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Wren’s gaze snapped to him, horns angling forward, brow furrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Silas gathered her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” He dipped his head. Then, with a gesture toward Orzen, he said, “We’re good now, right?”

Wren was watching closely, and the last thing Orzen needed was another reason for her to trust Silas over him. He couldn’t let the wedge between them widen any further. With a grimace, he clasped Silas’s arm. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man so reedy. Before the slimy bastard could pull away, Orzen pulled him closer and leaned in, voice so low only Silas could hear it.

“What I said still stands.”

Silas grinned like the threat was nothing more than a bit of light banter between them. Orzen’s muscles locked and he breathed hard through his nose. He shoved Silas’s hand aside. It took everything in him not to punch Silas just for the fun of it, but that would only be a temporary relief. He had to fix things with Wren before Silas swooped in and made up some story to twist things in his favor.

“We need to talk,” Orzen said, turning to Wren. “Now.”

Her dark eyes held Orzen’s for a heartbeat—searching and uncertain—and he thought she might say no. She nodded once and followed him out of the clearing. Over her shoulder, Silas watched them with a thoughtful expression, eyes flicking between them as if weighing something. The look made Orzen’s skin crawl, and he quickly turned away.

The air was thick as he led her from the clearing, far enough that the others’ voices blurred behind them. Her hooves cracked twigs; his steps were silent.

When he thought they were far enough, he nodded toward a fallen log. She perched at the edge, like she might leave at any moment. He took the space beside her. His heart immediately became a nuisance, fluttering like he’d never sat beside a woman before. He didn’t need to be distracted when he was simply trying to tell her the truth.

Wren waited, silent, tired, and wary. The forest waited too. It quieted around them—giving him space to sort his thoughts from the anger still roiling inside of him.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Orzen said finally. He knew it’d come out wrong when she sighed and shuffled her hooves in the leaves, but he rushed on. “I don’t trust him. I never have. And ever since he showed up he’s made a point to keep you—”

He clenched his mouth shut. Telling her that he was tired of Silas coming between them sounded too much like jealousy, which was ridiculous and impossible. That’s not what this is…not entirely.

“Orzen…” She palmed the spot between her eyes and released a sigh that seemed to come from deep within her bones. “I know it’s been strange since the festival and…” She swallowed. “And Tavrin. But it’s not just me. You’ve barely said anything to me since then.”

He rested his elbows on his knees, the space between them small enough to be distracting. “I’m sorry if I made you think I didn’t want…” He cleared his throat. Nope. That was too much. “I never wanted you to think—” He shook his head. “I just thought you needed time.”

“I guess I did at first. I was angry. I am angry.” She clenched the folds of her festival dress at her knees within her fists, the embroidery dulled with days of filth from traveling. “But not at you I know Tav’s death wasn’t your fault.”

Her voice shook. She scrubbed her fingers across her eyes. “I don’t know how else to survive his death. The anger feels like the only thing that keeps me going sometimes.”

It was a brokenness he knew too well. Pain hollowing him out until nothing was left. That led him to join the Brand—made him into someone his father wouldn’t have recognized. It was different for her. She was stronger in ways she didn’t even realize yet. He’d try anything if it meant she wouldn’t have to feel this way. Unfortunately, pain didn’t work like that.

“You’re the first true friend I’ve made in cycles,” she continued softly. “I never meant to push you away. I don’t want to lose that over something like this. Certainly not over Silas of all people.”

Her words tugged at him. He dug his fingers into the bark. He needed to focus, or he’d try something stupid like reaching for her hand. Or worse, he’d let something slip out in a way he never intended.

“If it makes you feel better, I haven’t figured out how to live without that anger either. But I know what it does to you.” He shifted beside her, voice rough. “I don’t want to keep doing this. I…” he swallowed. “I’ve missed talking to you. You said you’d be willing to look at my memory. I need you to see where I was that night, to know that I wasn’t lying to you.”

“You don’t need to do that.” She didn’t look angry anymore. She simply seemed tired. “You wouldn’t have stayed if you were lying.”

“There’s something…I know it wasn’t you, but I can’t say what it was.” He groaned. “Something…off, some creature. I think I need you to see it.” He shook his head, images of Hearthroot night flashing in his mind in pieces—a shadow with long limbs. He couldn’t explain what he couldn’t remember well. If she saw it, maybe it would make better sense to both of them.

“If you really want me to…” she murmured, still giving him an out. He wasn’t sure he wanted her in his head, but he nodded anyway. She reached toward him. “Close your eyes. Focus on that night. Think of the festival.”

When they touched his temple, his throat went dry. He’d asked her to do this, so he tried his best not to fidget. He closed his eyes, pulse hammering at the thought that she might brush against something he couldn’t control. The weave was strange—a thread brushing his thoughts like a breeze—different from when she’d healed him, but not unpleasant.

Think of the festival.

The memories came scattered, blurred at the edges.

Music thrumming through the streets. Children burying bread. Her gown spilling like water beside him. The ridiculous pebblet races. Wren watching them, horns framing her face, bright with joy. The familiar flicker of awareness he’d never expected when she was near. A desire for closeness he hadn’t felt in cycles.

Heat shot through him. He’d forgotten her Spirit weaving didn’t separate feeling from memory. Stars above, she could see it all. Panic snapped the memory apart. His eyes flew open.

She was too close. Her cheeks were flushed, breath uneven, blinking quickly but not meeting his eyes. He slid away from her, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I didn’t mean—”