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The calm of the forest settled around them, broken by Wendall’s low humming and the crackle of the ovens behind him. He stirred in slow, steady circles. It reminded him of practicing sword forms—but quieter.

Orzen didn’t want to talk. Not really. But he also couldn’t keep circling these thoughts forever. And he clearly couldn’t keep startling like a spooked deer every time Wren looked at him with genuine concern.

“I got caught in the Hollow,” he said finally, voice low. Even now, he was ashamed of how easily he’d been tricked into leaving the path. “Walked straight toward that monster like it was calling me home. If Wren hadn’t pulled me out…”

A soft hum of sympathy escaped as he considered Orzen’s words. “Scarlimbs like that place—Matriarchs especially. I think it’s the echo. Helps them hunt,” he said. “Bad things like to hide in dark holes. They whisper bad things too—but just ‘cuz they say it doesn’t make it true.”

“It was true for me.”

The words ripped loose even when Orzen didn’t want them to. He struggled to focus on the sugar. The fire from the memory clung to him like soot. His father’s voice rang inside his skull. The smell of burning oil was so real he was sure he’d slipped back in time. Guilt dug deep into his marrow, too deep to ever scrape clean.

“Wren’s holding enough already,” he murmured. “I can’t expect her to hold this, too. I won’t.”

“If you let dough sit too long, it sours.” Wendall kept mixing. “Maybe…this is the same?”

Orzen gripped the spoon so hard his knuckles ached. The truth pressed on his ribs. No one outside of the Row knew what he’d done. Voicing it was like tearing open a wound. But if he was going to tell Wren, he’d have to get used to saying it out loud. Wendall had been more than gracious, and it loosened something inside Orzen.

“I killed my father.”

He’d expected some kind of reaction, but Wendall’s hands never stilled. He didn’t jerk back, or gasp, or even look at Orzen.

The words were out there now, in the open for the first time in cycles. He’d said it to a complete stranger without knowing how they’d take it, what they’d think of him. Wendall was quiet for a maddening amount of time. Or maybe it simply stretched longer because it was chasing the dread crawling up Orzen’s spine.

Wendall simply waited, like the confession was a storm he’d stand through if that’s what Orzen needed.

So Orzen kept going. “I was a just a kid. Burned down his forge. Spent years hurting people after that, like it was all I was capable of.” He swirled the spoon again so his hands wouldn’t shake. “That’s why I can’t tell Wren about it…” He shook his head. “No one deserves to be dragged down by somebody like that.”

Wendall finally looked up. Not with pity or suspicion. It was a soft, steady kind of listening Orzen had never experienced before.

“Sounds heavy,” he said quietly. “Can’t imagine carrying that by myself for so long.” He didn’t push further, only kept working, solid and calm.

“I’ve been trying to be different.” Orzen swallowed hard. “Wren seems to think—gods, I don’t even know. Better than I deserve.”

Wendall flipped the fresh batch of dough on the table and pressed his palms into it. “If you’re scared that she’ll change her mind when she knows…” He let out a soft grunt as he folded the dough. “Well, you can’t know a thing before it’s said.”

Orzen dropped his elbow to the table and rested his head in his hand. “What should I even say?”

Wendall nudged a warm scone toward him. “Hold that. Hard things sit easier when your hands aren’t empty.” He clapped a flour-dusted hand onto Orzen’s shoulder. “Be honest. Let her decide for herself. People hear better when it’s the truth.”

Taking the scone seemed like agreeing to the whole thing but Orzen accepted it anyway. “I think I’m going to need a whole basketful for this.”

Wendall brightened immediately. “Oh, that I can do!”

He grabbed an empty basket and filled it with half a dozen pastries—tarts, buns, two scones so big they could’ve doubled as improvised weapons—then covered them with a soft linen napkin.

“You know,” Wendall said as he secured the napkin in place, “you’re easy to like. I think you’re my new favorite friend.”

Orzen stiffened, genuinely thrown off. The word friend wasn’t something people offered him lightly. “Well, you’re not so bad either.”

Orzen tucked the basket under one arm and gathered the folded clothes in the other. He nodded to Wendall, who waved eagerly, whistling a tune Orzen didn’t recognize. The path back toward the lake shimmered in the falling light, steam curling upward like breath in the snow.

Let her decide.

The thought lodged deep, digging like a splinter. Letting someone see all of it, everything, was like walking back into the flames. But the truth pressed against his ribs, heavy and warm as the basket at his side.

If he wanted the shadows in his mind to stop snapping at his heels, there was no dodging anymore. He’d have to face it. Preferably not smelling like old armor and smoke.

He set the basket down in a quiet corner near the lake, stripped the leather plates from his shoulders, and exhaled. Cleaning up was a small thing, but it was one step toward staying.