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Her eyes flicked to the sword at his back, the black armor across his shoulders. “Not Fist colors. But you might as well be one.”
The words landed heavier than he liked. The Tower’s Fist wasn’t loved here any more than the Crimson Brand had been in the Row. He held still while her glare bore into him.
“Sword or not, I’m not afraid of you.” Brunna leaned in close, the heat of the forge in her voice. “Hurt anyone here, you’ll answer for it. Keep your eyes where they belong.”
She didn’t wait for him to reply, striding back toward Wren, who glanced up. Their eyes met, hers hard with something that pressed the air from his lungs—an anger born from heaviness held too long.
He forced himself to exhale slowly and didn’t glance back until the two of them disappeared into the crowd, heads bent together. The square carried on—voices, laughter, the fountain’s trickle—but none of it reached him.
There was more here than Theordrin’s list. More than a Spirit Weaver running errands and a smith too protective for her own good. He didn’t have the whole plot, not by half, but whatever it was, Wren sat at the center of it.
And he’d just been warned off.
Chapter 5
To Wear the Mark
The morning stretched too long. The sun barely cleared Thistlehold’s walls, and already Wren was tired of being here. With Hearthroot drawing near, the press of eyes grew heavier. Strangers already drifted through the streets, their stares lingering a little too long as she passed.
She couldn’t shake the memory of the man at the Turning Root—the way his gaze clung to her. It left her skin prickling.
He was a stranger with a sword—a novelty that marked him as dangerous from the start. Men like that didn’t end up here unless the Fist had recruited them. He’d certainly been built for it—tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of presence that made rooms feel too small; that made people step aside without knowing why.
She hadn’t meant to notice, but he was so different from anyone else she’d seen in Thistlehold it was hard not to.
He’d nodded at her like he knew her. Even tried to smile—if the awkward grimace he’d flashed could’ve been considered a smile at all. That bothered her most—the familiarity, as if he knew exactly who she was without ever meeting her. People here didn’t offer those types of greetings—not to her.
She tried to focus on the task ahead—her next delivery to Branwynn in the Fountain District—but her thoughts kept drifting toward what came after. She still didn’t know why Theordrin wanted to meet with her.
That it had to do with Hearthroot didn’t ease her concerns. She’d sworn off attending the festival since Pa died. It carried too many painful memories of him. The only certainty was that whatever reason Theordrin gave would likely be only half the story.
She stepped up to Branwynn’s bright yellow door, determined not to let the thoughts cloud her time with her sweet halfling friend. Clumsy doodled flowers spread along the door’s lower panels in vivid colors—young Tommick’s work, proudly preserved.
It opened, and Branwynn’s round face beamed up at her, framed by a cloud of soft dark blonde curls—the same color as the toasted barley buns she was known for. Branwynn wore cheer like a second skin, from her rosy cheeks to her bright blue eyes. Just seeing her helped ease some of the strain within Wren.
“Miss Wren, come in!” Branwynn ushered her into the front room, where a small fire popped in the stove. “I pulled the honey cakes from the oven just now. And the tea’s nearly done.”
The room was lined with an army of mismatched halfling-sized chairs—enough for the whole Fountain District if they squeezed in close. They were much too small for her. Wren could’ve said something, but she didn’t want to bother Branwynn over such a minor discomfort, so she perched on a low stool with her knees pressed nearly to her chest.
Branwynn reappeared with a plate of steaming cakes and a mug of tea. She set them down, then spotted Wren, pausing with a sigh that held more fondness than scolding.
“Sweetheart, that’s a terrible seat. You never remind me, do you?” She shook her head and disappeared into the next room, muttering about a chair “fit for legs longer than me.”
The quiet pressed in as Wren waited, guilt tightening in her throat. Then a small shape shuffled in—Tommick, curls mussed, grinning around a mouthful of cake. His sticky face was still rounded by youth, though she knew he was nearly old enough to start lessons with the other children. He waved eagerly and plunked his empty plate beside the others before darting back through the door to play.
Branwynn returned a moment later, dragging a wooden chair nearly as tall as she was. Wren hurried to help, and together they set it by the table.
“Better,” Branwynn declared, dusting her hands.
She gestured for Wren to sit and claimed her own smaller seat, already reaching for the bundle of herbs, but Wren knew the delivery wasn’t why she’d been invited inside. Branwynn had two gifts: baking and conversation. Wren could do neither, but she let the halfling practice both whenever she visited.
“How’s your mother?” Branwynn began, already pouring tea.
Before Wren could give more than a few words, Branwynn was off into several stories about the town and her neighbors. Wren let the steady flow of words wash over her, the smell of cinnamon and honey cutting through the damp soil on her clothes. She nodded when she should, asked a question here or there, but Branwynn didn’t need replies. She only needed someone to listen. And for a while, Wren let herself rest in that—grateful for the chance to be useful without pressure.
“Everything all right, dear? You’ve gone pale.” Branwynn must’ve caught the tension in her expression.
“Oh,” Wren sipped her tea to give herself time to think. She didn’t want to burden Branwynn unnecessarily when her problems were so small. “It’s only…Theordrin…”
