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The Gladeans gathered by the seed pool to share food and stories, their voices carrying across the clearing as Orzen walked back toward the cottages. Noise and people were the last things he wanted. He shifted the armor in his hands, following the path away from the laughter.

A bright, teasing whistle cut through the air from one of the porches. “Well, look at you! Turns out you clean up well, too.” Jessa leaned forward, grinning. “Calen still looks better—obviously.” She flashed a grin at Calen, who sat beside her, and the boy flushed, smiling at her like Orzen wasn’t even there.

Calen wore loose-fitting blue linen, leaning back on his hands in an almost casual way—almost. His eyes kept darting toward Jessa whenever she wasn’t looking, betraying him completely.

Jessa was radiant in her Gladean outfit. She’d rearranged her hair again, a new twist sweeping across the front and a soft puff near the nape of her neck. She wore a sunshine-yellow tunic embroidered delicately along the neckline, bright enough to outshine half the glow-crystals.

“It’s kinda nice seeing you not stomping around like a grumpy bear in armor for once,” Jessa continued.

Her eyes sparkled with all the energy of a charmingly obnoxious little sister he’d never signed up for. He huffed a laugh, lips tugging despite himself.

“Thanks? You look good. Both of you.”

“Wait until you see Wren,” she called after him as he moved past. “You are so not prepared.”

His heart gave a treacherous twist. He tried to ignore it. Of course he wasn’t ready—lately ready was a concept he’d forgotten completely whenever Wren was around. He only hoped he wouldn’t look like a complete fool in front of her.

Wren was waiting on their shared porch. He froze. Jessa severely undersold it. So much for staying composed. When she turned, he had to remind himself to breathe again.

Her hair curled softly behind her horns, falling in long dark waves down her back. She wore a Gladean tunic the color of deep forest, almost matching the shade of his own. Over her shoulders, overlapping leaf patterns had been sewn by careful hands. Loose sleeves draped elegantly down her arms, silver scrollwork threading the seams like liquid iron.

It was as if she’d stepped back into a version of herself he’d only caught glimpses of before—a grown-up Lady Acorn—the little knight with a wooden spoon and impossible confidence. Older now, worn by loss and buried beneath responsibility, but still there.

Her smile rose, soft as always, but it stopped short. A shadow of distress lingered in her eyes, something she hadn’t carried before. Wendall was right. Something was bothering her.

He cleared his throat. “Hey,” he managed. Extremely casual…good job, Orzen. For the love of all the gods, just act normal.

She grinned and patted the stair beside her. He shuffled forward like she might bite. Silly…as if he hadn’t spent more than a sevenday traveling with her—long enough to know that she was one of the gentlest people he’d ever met.

“That’s new,” he said stupidly, nodding to her clothes and immediately regretting ever speaking.

Her lips twitched. “So is yours. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you without your armor for more than a few hours.” Her horns tilted as she studied him. He shifted beneath her judgement, until she folded her hands in her lap. “I like it, even though you look like you’re walking into a trap.”

He sat before he could change his mind, then shoved the basket toward her like it might explode in his hands. “Wendall told me to bring pastries.”

“Oh?” She gathered the basket into her lap. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”

“Yeah. Well, it kind of is. He said sugar helps with hard conversations.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Or…something like that. He said it a lot better. I, uh…I wanted to…” The words jammed in his throat.

Her brows drew together in the quiet, steady way she had when she was ready to listen but wouldn’t push him to speak.

He didn’t know why the worry still clung to him. She trusted him. She’d had a hundred chances to pull away, to decide he was too much trouble, and she never had. She still looked at him as if he were someone worth knowing. Like Tavrin once had. And gods help him, it made him want to be better than the man he’d been before.

He reached for her hand and turned it gently. Soft red blotches spread across her palm. Healed, but not gone completely.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rougher than he meant. “I didn’t know I’d hurt you.” His thumb brushed the tender skin. “Listen…about what I saw in the Hollow…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Her gaze held his—safe, sincere, and far kinder than he deserved. She closed her fingers around his. “Not if it’s too much. You look exhausted. You’ve barely slept.”

“I was hoping to show you. Not sure I can sleep at all if I don’t get it out of my head.” The words snapped out faster than he intended, brittle with weariness.

Her eyes filled with concern so soft that it hurt. He hated when she looked at him like that. It was a kindness that made him uncomfortable. Softness he hadn’t earned.

“Never mind.” He shook his head and stood again, pulling his hand away. “I shouldn’t have—it’s not your problem to fix. You’ve done enough of that for me already. And you’re right. I am tired. That’s probably it.”

“Wait.” Her fingers closed around his again. He stopped immediately, turning back. “That’s what friends are for,” she said softly. “You’re not supposed to carry everything alone.”

He swallowed hard and shrugged. “I’ve never been very good at ‘friends.’ I guess I’m still learning what it means.” He lowered himself back onto the step with a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing a little.