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Friends danced together, didn’t they? Not that she ever had the opportunity to test that theory in the past. Dancing was nothing more than a fun tradition. It did require a lot of holding each other closely, though. She wasn’t sure what to think about that. Her pulse certainly seemed to have some ideas.

“He’s right, you know.” Orzen nudged her gently with an elbow. “We only have so much time. I could die valiantly protecting you.” His eyes were full of mischief.

He held out his hand and waited.

She swallowed and gave a small smile. “I suppose it would be cruel not to accept,” she murmured.

She took his hand. His fingers were warm within hers. He relaxed, almost like he was relieved she’d accepted.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she confessed.

“Thank the gods,” he said, as he led her toward the music. “I haven’t a clue either.”

As they reached the ring of dancers, a firm hand gripped her shoulder. She turned and nearly stumbled into Orzen. A Fist in ceremonial green and gold armor stood behind her. Orzen’s fingers clutched hers, shifting her behind him.

“Step aside,” the man said coolly, eyes flicking over Orzen before landing on her. “Wren of Thistlehold. I’m here to escort you to Havelle Promenade.”

Orzen’s other hand moved toward his sword, but she whispered, “It’s okay.” Her voice was steadier than she felt.

There was still nearly an hour until she was expected. Would they simply make her wait around all that time? She wouldn’t put it past Theordrin. Orzen’s fingers slipped from hers, but the warmth lingered as she stepped away.

“I’ll find Garin and your mother,” Orzen said, eyes never softening. “We’ll be there.”

She slipped her hand into the pouch at her belt. The whisperstone and her father’s carved squirrel both pressed against her palm. They’d be there.

“I’m ready,” she said, though she didn’t feel it.

The Fist placed a guiding hand on her back and steered her through the crowd. She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to.

Orzen was still watching.

Chapter 21

Before the Bloom Fades

The air changed as the Fist marched her toward the Upper District—frying oil and honey giving way to heavy perfumes and pressed linens. People celebrated differently here. Gone were the acrobats and jugglers; even the laughter was restrained, cut short as if too much joy might crack the polish. It was as if Thistlehold was hosting two festivals at once, and this one was decidedly inferior.

They’d finished the “upgrades” in the Glen. Havelle Promenade—she hated even thinking the name—was bright but suffocating now. The trees were trimmed into perfect shapes, flowerbeds flattened into obedient rows. It was an example of what the Cycle would be under Theordrin’s control.

Now it became clear why the town was empty of guards.

The Fist was here. All of them.

They lounged near the recruitment tent, sparring in choreographed displays, prowling in small groups, watching everyone, and trusting no one. Their armor caught the sinking sun, golden Tower sigils flashing as they circled the raised stage like carrion birds.

The Glen’s fence was a trap closing around her. Fear crept in—twining with rage, sorrow, and the dread of walking straight into a fate already written.

This wasn’t a stage. It was an altar. And if she was meant to be the sacrifice, she’d burn brighter than Theordrin could ever contain.

The Fist yanked open the tent flap and shoved her inside with a firm push between the shoulder blades. “Don’t try running,” he muttered, letting the flap fall shut behind her.

The silence hit harder than she expected.

Wren stood alone in the tent, the air frigid against her skin. Her breath came too fast. She tried to slow it, to force her chest to rise steadily, but the air caught halfway, and panic scraped at her throat.

A thousand what-ifs tumbled through her mind.

If she’d left when she’d had the chance.