Page 98

Garin stayed up, silently drawing runes into the dirt.

“Protection wards,” he mumbled as he traced the last one. He claimed the runes would wake them if anyone besides Silas stepped into their shelter.

Orzen set out his own bedroll and tried to rest. Minutes dragged by, but sleep wouldn’t come. He stared into the branches reaching for the pale sky. His muscles ached. His body begged for sleep. Hanging from the tree, trapped by the chokevine, hadn’t exactly been restful. But lying on a mat glaring at nothing wasn’t going to help.

Across from him, Wren shivered, her own silver-threaded cloak not made for warmth, the blanket drawn close around her shoulders. Garin was probably right—she needed time.

He wouldn’t push her. He only wanted her to know he wasn’t going anywhere, so pulled his pack close and untied the flap.

“Told you I had first watch. You need rest.” Garin nodded to the bedroll Orzen had left. “I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

“I know. I will,” Orzen said. “But I need to do something first.” He rummaged until his fingers brushed soft fabric.

The cloak Garin had given him. Technically his now, but Wren needed it more. He stood with the cloth draped over his arm and stepped lightly across the clearing. Pell’s insoles muffled every sound. Wren’s face pinched even in sleep.

He hesitated at her side. close enough to touch her shoulder, close enough to whisper. He didn’t do either. Instead, he knelt and laid the cloak over her—slow and careful—like setting down a promise. She stirred. Her eyes blinked open—not startled, only confused, caught between dreaming and awake.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Orzen whispered, barely louder than the fire’s crackle. “I thought…you might be more comfortable with something of your father’s close by.”

Her brow furrowed, but her fingers closed over the cloak like it was an anchor. She inhaled, her breath shaking. Her lips parted like she might speak, but the moment slipped away. Her eyes drifted shut again, her grip never loosening on the cloak.

He stood and returned to his mat, though walking away was like tearing open a wound. He folded himself down, the strain in his muscles pulling at him, and forced his eyes shut. Surely only minutes passed when Garin’s hand nudged his shoulder, but the sky dimmed into early darkness.

“Already?” he mumbled.

“Someone’s coming,” Garin whispered.

Orzen sat up fast, hand already at his blade. The fire burned low, coals dimly lighting the circle of sleeping forms. The forest was still—too still. Then a shadow moved. A thin figure stepped into view. Silas entered quietly, giving them a faint nod before dropping his pack by the fire.

He crossed straight to Wren and sat beside her. Orzen stayed standing, watching as Silas stirred the fire back to life, brightening the clearing. Then he settled beside her.

Wren’s shriek broke through the night. She bolted upright, clutching the cloak to her chest, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. He took a step toward her, then stopped short.

Silas was already there. “It’s all right,” he murmured, a hand on her back. “It was only a nightmare.”

The others settled again, reassured by his calm. They spoke in low voices, words Orzen couldn’t make out. Her shoulders eased. Orzen’s jaw clenched. He’d only whispered to her and left. Silas touched her without hesitation, and she let him. But if it worked to calm her, he had no reason to be angry.

She didn’t see it, but as Silas’s hand lingered at her back, his eyes lifted and found Orzen’s, with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The calculated look of a man who’d seen enough to know exactly where his cracks were. Not quite a smile—but close enough to pierce beneath his skin.

Orzen suddenly hated how certain he was.

Silas knew exactly what he was doing.

Chapter 26

Ash in the Mourning

Wren woke with the remnants of another nightmare clinging to her like cobwebs. The images had already started to fade—a pulse of grief and fear left behind—when she blinked her eyes open to the thin dawn light. Her fingers brushed the soft fabric over her. Her father’s cloak.

She only half-remembered waking to see Orzen laying it over her in the night, quiet and careful. She couldn’t even remember if he’d said anything. His sincerity had been comforting.

Now, in the thin air between them, the gesture twisted something deep in her chest. Orzen was already awake, sitting stiff-backed against one of the trees, dark circles beneath his eyes. There were too many worries, too much to hold at once. Even with the anger simmering beneath everything, she hated seeing his exhaustion.

Across the clearing, Silas whistled while setting a battered kettle over the low coals. The tune curled through the trees—too bright against the shadow of what they’d all survived.

Everyone processes grief differently.

Maybe this was his way—pretending he was fine. She could understand that. Sometimes it was all you had.