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Wren sat back, studying him. The light caught on the sharp planes of his face, the thin, white lines of old scars crossing them in jagged patterns. She’d try her best. He was so guarded, and choosing a birthmoon felt like guessing. He deserved some sort of answer, even if it wasn’t the real one.

“I already regret asking.” He chuckled. “You’re going to be weirdly right about it, and it’s going to be awkward.”

Her lips twitched. “Hardly my fault you’re so easy to read.” He wasn’t, not really, but she’d always been good at seeing what people tried to hide. “Now let me think…”

A moon that felt like him. When she’d met him, he’d been a stranger. He’d made mistakes and broken her trust, yet he’d proven she could rely on him. And somewhere along the way, he’d started changing—letting her into parts of him she wasn’t sure anyone else had seen before.

Waxing for sure. Growing into the light, but just barely.

“Duskwane, like you said.” She smoothed the fabric at her knees. “Maybe the first waxing crescent. Seedsliver. It’s about renewal. Beginnings. Changing forms.”

He went still for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.

“Told you,” he said with a small, nervous laugh. “You always cut a little close.”

She rubbed her shoulder. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s unnerving.” His gaze dropped. Then he smirked. “Might have to rebuild a few walls at this rate.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Don’t you dare.”

“No promises,” he said, grin softening at the edges. “Thank you, I’m glad to have one. Just don’t make me endure any tributes.” He stretched and lay on his side, facing her. “See you in the morning.”

He closed his eyes. His breath settled into something almost peaceful. She should’ve slept too—rest was precious and tomorrow would drag them deeper into dangers they weren’t prepared for—but her thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

The tributes circled through her mind. Their words. His especially. The way he’d looked at her. It left her restless. Maybe it was exhaustion, or homesickness. Maybe simply the strangeness of letting someone so close.

Her gaze lingered on him in the dim firelight. The long hair that usually fell across his brow had slipped aside, exposing a pale line at his temple—a scar she hadn’t noticed before. He’d always kept that side hidden. She reached out without thinking and brushed the strands back. The scar caught the silver light—smooth in places, puckered in others, as though the skin had been scalded from within.

There was still so much she didn’t know about him.

She only hoped there would be time to learn it.

By morning, they were already moving, packs slung over their shoulders, bedrolls strapped tight. A thin mist hovered over the ground as they left Stillglen behind.

They were more rested than when they’d arrived, but the prospect of reaching Velhya’s Glade tugged at Wren like a string pulled taut, setting her nerves on edge. A few hours in, a hill rose before them, scarred with torn earth and broken vines.

Calen slowed near the top, lifting his hand for silence. “They caught us here yesterday,” he whispered. He pointed to the base of the slope, where faint scuffs still marred the dirt. His fingers stiffened around the heavy branch he carried like a club, welts blooming red across his arms.

Branwynn silently lifted Tommick. He nodded when she pressed a finger to her lips. Jessa hovered near Calen, eyes shut, straining for the slightest sound. Orzen took the rear, positioning Garin and Wren between himself and the trees.

This was the only way through.

They descended the slope carefully, every step measured. Garin’s staff tapped against the ground, steady as always. Wren’s breath hitched. The sound carried strangely here, ricocheting off roots and gravel as if the land itself meant to amplify it.

The first rustle was soft—a breath in the undergrowth. Calen froze. Tommick clung to Branwynn’s neck, eyes wide, searching. Another sound followed: a dry scrape of thorns over stone, vines dragging through leaves. They were coming.

“More than two,” Garin murmured, lifting his staff.

The rustling crept closer for several long breaths—then stopped. Silence bled across the slope. No vines struck. No thorns scraped closer. They held still, barely breathing, listening so hard it hurt. Seconds ticked past, heavy as stones.

Orzen jerked his chin forward, mouthing, Go. Slow.

They edged along the slope. Garin held his staff high, shuffling instead of stepping, his hand on Wren’s shoulder. Her hooves pressed carefully into the dirt, every crunch of gravel too intense in her ears.

For a thin hopeful moment, the sounds disappeared. But when the rustling rose again, it kept pace with them, louder now, as if more had gathered. Branches snapped, leaves shifted in patterns too precise to be wind.

“They’re following us,” Calen whispered, knuckles white on his branch.