked and bright. “Gotta be close enough to tackle that pointy-eared snake if he tries anythin’ fishy.”

The image bloomed instantly in Wren’s mind—Brunna barreling across the stage, hammer raised high, Theordrin fleeing in sheer terror. The laugh burst out before she could stop it, bubbling up like steam from a kettle.

“Almost makes me wish he would try something.” She giggled and murmured, “I should head home. Ma’s probably wondering where I am.” She got halfway upright before the room tilted. Her hand shot out, catching the edge of the chest to steady herself.

“That was…weird.”

“Wait—” Brunna’s eyes widened, her gaze darting from the half-empty bottle to the mug in Wren’s hand. “How much of that did you drink?”

Wren squinted, blinking slowly as the edges of her vision misted like fog. Why did it feel so hard to remember?

“Two? Three? I’m not sure.” She frowned, words slurring faintly. “I thought it went bad, but…it kinda grows on you.”