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“Every enemy has a weakness.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “They bound the Rotfather once; we can do it again.”
“You can’t fight a god, Orzen!” She let out a small, broken laugh but her chin quivered like she was trying to hold back tears.
“I can if that’s what I have to do to keep you safe.” He refused to step aside while something ancient and uncaring claimed her, god or not. It was foolish, reckless, but the alternative was unbearable. His jaw flexed and he let out a hot breath.
“I don’t want you to try.”
“Wren, I can’t let you—”
“Please,” she whispered, the word slipping out before she could steady it. “Please, I need you to listen. It isn’t only the prophecy I’m worried about.” She wrapped her arms around herself. Her gaze drifted to the birds flitting between branches, like she needed something to remind her there was softness in a world suddenly sharper than she liked.
“He whispered to me. Voryx…the Rotfather.” Her lips trembled; she pressed them together until she was steady enough to speak again. “I’m not scared of dying. I’m scared he’ll twist who I am. Steal my weaving. Make me forget myself.”
She reached into her pocket once more and drew out the little carved squirrel—the one she’d shown him in Stillglen. The last her father had carved. She pushed it into his hands even as he shook his head, protesting.
“It’s not really a gift—it’s more like an obligation,” she said, voice quivering like she was pretending it was a joke. But he couldn’t laugh. Not when the ground tilted beneath him.
“I’m giving it to you because I trust you. It’s a sign of hope.” She looked away. “Pa always believed my weaving was good. He knew my heart. Maybe if you have it, you can remind me…if the time comes.”
He shook his head but didn’t try to give it back to her. The wood was smoothed from cycles of fingers brushing the carved fur. He wondered how many times she had held onto it in the past. How often had she needed it to remind herself who she was? Now she was trusting him with that responsibility.
“I…I hate this plan,” he muttered, voice rough. “But I’ll do it.”
He slipped the squirrel next to the luck stone. The gods never cared what happened before. They’d need as much luck as they could get.
“Honestly—it’s the best defense I could come up with,” she said, trying to smile. “Maybe we don’t need it at all. Maybe there’s some other Spirit Weaver with a moon mark that’s had visions of the gods. Wouldn’t that be convenient?”
She tried to laugh but it came out broken.
He hadn’t expected her to reach for him and he hadn’t realized how fast he’d reach back. But when her fingers slipped over his palm, soft and sincere, he curled his own around them.
“I’m supposed to be the one who uses humor to pretend I’m fine,” he said, the words feeling hollow even as they slipped out.
She smirked and squeezed his fingers, then grabbed a tart from the basket. “How very self-aware. Seems like we’re both learning.”
He sighed theatrically. “Learning’s overrated.”
She handed him one of the pastries. Her shoulders eased and she leaned back as if, for one small moment, they weren’t barreling toward a conflict neither of them fully understood.
The pastry was flaky and smelled of ripe berries. He bit into it. Tart and sweet. Wendall really was one hell of a baker. If only baked goods could solve every problem.
The squirrel was heavy in his pocket. He’d traded one burden for another, but this one mattered more. And he’d carry ten times its weight if it meant taking even a sliver of fear from her shoulders.
She relaxed the longer they sat, finishing her breakfast, pointing out birds and naming them for him. The early morning sunlight lit her face. For once, he didn’t question anything. He let himself enjoy it. Something small. Something good.
“Next time, let’s bring some nuts for the jays,” she said softly. “They’re always—” Her words caught when a cold draft rippled through.
Silence dropped around them. The birdsong cut off mid-call. Sickly sweet scent filled the clearing as if brought by a breeze, but the branches didn’t move. The emberkit vixen’s ears flattened against her head, and she darted into the den where her kits waited.
Wren rose to her hooves, grabbing the basket.
A long, low, mournful sound rolled across the Glade. The archaic note of a horn, not like any warning bell he knew. Another answered it. Then another—closer.
He jumped to his feet, hand grasping only air at his shoulder. No sword. Not even armor. He hadn’t needed them an hour ago. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need them now.
He and Wren locked eyes. They didn’t need words. They ran.
They’d made it a dozen strides along the path when a figure dropped from the trees. Ruddy hair, long-limbed, barely older than Calen, yet unmistakable from the paintings in Lyrah’s home—Mira’s brother, Hollis.
