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“You,” Pell said firmly. “Miss Wren, is he following you again, or have you simply brought him here to torment me?”
“Orzen’s with me this time,” Wren cut in quickly. “But he’s promised to be good. We’re actually here to help Marda.”
“Ah.” Pell adjusted his glasses and rested his elbows on the counter, giving Orzen a long, unimpressed once-over. “You still lumber about like a bear—armor or not, I’d hear you coming a mile away.”
“Work in progress.” Orzen’s mouth twitched, caught between humor and relief. His gaze scanned them, lingering on the stranger, as if trying to place something about him, but Wren wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
Pell made an unconvinced sound under his breath. Then he looked at the stranger again, still waiting by the counter. “Between the three of us, surely we can convince you to earn your coin another way.”
“If you’re visiting,” Wren said, “perhaps you simply don’t know how dangerous it is.”
“Wouldn’t be a ranger of any merit if I was afraid of the forest.” The stranger chuckled brightly. “Danger’s half the reason to go. I’m Silas, by the way. I’ve traveled from the north, hoping to make some coin in exchange for rare beasts.”
A sick feeling curled in her stomach. She didn’t begrudge people their desire to make coin, but hunting for sport never sat right with her. She’d met others like him before—visitors hoping to find rare treasure, artifacts from the Shattered Age, secret power rumored to exist within the Virewood. It never ended well for any of them.
“Seems foolish,” Orzen muttered, brown eyes hard, never leaving Silas. “Hundred other ways to make coin besides wandering into a cursed forest to kill beasts that never bothered you in the first place.”
“Interesting.” Silas’s eyes narrowed, searching Orzen’s face, his expression shifting into one of quiet amusement. “You look like the sort that understands violence. A man such as yourself would make good money hunting beasts.”
Orzen tensed. Wren could almost hear his teeth grinding beside her. “Don’t know about that,” he muttered. “Working with my hands is more satisfying than killing for sport.”
The air in the shop thinned as the two men studied each other. Pell gave Wren a look of weary indifference, and she sighed. It was like watching two rams size each other up.
She cleared her throat to break the tension. “You’re either desperate,” she said, peering at Silas, “or reckless to travel deeply into the Virewood alone.”
“I’ve got a few friends.” Silas’s smile was wide, eyes glinting. “And I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with dangerous beasts,” he replied, hand resting on his crossbow. “Enough to know when to spot them.”
“Not well enough to spot a Spirit Weaver,” she said with a bitter laugh. “The most dangerous creature of all.”
His eyes brightened. “Ah! So you’re that Wren.” He extended his hand to shake hers. “I’ve heard whispers of the Spirit Weaver in town. Rumor is you’re performing. I planned on staying for the festival first. No sense in seeking danger before fun.”
Wren’s shoulders tightened. She didn’t take the offered hand. Orzen didn’t say anything, but he was carefully watching the exchange like he might step in if she needed him to. It was kind of nice not to face scrutiny alone for once.
Pell must’ve noticed her discomfort because he chimed in, “Our dear leader enjoys encouraging community participation, regardless of how ready one is to accept it.”
“Ah, yes, well I am quite looking forward to it, regardless of how you’ve been roped into it.” Silas held up his palms and said, “Didn’t mean to take so much of your time. I’ll let you two get to business while I look around.” Then he drifted toward the back of the store—still in view but far enough away that Wren relaxed a little.
She hated it when strangers knew more about her than she’d chosen to reveal. It wasn’t the first time, certainly not the last if Theordrin had anything to do with it. He seemed to revel in making her uncomfortable in her own skin, and she didn’t have to wonder much about where the rumors of her performance might be coming from.
“So,” Pell said to Orzen. “Marda’s got you doing errands? If she trusts you, maybe you’re not as hopeless as you seemed yesterday.”
“He’s been surprisingly helpful, actually,” Wren said, catching the faint look of performed disbelief Pell gave her. She nodded toward the cords of wood stacked neatly along the back wall. “She’s asked us to pick up her firewood. Insisted it required two people.”
“Did she now?” Pell made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, eyes flicking between them. “Gods preserve me, that woman’s been matchmaking since before I had whiskers. Planning your nuptials now, most likely.”
A startled sound—half cough, half laugh—escaped Orzen. Wren gripped the strap of her satchel, a blush crawling up her neck. Pell’s grin widened, thoroughly pleased with the air his comment had sucked out of the room.
“Marda simply wants me to have friends,” she said quickly, eyeing Silas, who was now several shelves away, pretending not to listen.
“Of course.” Pell lifted one skeptical brow but spared her any further teasing.
With the awkwardness clearing in the air, Silas returned, set a small pouch of coin on the counter, and said to Pell. “I’ll be by to pick up the new teapot and bedroll later today.” He turned to Wren and extended his hand again. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Wren. I’m eager to watch your performance.”
After a beat, she took his hand. It was cool and oddly soft for a man so accustomed to the outdoors. “I’m sure you’re not the only one,” she grumbled.
He nodded to Orzen, a glint in his eye. She watched him leave, movements steady and sure. Something about him snagged on her thoughts—like hearing a tune she used to know. Then it hit her all at once.
Auren. Her friend. The boy she’d healed when she shouldn’t have. He’d been one of the few besides Leora to see her magic without fear, and she’d ruined his life. Silas had that same look, that same sly confidence she’d first appreciated in Auren.
