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Wendall wrapped her in a hug—broad arms enveloping her. Why was he holding on so long? The man’s voice carried across the Glade. He didn’t need to be so loud. His size alone commanded attention. Orzen’s fingers curled once, then stilled. Ridiculous. The man was kind. Loud, but kind.

Orzen scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He was not going to stand here measuring closeness like it was something Wren owed to him.

Still…he waited until she headed the other direction before joining Tommick.

“Visitors!” Wendall boomed when Tommick scrambled toward him. “Oh, and you’ve brought a mossum friend! Look at him. He’s shaped like a warm honey dumpling.”

“His name is Grub,” Tommick said proudly, lifting the mossum. Grub’s nose twitched like he was smelling every morsel Wendall had ever cooked.

“Well, Grub,” Wendall declared, rummaging cheerfully in a basket by the ovens, “I have a mushroom tart your friend Garin helped bake.” He held it out, and Grub snatched it between both paws, pointed teeth gnawing at it immediately.

“And here—” He presented a scone to Tommick with all the ceremony of offering a sacred relic. “Fresh from the oven. More healing than a hug.”

Orzen hovered back a few steps. Wendall spotted him anyway.

“There’s plenty left.” His round face split into a grin that crinkled his eyes. Then he tilted his head, studying Orzen with a kind of earnest appraisal. “But you look more like a meat-pie sort.”

Orzen did his best to dislike Wendall. He really tried. It would’ve been easier if he weren’t so damned sincere. Wendall held out a small, steaming pie, and Orzen’s stomach betrayed him with a growl loud enough to be humiliating.

“Fine,” Orzen muttered, snatching it.

He took a bite. Burn it all. It was delicious.

Wendall lifted his massive rolling pin—polished, well cared for, and comically large. Orzen stood a little straighter on instinct. Maybe he should have brought the sword.

Tommick stared at the rolling pin, jaw hanging open. “Woooah. Mama has a rolling pin, but it’s not that big. I’ve got a fighting stick, too. Does yours have a name?”

Wendall blinked down at the rolling pin. “This? It’s for pastries,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Does it need a name?”

“Everything important should have a name, even if it’s not for fighting. This one’s Oak-Ender.” Tommick hoisted his stick-sword, Grub tumbling off to waddle toward the tart basket.

“That is quite a good name.” Wendall let out a soft, appreciative hum. “Well, mine has traveled far—came with me all the way from the Broken Steppes. Maybe you’re right, little knight.” He lowered his voice, considering the pin with admiration. “What do you think it should be called?”

Tommick plopped down in the grass, craning his neck to gape at Wendall, the tip of his tongue poking out as he concentrated. Then his face brightened into a wide grin.

“My friend Jessa, she told me about this halfling adventurer. Douglass the Dauntless. He fought the undead with a rolling pin. Not as big as yours, but…”

Wendall tapped his chin, considering. “Hmm.” He leaned his head toward the rolling pin as if he were addressing it directly. “Doug? Thoughts?”

Wendall waited. Orzen stared at him. The worst part was—Wendall wasn’t joking. The man was genuinely giving the rolling pin space to answer.

Fantastic. Orzen resisted the urge to rub his temples. He was jealous of a baker who communicated with his cookware. He tried to remind himself how ridiculous that was.

Not that he had any right to care either way. Wren wasn’t his. She was a friend, nothing more. He shoved another bite into his mouth to smother the thought. It didn’t help. It simply reminded Orzen that Wendall was a fantastic baker on top of everything else.

Orzen cleared his throat, aiming for steady and landing nearer to a vague, tenuous control. “Hey, uh…so you’re Wendall, right?”

The man nodded, the thick, dark coils of his hair shining in the light. “That’s what Ma named me,” he said cheerfully.

Orzen clenched his teeth. Wendall dwarfed him by at least a head or more. It was rare for him to feel small beside someone, and he wasn’t sure he liked the feeling. Then again, Wendall somehow made even that feel harmless.

“Right. So, you’re…large.” Orzen winced. That had not come out the way he’d intended.

Wendall chuckled. “Not according to the other Smallbloods. Six brothers, and I’m the shortest.” He shrugged. “Everyone’s made exactly the way they’re meant to be. Some rolls just don’t rise as high.”

“Giant ancestry?” Orzen had to admit he was impressed, and more than a little intimidated. “I’m, uh, Orzen by the way.”

Wendall reached a hand in greeting. It could’ve doubled as a serving dish, but it was softer than it looked. Muscled, but gentle in a way that surprised him.