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Whatever had taken hold of her hadn’t eased people’s fears. The attack had followed so soon afterward, it was hard to blame the townsfolk for believing she was to blame. There were times when even she wasn’t convinced it hadn’t been her fault.

But Orzen’s words made her weaving sound different. Bold in a way she wasn’t sure she’d earned. Like something she shouldn’t have to be ashamed of. It meant more to her than he’d ever realize.

“Thank you.” Wren looked at each of them in turn, voice soft. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve all of you, but I’m so glad you’re with me.”

Tommick piped up then, earnest as always. “Crumb didn’t get to say anything.”

Every head turned. The little sporeling blinked his pebble-bright eyes at Wren. Then he squeaked—a tiny, breathy sound that might have been approval.

“Honestly?” Jessa grinned. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Laughter rippled through the circle, loosening the air again.

For a moment, it didn’t matter that they were in the middle of the forest with danger pressing in from all sides. They had each other, and for the moment, it was enough. Jessa was right. Wren wouldn’t forget this one.

Later, when the fire dimmed and yawns spread through the camp, everyone retreated to their bedrolls. Wren curled onto hers. Exhaustion dragged at her, but sleep refused to come. She rolled onto her back, watching the faint silver light filter through the trees.

Lanternmoon. Her father always said it was important—a sign that she’d guide others toward truth, even if they didn’t want to hear it. Maybe this particular one was meant to guide her toward a truth of her own. She glanced toward Orzen’s silhouette next to her, outlined in dull orange by the fire’s fading glow.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.” He rolled over to face her, a gentle smile curling at his lips, and her stomach flipped. “Hard to sleep. Even here.”

“When’s yours?” The question slipped from her lips before she could catch it.

“My what?” He pushed himself up on an elbow.

“Your birthmoon,” she said, then frowned. “I guess if you don’t know the names of the moons, maybe you call it something different?”

His expression flickered, something like regret or shame shadowing his eyes. He sat up, drawing a knee close and resting his arm on it.

“Suppose I had one once. Da must’ve known. But I…well I don’t remember when it is.”

He hadn’t talked much about his family, but she knew he’d been on his own for a long time. Maybe he’d simply forgotten the specifics over the cycles that followed. Not knowing when she was born was such a foreign concept to her.

“But surely you know how old you are,” she insisted.

He shrugged, gaze drifting toward the dark trees. “I track the years from when Pa died. Know I was eight, so I count from there—every Suncrest.” He let go of a breath, gaze distant. “Think mine was sometime after. Duskwane, maybe. I remember the leaves changing.”

A small, painful pinch grew in Wren’s chest. It wasn’t pity—he would’ve hated that—it was simply recognition of a weight he shouldn’t have carried alone for so long, and a life she’d wished had been different for him.

He must’ve read something on her face, because he frowned. “Don’t look at me like that. I know it sounds pathetic, but it’s never bothered me.”

“That’s not it.” She tugged her father’s cloak closer. The familiar weight grounded her. “It’s not pathetic. It’s only…everyone deserves to understand where they came from.”

She nodded toward the pale arc of the Lanternmoon hanging overhead. “Sometimes it feels silly, but it also feels true—the meaning behind the moons. The way they shape things. I think you deserve one too, even if it isn’t exact. Might make you feel more…connected.”

He snorted under his breath, eyes flicking toward the ring of sleeping forms. “Do I have to sit around while people say awkward things about me?”

She laughed softly, the sound folding into the quiet. “That’s one part of it. Sometimes there are gifts, or a gathering.” Her voice gentled. “It’s less about the tribute, more about honoring how much you’ve changed over a cycle.”

Her hand slipped into her pocket. She drew out the little carved squirrel, turning it over before holding it where he could see. “My pa made this for me. The last one he ever carved. I keep it because it helps me remember him…what he believed about me.”

She traced its tiny ridges with her thumb. “But I remember him separately. I get my own space to celebrate, apart from the loss. You deserve that too.”

He shrugged, though it didn’t carry much conviction. “Not sure I had much to celebrate before. Could be different now.”

Silence fell between them again. He stared into the fire before asking quietly, “What would mine even be? Every moon’s supposed to mean something. Feels like you’d know best.”