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He gave her a final squeeze before stepping back, walking backward a few paces so his grin lingered in her view. “You’ll see. Hard to explain.” Then, softer: “Love you, Acorn.”

His days of roaming were ending right as hers were beginning. She wasn’t sure she was the adventuring type—but he believed she could be.

That belief alone was a gift.

She slipped the journal into her satchel. The Farm Gate yawned, an opening into the unknown. She wasn’t sure what she’d find. But like Tavrin, she was done running from it.

Chapter 9

Echoes Stitched in Time

Merchants already lined the Farm Road, arranging wares for the festival. Every year, there were more. Blankets strewn with wire-wrapped jewelry, hastily set tables with clay pots glazed in earth tones, woven rugs so fine Wren couldn’t imagine how fingers had managed the threads.

Beyond the road, visitor tents gathered within sight of the walls—crowding like a flock of strange birds, each one reflecting the travelers who’d pitched it. At the center of the makeshift camp, a firepit sat cold, logs scattered around it.

Wren could almost hear the echo of what had been: music, laughter, the mingling smells of food passed from hand to hand. A place where strangers became kin, if only for a night. She understood what had drawn Tavrin to the road. A freedom she’d never touched—until now, maybe, standing at its edge.

Hennah’s tent was somewhere among them. Tavrin had said she wasn’t what he’d expected. Wren wondered which stories would be closer to the truth: the grim kitchen whispers of bent crones smelling of incense and death, or her father’s tales of prophets and bards, weaving futures with songs and memory. None of the nearby tents looked like a Spirit Weaver’s home.

She stepped toward another cluster when a voice rose behind her. It was soft, beautiful—like sunlight through stained glass.

“Wren?” They’d never met, but she was sure this was Hennah.

Like all elves, her face was ageless—both youthful and ancient at once. Her hair, pale as spider silk, fell loose down the back of her plain blue linen dress, save for one intricate braid draped over her shoulder. Charms dangled from it: a coin browned with age, a slender bone fragment, beads with mirror-like faces that caught the light.

Spirit tokens. Wren had seen other Weavers carry them—like Garin’s feather, for one—but never tokens that hummed in frequencies she could hear, like they were alive.

What struck her most were Hennah’s eyes: pale as river ice, unsettling in their clarity, as if they pierced straight through to her core. Yet the gaze didn’t frighten her. It was a kind of release—being seen without judgement. Tavrin had been right—she wasn’t what Wren expected. And now she understood why he hadn’t tried to describe her.

“Hennah?” Wren asked softly.

Hennah smiled, gentle as a flower opening to the light. “You are Tavrin’s cousin. A Spirit Weaver, yes? There was an echo of you when I spoke to him.”

Wren stiffened. The way Hennah said it left no room for doubt. Wren wondered if this feeling of strangeness was what others experienced when they were around her.

“You have questions. They are already singing out of you.” She extended a hand. “Come, we’ll be more comfortable in my home.” Then, with less formality, she added, “And I’ve a tea blend from the Vale. You’ll love it.”

Wren took her hand, and Hennah squeezed her fingers with the easy familiarity of someone who’d known her for years. Together, they wove through the patchwork maze of tents until they stopped before one that could only be hers.

It wasn’t grand, but the air hummed with the memory of her voice. The canvas—yellowed and patched in places—didn’t look worn so much as well-lived. Beneath the peak, she’d painted a sun in eclipse, its pale rays ringed with careful brushstrokes that caught the light.

Stepping inside was like stepping into a piece of her.

The pole at the center was carved with Spirit runes, wrapped with charms tied with twine: shells, dried flowers, rough gems caged in tin, bones etched with scripts Wren couldn’t name.

Lanterns of every shape hung from the frame, glowing soft and steady, while herbs and simple pans swayed gently on their hooks. Cushions piled on top of woven rugs in overlapping colors, travel-stained but pleasant, lined the floor in a seating area. Against the far wall sat a trunk, its lid repurposed as a table. Atop it lay ink, parchment—and yes, incense. Wren caught herself smiling. Some stereotypes had roots in truth.

She couldn’t shake the sense that the tent didn’t simply belong to Hennah, it was part of her—as if every thread and trinket was stitched to her spirit.

She settled onto a cushion near the trunk as Hennah pulled down her teapot—water already sloshing inside—and gathered a flat stone, a pair of mismatched ceramic mugs, and a small tin of herbs whose scents Wren didn’t recognize.

Hennah folded herself gracefully across from her, tucking soft leather boots beneath the hem of her blue dress. She set the stone on the rug between them and held her hands above it, fingers curved like closing petals.

Silver light, like a flash in a mirror, filled her eyes as her magic stirred. The air beneath her palms rippled with heat. After a few breaths, she drew her hands back. The stone glowed faintly. Without hurry, she spooned herbs into the pot and set it on the stone to steep.

“But you’re a Spirit Weaver.” Wren leaned forward, eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

“In the Vale, we do not draw such harsh boundaries between the elements. Spirit, Fire, Air…they are not so separate as the world insists.” Hennah’s smile carried the patience of someone who’d answered this question before and never tired of it. “My gifts are centered in Spirit, yes. But I can hear the melody of every element.”