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Garin tipped his head, weighing the sound of it.

Jessa simply stared at him.

“Can you?” Orzen asked. Skepticism edged his voice before he could temper it. This wasn’t the time to pretend at skills.

Calen rubbed the back of his neck. “Pa taught me how to track,” he said quietly. A shadow crossed his face, and his shoulders sank. “I’m decent. Maybe not as good as Silas, but—”

“Silas was lying.” Jessa huffed out a hot breath. “We could’ve been rid of him days ago.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.” The boy ducked his head, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “I didn’t want to challenge him. Silas was a little scary.” Calen was barely of age—just a kid, really. Who could blame him for holding back?

“What about Wren?” Tommick whispered, still gripping her horn. His round eyes darted between the adults around him.

Before anyone else could speak, Orzen said, “I’ll carry her.”

“By yourself, dear?” Branwynn frowned. “We don’t know how far it is, and you’ve been up all night. You must be exhausted.”

“I’ll manage.” His tone was stern, harsher than he meant.

He didn’t glance at any of them, only watched her—skin pale as frost, and too quiet by far. He couldn’t let go of her. Not yet. Not when he hadn’t protected her from Silas. Not after the violence he’d let loose, and not without knowing what she’d think of him when she woke up.

They watched him, unspoken concern hanging between them. Had his brutality been justified? Could he be trusted, or was he as dangerous as Silas? It didn’t matter that Silas deserved every bruise. Didn’t matter that Orzen had been right. He’d attacked. They’d watched it. These were good people. They shouldn’t have to feel unsafe, no matter how good his intentions were.

He didn’t know how to explain the difference between protection and violence—only that now, one of them put Wren’s life at the center, and the other never could.

Once his pack was set, he crouched and slid his arms beneath Wren as though she were made of glass. Her horn brushed against his collarbone. Her breath warmed the base of his throat. An ache hit his chest—fierce enough to unmake him. He shouldn’t have noticed it. Not when she was like this.

It felt good in a way he hated. He’d never been granted this closeness before. What kind of man found comfort in something she’d hadn’t chosen? Certainly not a good one. He adjusted his grip, careful not to jostle her.

Footsteps approached, light and deliberate. “Not worth putting her at risk to soothe your pride,” Garin said.

Orzen froze. Heat snapped through him, bright and defensive, but when he spoke, the anger thinned into something raw.

“This isn’t about pride.”

“Then what is it?” Garin asked, voice low but not unkind. “You act like you’re the only one who can keep her safe.”

The words stuck like burrs. He couldn’t say it—not the truth. That the fear of letting go was something he couldn’t afford. That watching her chest rise and fall was the only proof he needed that there was still hope. And, selfishly, that he wanted to keep holding her more than he knew how to admit.

His jaw locked. Finally, he forced out, barely above a breath, “Please. Just…let me do this. For a little while.”

Garin stilled beside him, listening in the quiet way he did—measuring the shape and weight of the words. Finally, he sighed and gave a small nod and a firm clap on Orzen’s arm.

“You take help when the time comes,” Garin said. “Until then—do what you need.”

Miles blurred into hours. By mid-morning, a burn crawled down Orzen’s shoulders, but he’d carried far worse under Dravek’s command. This was nothing.

This wasn’t even pain—it was purpose.

What gnawed at him wasn’t the weight. It was the closeness. Her head rested against him. Her warmth seeping through his armor. Every step was both necessary and stolen. The guilt bit at him. But the worry was worse—strung tight as a bowstring, coiled through every muscle and bone.

His thoughts threatened to spiral, but he shut them down. If she judged him for it when she woke, he’d accept that. Regret could come later. Fear too. Right now, there was only the next step. So he kept walking.

The sun pulled across the sky, stretching shadows thin between the trees. By late afternoon, his arms burned and ached in equal measure, but he focused on keeping her steady. Wren’s face had regained the barest hint of color. It might’ve been the heat, but he let himself believe she was mending.

A caw tore the quiet. A shadow skimmed the treetops.

Watcher.