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Her Spirit stirred in response. Not having to hide her weaving here was freeing. The tight knot around her magic loosened, and a familiar warmth tingled down her arms. It slipped into her fingertips, then flowed into the plant.

She closed her mind to the world outside. The distant birdsong and the rustle of leaves disappeared. Her awareness reached for the threads woven through all living things—the pulse that connected soil to root, leaf to branch.

A wild, blinding flash struck her the moment she touched the threads. The energy burned hotter than it should have—unstable in a way she’d never experienced before. Beneath it, something else. A bone-deep weariness, life clinging on past its time.

When her awareness snapped into her body once more, she blinked back the halos of light dancing across her vision. The thick fur on her goat-like legs stood on end. Even the nettles seemed to listen, leaves trembling in the hush.

Her gaze drifted across the garden. Vegetables sagged heavily on the vine, untouched by decay. They’d welcomed the extra produce at first, but the vegetables had become flavorless. Skeletal veins stretched across paper-thin, leather-oak leaves, straining to hold their shape like the bones of a dying creature.

Despite the tingle down her spine, Wren couldn’t bring this to the village Elders. They wouldn’t believe the word of a Spirit Weaver. Well, Garin would. Still, Wren had learned that speaking out was not worth the risk, and she had enough to think about with the honor meal looming later that day.

When she stepped through the side door, the house exhaled around her, the scrape of mortar and pestle steadying her instantly. The pungent scent of mountain mint and pepperbark drifted in the air. All of it spoke of her mother.

Marrowen bent over the worktable at the center of the room, hands moving in steady, practiced motions. The crinkle of wax paper stirred memories of early mornings spent side by side, hands busy, backs warmed by the crackling hearth.

The tips of her mother’s grooved horns peeked above a sturdy braid—black streaked with tendrils of silver and white. Wren always found it beautiful. A quiet sign of a life well-lived; a story told in strands of wisdom and years. Wren hoped, someday, her hair might tell such a story.

Marrowen’s hands slowed as she looked up from her work, eyes narrowing with familiar skepticism.

“You’re done already?”

Wren’s hooves tapped softly on the worn floorboards, and she set the empty basket beside her mother with a soft thud.

“It’s the plants. They’re tougher than they should be.”

Wren pulled the shears from her belt and held them out. Marrowen’s brow furrowed as she inspected the useless blades. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Marda’s order will have to wait, then,” she said, stifling a weary sigh. “Not much time to think on it now. I need a few things from the market for dinner.”

Her mother said it as if tonight’s was a simple meal.

They both knew it wasn’t.

Her mother pulled out a scrap of parchment and handed it to Wren. She groaned under her breath and reluctantly took the list. If she were quick, she could avoid most of the crowds and their suspicious gazes. She slipped the parchment into her belt.

“Your cousin will be here soon, so be quick.”

Tavrin had a gift for showing up early, as if he were afraid the world might pass him by. Still, Wren was eager to see him.

She slowed as she passed her father’s altar. It was hardly fair she’d had more time now without him than with him. She’d been ten, and in the thirteen years since his death, the pain never dulled.

Her fingers brushed the tiny chip in the carved squirrel’s ear—the one left when her unsteady hands shifted against the grain as her father guided her. She needed to hold it one more time before she offered it tonight. A small shield to soften the scorn she was sure to encounter within the walls of Thistlehold. She swallowed, then slipped the figurine into a pouch on her belt. The weight settled comfortably against her thigh.

Behind her, Marrowen’s expression softened. With a gentle wave of her plant-stained hands, she beckoned Wren closer. Her fingers were warm and calloused as they brushed a strand of Wren’s rich brown hair behind one ear.

“You remind me more of him every day.” Marrowen smiled faintly and tucked her daughter’s chin. “You’re still our little sprout.”

Then she gave Wren a quick, firm pat on the back.

Squaring her shoulders, Wren pulled her heavy cloak from the hook by the door. She wrapped it snug around her shoulders, then stepped into the crisp air.

Thistlehold’s market held its breath, caught in the lull between midday errands and the evening revelry at the inn. Wren expected more activity this close to the festival. At the very least, street performers should’ve been taking advantage of the visitors in town, yet they were missing too.

Otto would be sleeping until later, when he’d play his fiddle at the Turning Root Inn, so his absence was to be expected. Wren thought she might spot Janah near the statue of Elaren, bright fabrics whirling as she danced. Lately, though, Janah had spent more time speaking out against Theordrin Havelle—the High Elder himself—than performing in the square.

Janah was braver than her, though they shared the same beliefs about the Elder. Wren preferred to keep her horns low, avoiding attention as much as possible. It’d been how she’d survived, how she kept her and her mother safe. If she were useful, if she stayed small, she’d be mostly ignored.

Somehow, even that wasn’t enough. As she passed through the stalls, vendors eyed her with suspicion. A faun woman inspecting a basket of apples caught her eye, curling her fingers into the circular sign of Elaren before turning her back on her. Wren swallowed, cheeks flushing, watching the cobbles pass beneath her hooves.