Page 7

Not tonight. But soon.

Chapter 2

To Carry and Let Down

Wren had barely placed the rolls in the lidded pan over the fire when a jaunty knock rattled the door. She wiped the grease from her fingers and glanced at her mother, whose grimace couldn’t quite hold against the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. No matter how often she complained, Ma loved Tavrin as if he were her own, and nothing—not even his habit of arriving early—could dim her joy at his return.

Still, she huffed. “You’d think with all his time on the road, Tavrin would’ve learned to read a sunbeam properly.” But there was no real bite in her voice. “Go on, let him in. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

Wren practically bounced to the door. Nearly two seasons had passed since Tavrin was last in Thistlehold, and she’d missed him.

With a creak, the door swung open, and there he was.

His skin, so like her own, was the warm brown hue of toasted honey. Much too tall, with a smile so wide it could send him to the healer, but so charming that he’d probably talk his way back out again. Short, straight brown horns—dull and in need of a polish—jutted from his sandy brown hair. But he looked healthy. Stronger than she remembered.

The moment his eyes found Wren, his packs hit the floor, and his arms flew wide. She rushed to him, laughing as he scooped her up and spun her like he had when she was a kid. Then he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug before leaning back to look at her.

“Lady Acorn,” he crooned, tipping an invisible hat, “oh, how I’ve missed you.”

She rolled her eyes, but a brightness rose behind her ribs, and she grinned in spite of herself. He dragged his packs inside, then turned back to her, tugging playfully on the tip of one of her horns. She swatted at him, grinning as he ducked inside.

Then he spotted Marrowen, hands on her hips, apron still tied around her waist. Her lips held no smile, but her eyes betrayed her. With a grin, Tavrin dipped into an audacious bow—so low that his horns nearly swept the floor.

“Aunt Marrowen,” he said, straightening from the bow and placing a hand over his heart like he was addressing a queen. “Your beauty hasn’t faded a day since I’ve been gone!”

Her mother snorted, rolling her eyes. “It’s been less than a cycle, you moon-eyed fool.” She pulled him into a long embrace, their laughter echoing in the cozy air from the hearth.

Soon, the rich scent of honey filled the small kitchen, and Wren moved quickly to pull the rolls from the fire, giving Tavrin room to slide in the apples he’d brought—peeled, sliced, and drizzled with butter and sugar, their edges already beginning to caramelize as he shut the lid.

The sun had begun its slow descent behind the trees. It would be time soon. As Marrowen handed Tavrin a stack of old clay plates—the glaze chipped but still catching the light—three solid knocks echoed from the door.

Tavrin set the table as her mother slipped off her apron and smoothed her hair, her movements rehearsed but unconscious. Wren caught Tavrin’s eye across the room, and his face broke into a small, conspiratorial grin. He paused, plates in hand, as they both watched Marrowen glide to the door, tugging the hem of her bodice down to soften the wrinkles.

He caught Wren’s eye and mouthed, Who’s moon-eyed now?

She quickly waved him off, biting her lip to hold back a laugh. From the door, her mother shot them a no-nonsense glare over her shoulder before turning back and pulling the door open with a practiced, steady hand.

Garin’s dwarven face was so familiar—the deep-set creases, the curve of his round nose—it was always a comfort when he came around nowadays. He’d practically helped raise her and Tavrin when they were younger. He was the only dwarf in Thistlehold, and the town seemed to hold it against him. He’d lived alone for years, and though he said he preferred it that way, Wren had a suspicion it was simply something he told himself.

Most people noticed his eyes first—or rather, the cloth that covered them—but she was so used to it she hardly noticed now. The edges of the earth-toned fabric were worn, frayed from years of use, and tied in a simple knot at the back of his ruddy red hair.

He stood about a head shorter than Wren, but his broad, grounded frame belied the difference. He’d even brushed his normally scruffy beard and braided the center—more for mother’s sake than his own, surely. In his right hand, he held a staff. Its polished wood was etched with Earth and Air runes. The top curled into a graceful arc. Near the bend, a single feather hung from a strip of worn leather, swaying in the cool breeze that followed him through the door.

He tapped the end of the staff firmly against the floorboards with a solid thunk. A faint gust whispered out from the impact, rustling the feather near the top, like the staff itself was greeting the room. Then, Garin stepped forward and pulled the door shut behind him.

He rarely smiled, but his expression was like the steady heat of a hearth, comforting and enduring; not the bright, crackling flame that Tavrin always carried in his grin.

“Marrowen.” He dipped his head slightly, his rough, calloused hand still holding his staff steady.

She smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “It’s so good of you to come all this way.” Her voice was light, and a touch too exact. “Please, come in. We’re nearly ready.”

Wren’s lips twitched as she watched them. Her mother had always been polite, but around Garin, that care became more deliberate—a quiet precision, like she was tuning every word to the right key. When Marrowen was flustered, she didn’t get embarrassed. She got formal.

Garin lingered by Marrowen a little too long, then cleared his throat and strode forward—confident, unbothered by the lack of sight. He didn’t need to see, not really—not with his staff in hand. Every few feet, he tapped it firmly against the floor, the feather swaying with each beat, like he was taking the room’s measure.

“Let me look at you,” Garin grunted at Tavrin.

Tavrin’s grin split wide, clearly winding up for something snarky, but Garin cut him off.