Page 54

Orzen kept his hands at his sides, stretching them to help ease the tremor that hadn’t quite left. This isn’t the forge. It isn’t that night. He was in control. At least enough to pretend.

His steps slowed, and she pulled a little ahead. The low light pooled around her, catching in her curls and softening the edges of her silhouette. A flick of white near her waist caught his attention. At the back of her tunic was a split where her short tail poked out, dark brown with a patch of white at the tip. It curled sharply before tucking close to the curve of her body again.

He missed a step and cursed himself under his breath.

It almost looked nervous. Or maybe that was his own feelings clouding everything. Fauns weren’t unusual to him. Plenty ended up in the Row. Some had even fought beside him in the Brand. But seeing hers felt oddly personal, like he’d noticed something he wasn’t meant to.

“You’ve gone quiet.” Her steps slowed, and she glanced back at him, the lantern sharpening the concern on her face.

He froze. “What?” He shook his head too quickly, heat flushing up his neck. “I uh, I was just…looking at the moon.”

Thank the gods for the low light. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. He clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed firmly on the moon this time. Wren’s gaze lifted skyward, and her smile widened.

“Did you know we have names for the moon phases?” she asked. “That one’s Thornsmile. People say it grins at liars.”

He followed her gaze. A thin curve of silver hung there, sharp as a sickle—a taunting grin that whispered to him. Liars. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?

Guilt stabbed sharply in his chest, and he gritted his teeth. He should’ve refilled his waterskin. His mouth was drier than the Shardcliff Desert.

“Oh?” His voice came out rough. “That’s different.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Speaking shouldn’t have to be this difficult.

“The new moon is called Veilmoon,” she went on softly, almost to herself. “Hearthroot always falls then. Spirits travel easier in darkness.”

He didn’t answer, simply followed the light of her lantern sliding across the dirt path, a small, steady thing between them. Darkness and lies. He was far too familiar with both.

“Did you have festivals in Kettle Row?” she asked, holding the lantern close so she could see him. “What was your favorite?”

“Told you before,” he said, light spilling softly across his face. “The Row’s not that kind of place.”

“Even bad places have space for joy.”

“You’re going to call me shadow-charmed again if I’m honest,” he muttered. She waited. When she didn’t speak, he sighed. “Don’t remember any. Ma died early. Da…”

His stomach knotted, the old heat flickering behind his ribs as the forge tried to force its way out of his buried memories. “He was gone not long after. Survived how I could after that.”

Her smile faltered. The words hung too long between them. “So those kids with the luck stones…” she murmured. Her eyes softened in a way that made something inside him bristle.

“A bit like me, yeah,” he said, rougher than he meant to.

Shame pressed behind his ribs. You shouldn’t have walked her home. This was exactly why he left before people could ask questions like this of him. But she was looking at him with eyes full of sadness and he hated seeing it. He reached for a memory—something lighter that might steer her away from questions about his past.

“There was one,” he said after a beat. “I don’t remember much. We worked a booth—my Pa and I. Sold little forged items. I think it was fun.” He felt the weight of the sword at his back. Solid. Safe. Something that never asked questions. “This is why I don’t answer things like that,” he muttered. “I hate the way people look at me after. Like I’m broken and too stubborn to admit it.”

“It’s not that.” She shook her head quickly, the charms on her horns chiming. “I’m not sorry for you. I only meant…I understand. My father died too. I haven’t been to Hearthroot since then.” She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I used to love it. Now it only reminds me of what we lost. I get it. It’s hard to keep pretending you’re fine when you’re simply trying to get through.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

They walked in silence for a while. Frogs croaked from the riverbank, their calls weaving through the hush. Then she grinned and flung an arm back toward the village, as if pulling a curtain to reveal a grand stage.

“I’ll bore you with Hearthroot lore until you’re grateful you didn’t have a festival-filled childhood.”

“You’re going to have to hit me with the full history, then.”

She thrust the lantern into his hands like she was knighting him, cracking her knuckles dramatically. He shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“Honestly,” she said, “you’ll be spared sooner than you think. My house is over that ridge.” She nodded toward the low dark hill ahead, its outline shadowed by the weak moonlight. “I’ll do the short version. What do you want to hear about: burying bread in the dirt or wearing masks to keep the spirits away?”

His brows lifted. “What kind of holiday are you people celebrating here?”