As we make our departure, the Direfang trackers melt into the undergrowth as the owls flutter ahead, guiding us deeper into the forest. The Whisperwood feels different in the morning light — hushed, watchful, as if the trees are listening. Beads of morning dew cling to every surface, turning spiderwebs into silver threads and darkening the bark where droplets gather and fall. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of wet leaves and moss.

  Shineah walks beside the children, her shoulders tight, her eyes fixed on anything that isn’t her mother. The silence between us hangs heavy, like a shadow that suddenly pulls at every step.

  A little farther ahead, Shineah’s mother stops. Her eyes widen, catching on a patch of pale green fronds pushing up through the dew?soaked leaf litter. She gives a short whistle — a soft, familiar signal — and the children hurry to her side.

  She crouches, brushing her fingers over the feathery leaves.

  “This is yarrow,” she says, tearing a leaf and letting the children lean in. “Smell.”

  They wrinkle their noses at the sharp scent.

  “Remember it,” she says. “If you cut yourselves, press this to the wound. It stops bleeding and keeps fever from taking hold.” She lifts the stem, showing them the tight cluster of white buds beaded with dew. “When these open, the flowers tell you the plant is strongest.”

  She tucks several sprigs into her pouch, then adds, “We don’t know where the owls are leading us, but we should always be prepared. This is good medicine. Plants like these are worth more than coin to most folk.”

  The children nod solemnly, repeating the name under their breath. They follow her lead, gathering what they can before following her deeper into the thinning woods.

  A few minutes later, Shineah’s mother halts again beneath a leaning spruce whose branches drip with pale, trailing strands of lichen. The morning dew has gathered along the silvery threads, making them shimmer like ghost?hair in the shifting light.

  “This is called old man’s beard,” she says, gathering a handful. She puts it up to her face, “Do any of you think I would look good with a beard?” She says playfully.

  One of the little ones touches the soft, dew?cool strands. “It looks like hair,” she whispers.

  The kids giggle as they pass it around to feel and smell it, but a little girl named Lysa frowns and is afraid to touch it. Tiv teases her, bringing it close to her. “I don’t want a beard!” She cries.

  Shineah’s mother steps between them. “It won’t make you grow a beard; that was a joke. It is also known as Usnea. This one fights rot and sickness. If a wound smells wrong or turns dark, boil this, and wash it clean. The forest is good at growing its own remedies. You just have to know where to look.”

  She moves on, pointing out a few more plants as the forest begins to thin — a patch of mullein with its tall, fuzzy leaves still damp from the night; a fallen branch coated in pale green moss she brushes with her thumb. The children trail behind her like ducklings, whispering the names, absorbing every word. Even the adults watch her with quiet respect — the way she moves through the forest, the way she teaches, the way she knows what keeps a tribe alive.

  I watch from a few paces back.

  This — this knowledge, this steadiness — much of this is stuff I don’t even know, and her knowledge has my respect.

  The trees grow sparser. The light grows brighter. The scent of pine gives way to the smell of open fields and distant livestock.

  And then, at last, the Whisperwood gives way to open sky and rolling farmland. We step out of the dappled shade onto a wide grassy expanse. Ahead, vast fields spread toward a stone?walled castle, its watchtowers standing like sentinels over the land.

  It is clear now. The Direfang wolves we’ve been pursuing were taken here.

  I don't recognize the place at all and look to the others to see if they have any insights.

  "Welcome to Fendarrow." Shineah's mother says with recognition.

  I stare at the large stone walls looming across the fields. "How do we get in?" I ask.

  Shineah’s mother doesn’t answer immediately, studies the distant walls, then the road leading toward them. “There!” she says, pointing.

  I follow her gaze to see a caravan creaking along a dirt road with three ox-drawn wagons, piled high with crates and burlap sacks. Traders, maybe. Farmers bringing goods to market. Whatever they are, they look harmless enough.

  “We look like we’re with them,” she says. “Traders, travelers, families heading to market. Nothing unusual.”

  She adjusts one of the herb bundles in a child’s arms, making it more visible.

  “Stay close. Keep walking. Let the wagons do the talking.”

  I reach for my blanket and pull it over my head like a hood, trying to mask my orcish ears. It doesn’t do anything for my teeth, but it is better than nothing.

  We fall into step behind the caravan, close enough to blend in, far enough not to look like we’re clinging to them. Charlie and Grizz pad at my sides, their presence grounding me. I pray that anyone looking will be looking at them more than me.

  The walls of Fendarrow rise higher with every step — clean stone, banners fluttering lazily, watchtowers manned by silhouettes that don’t move much. It appears to be a place that watches without blinking.

  As we near the gate, the caravan slows. A guard steps forward in polished leather armor. His spear is held upright, his posture relaxed but alert. A team comes out and begins searching the wagons, then they drift to us to inspect our party as well.

  My heart thumps within my chest as they draw near.

  One of the guards approaches me with a hand outstretched. “Weapons,” he says, looking at me, and then nods to my axe. “Guests are not allowed to carry weapons in the courtyard.” He then nods to the gatehouse door. "We'll keep them in here while you stay. You can have them back when you leave."

  I doubt that, but I reluctantly hand him my axe anyway. Shineah then follows with her sword.

  He cracks the gatehouse door open just enough to slip inside to place our weapons. I catch a glimpse of the clutter behind him — spare armor stacked in a corner, a bundle of arrows leaning against the wall, and a few old swords shoved wherever they fit.

  He then returns and hands Shineah a wooden token with a symbol on it. "There is a box inside with that symbol on it. When you leave, give that back to whoever is at this station, and they will know which weapons are yours."

  Then the guard glances at the other Direfangs.

  They stand there empty?handed — no weapons other than their belts, which look like plain leather straps to anyone who doesn’t know better.

  “Any of you got any booze on you?” an old guard with a bushy grey mustache asks, already waving two female guards forward.

  They move in briskly and professionally — too professionally. They check packs, cloaks, and sleeves. Then they turn to the women in our group.

  One of the female guards steps in front of Shineah’s mother. “Lift your arms,” she says.

  Shineah’s mother complies, jaw set. The guard runs practiced hands along the seams of her cloak, then the lining, then the belt. Then she crouches, checking the hem of the dress.

  “Smugglers hide flasks anywhere,” she says, as if reciting a rule she’s tired of defending. “I need to check underneath.”

  Shineah’s mother exhales sharply through her nose — not out of fear or shame, just irritation at the indignity. She lifts the edge of her dress a few inches. The female guard ducks her head beneath, checking for anything that might be strapped to her legs. It’s far more invasive than it needs to be.

  Shineah watches, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The Direfang women mutter under their breath, offended but unwilling to start trouble at the gate.

  The female guard emerges, dusting off her hands. “Clear.”

  They move on to Shineah next, then the others. They find nothing.

  The old guard sighs, disappointed. “Another dry group,” he mutters.

  Shineah’s mother steps forward, reclaiming her dignity with a single breath. “Is this level of inspection normal?”

  “Aye,” the guard says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ever since the Queen had her baby…”

  Varrik raises an eyebrow. And everyone leans in.

  The guard sighs, rubbing his face. “Our royal physician — the only one we’ve got — is a total drunk. And one night, after he had too much to drink, the Queen went into labor. Thankfully, the Queen delivered the baby just fine. The baby was healthy, but when the doctor handed the newborn to Her Majesty, he… well…” the guard grimaces. “He threw up. All over the Queen and her new baby.”

  There is a long pause as everyone stares at the guard wide-eyed, then Grumpy Varrik breaks first. A sharp, explosive bark of laughter bursts out of him — the kind that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for twenty years and finally found a crack to escape through. He slaps a hand over his mouth to try and stifle it, but it is no use. Talla elbows him in the ribs with a hissed, “Varrik,” but she’s fighting a smirk herself.

  The guard sighs again, shaking his head. “Anyway… the King and Queen want him gone. Everyone does. But he’s the only physician we’ve got. Can’t fire him. Can’t replace him. And the most the King can do to punish him is enforce this kingdom?wide prohibition, turning the whole realm dry.”

  The Direfangs are still stifling laughter — shoulders shaking, lips pressed tight. Varrik sniffles, wiping away tears.

  Refocusing the conversation, the guard eyes the bundles in the children’s arms — the yarrow, the usnea, the mullein leaves still damp with morning dew.

  “What is it you’ve got here?” he asks, squinting. “Herbs, tonics… anything useful you plan on trading?”

  Shineah’s mother lifts one of the yarrow bundles. “It’s medicine,” she says simply. “Forest remedies.”

  The guard’s posture changes instantly — alert and hopeful. “Medicine?” he repeats. “You… you know healing?”

  “If any of you are healers… or know healing… I can get you a direct audience with the King!”

  Shineah’s mother then steps forward, composed, and gives a nod.

  The guard perks up like a jolt of lightning. “Right this way then!” The guard smiles, as if he was about to get the biggest promotion of his life.

  He takes two steps, then glances back at Charlie and Grizz. “The King won’t have beasts in the throne room, even friendly ones. The stables are warm, fenced, and watched. Your bears will be safe there. And so will everyone else.”

  The guard leads us through the inner gate and into the courtyard — a wide, walled expanse that wraps around the base of Castle Fendarrow’s raised hill. The ground is patterned with stone paths and trimmed hedges, broken by garden beds thick with fresh green growth and the occasional statue of some long?dead noble.

  To the left, the stable sits tucked against the inner garden wall — a long, timber?framed building with a tiled roof and barred windows meant to keep powerful animals from wandering. It looks harmless enough from the outside, but the moment the doors shut behind Charlie and Grizz, everything changes.

  Charlie wheels toward the nearest window, pressing his snout between the bars, huffing in sharp, anxious bursts. Grizz paces the stall, claws clicking on the wooden floor, muscles tight with confusion. They’ve been inside my house before — padding in whenever they pleased — but they’ve never been caged anywhere, and the unfamiliar scents in the stable only make it worse.

  I step up to the window, fingers curling around the cold iron. “It’s okay,” I try to soothe, “I’m right here.”

  Charlie rumbles, low and wounded, trying to shove his head farther through the bars. Grizz stops pacing long enough to stare at me — ears flat, eyes wide with the hurt of betrayal that twists something deep in my throat. They don’t understand why I’m outside and they’re inside. They don’t understand why the door closed

  Behind me, the stablekeep shifts nervously. “They’ll settle,” he says, though he keeps a safe distance. “We’ve had… worse in here before.”

  Charlie moans softly, the same sound he made as a cub when he was scared. Grizz presses his shoulder against the window frame, as if he could push his way out and follow me.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I say, but the words feel thin. They’ve only ever known freedom at my side. And now I’m walking away from them behind bars.

  The guard glances nervously at the closed gate, then gestures toward the castle. “Right this way.”

  The guard leads us up the central path toward the keep, the afternoon sun warming the stone under our feet. The air hums with quiet activity. People move through the gardens and walkways with easy purpose — tending hedges, carrying crates between buildings, sweeping paths, chatting in small clusters as they work.

  We pass beneath the archway and into the keep. The temperature drops, the sounds soften, and the scent of beeswax and parchment replaces the outdoor bustle. A short vaulted hall leads into a narrow gallery lined with tapestries and polished armor. Everything is orderly and well?kept.

  At last, the guard stops before a set of carved oak doors. He straightens his tunic, glances back at us — the herbs visible in the children’s arms — then pushes the doors open.

  Inside, the King and Queen are not posed on thrones but seated at a long table with several attendants. A steward reads from a slate while two scribes argue quietly over figures. A few guards stand along the walls, relaxed but attentive.

  Our escort clears his throat — loudly enough to cut through the conversation.

  “Your Majesties,” he says, bowing. “Travelers from the Whisperwood. They come bearing medicine for trade — and… a healer.”

  The word — healer — shifts the room.

  The steward stops reading. The scribes fall silent. The Queen straightens, hope flickering across her face. The King rises from his seat, not startled but attentive, as though this is the first good news he’s heard in days.

  The King steps forward. “Welcome,” he says, warm but cautious. “Fendarrow is grateful for any who bring healing to our gates. Please — come closer.”

  The King’s gaze moves across our group with polite expectation. “Tell me,” he says, “which among you carries the healing art?”

  Shineah’s mother steps forward just enough to be the natural answer. She carries herself with calm confidence, the kind that courts expect from a healer. The Queen’s eyes soften with relief. The attendants lean in slightly. Even the guards seem to settle, as though the moment is unfolding exactly as it should.

  I stay in the back, hood low, shoulders rounded, doing everything in my power to disappear into the stonework.

  For a heartbeat, it works.

  Shineah’s mother inclines her head, ready to speak.

  Then one of the Direfangs lifts a hand and points. Not at her. At me.

  Another nods. Then another. A quiet ripple of agreement moves through them. To them, this isn’t a reveal. It’s just the truth.

  The Queen’s breath catches. The King’s eyebrows rise in surprise. The attendants murmur with interest. And I—caught completely unprepared—feel the air leave my lungs as a cold dread seizes over me.

  *What is she doing!* The thought slams into me, a knot tightening in my gut. *She’s supposed to be the healer, not me! No one would trust a half?orc. Not with healing. Not with anything that matters.*

  I can feel the eyes of the royal court turning toward her as if to question if they heard her correctly—and then toward the rest of us—searching, weighing, judging. The attention feels like a blade against my skin.

  I stay rooted to the back of the group, praying the moment will pass, but the silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, as though the entire room is holding its breath. My throat locks. My hands go numb. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can only stand there, utterly speechless.

  Shineah’s mother doesn’t flinch. She shifts gracefully, turning toward me as though this had always been the plan. “Your Majesties,” she says, her voice smooth, “our healer is a humble man. He prefers not to draw attention to himself.”

  Rokan pinches the back of my hood and yanks it down before I can react. Cold air hits my ears. Then he shoves me forward. I jerk my head back and glare at him, but he just keeps pushing, guiding me toward the front as though offering me up.

  A man standing among the attendants along the right wall suddenly erupts into boisterous laughter — loud, jarring, completely out of place in the otherwise composed hall.

  “An orc?” he bellows, wiping at his eyes as though the very idea pains him with amusement. “A healer? Saints above, Your Majesties, shall we next ask the wolves to tend our sheep?”

  A few attendants chuckle nervously, unsure whether they’re meant to laugh or remain dignified. The Queen’s smile falters. The King’s expression tightens, just a fraction — the first ripple in the room’s polished calm.

  Before the moment can sour further, the steward steps forward with a smooth, practiced bow.

  “Your Majesties, honored guests,” he says, voice steady and apologetic, “please forgive the outburst. This is our current physician, Doctor Dorgun, and he is known for guarding his post with great zeal.”

  The physician sniffs, clearly pleased with the framing, and folds his arms as though the matter is settled.

  Shineah’s mother steps forward, unruffled by his theatrics.

  “Your Majesties,” she says, her voice calm and clear, “do not let his appearance mislead you. There is far more to him than meets the eye.”

  She gestures toward the scar across my chest — the one exposed when Rokan yanked back my hood.

  “This wound was dealt only days ago. Broken ribs. A punctured lung. He was dying.”

  Her gaze sweeps the hall, steady and unshaken.

  “And yet he stands before you now. I have never in my life witnessed healing like his.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Shineah’s mother’s words hang in the air for a heartbeat— and then the royal physician barks out another laugh, louder and sharper than before.

  “Can you believe that?!” he shouts, throwing a hand toward an imaginary thing on the floor. “If my dog got a wound like that three days ago—would that suddenly make my dog a doctor?!”

  A few attendants flinch. Someone coughs into their sleeve. The Queen’s eyes narrow with open disgust. The King’s expression cools, the warmth draining from it grain by grain.

  And suddenly I find my voice. “I’m not a healer,” I blurt. My voice sounds thin in the vast hall. “He’s right. This wasn’t me. It was an act of God. I don’t know herbs. I don’t know medicine.” I point to my mother?in?law. “She’s the one who knows what plants help with what.”

  I gesture weakly toward her, desperate to redirect the attention, the expectation, the weight of the room.

  But Shineah’s mother only inclines her head, calm and immovable.

  “An act of God or not,” she says, “you were healed by a means I have never seen before.”

  She turns back to the King, her voice steady, unshaken by the mockery or my panic.

  “He has these stones that help with healing…”

  And just like that, the attention swings back to me—heavy, searching, and impossible to escape.

  “May I see these stones?” The King asks with curiosity.

  I hesitantly pull a faintly glowing holy stone from my pocket, which appears to mesmerize the King. “This stone is endowed with power from my God,” I say, feeling the warmth of it in my hand.

  The King gets out of his chair and rises, slowly stepping closer almost reverently, his eyes fixed on the faint glow in my hand. “May I see it?”

  My throat tightens. I hesitate, then place the stone in his open palm. The light brushes across his fingers, soft and warm. His breath catches — not loud, but enough that the attendants shift, sensing the change in the room.

  The physician stiffens, his smugness draining into something sharper.

  The King turns the stone slightly, watching the glow pulse beneath the surface. “Remarkable,” he murmurs.

  At first, the King feels its comforting warmth, then his breath hitches with a tiny twitch in his expression. A tightening around his eyes. Barely anything — but enough for me to see it.

  The stone’s glow slowly shifts to a deeper, harsher light, causing the King’s fingers to tremble slightly.

  “It only brings healing if God approves,” I say quietly. “If someone tries to use it without His approval… it may bring a curse rather than a blessing.”

  The King frowns and slowly extends his hand, offering the stone back to me. As I extend my hand to take it, the King practically tosses it into my hand.

  The King clears his throat, smoothing over the moment. “Perhaps,” he says, forcing warmth into his voice, “you can show me how to use your stone sometime.”

  A ripple moves through the hall. The Queen’s eyes flick toward him, sharp with concern.

  The physician snaps. “You would trust that?” His voice cracks through the hall, high and panicked. “You would trust an orc’s God to heal you? He is going to curse you all!”

  The outburst is loud. A few attendants recoil, acknowledging his point.

  The physician barrels on, raising. “And what next? Will you have him deliver your children?” He gestures wildly toward me. “Do you really want an orc to be the very first thing your baby sees?!”

  The hall freezes. The Queen’s expression hardens. And the King gives a slow, thoughtful nod.

  “Woah, I have no experience in delivering babies!” I say abruptly.

  “But I do”, Shineah’s mother interjects. She steps forward with calm authority, the kind that doesn’t need volume to command a room. “Your Majesties,” she says, “I have delivered more children than I can count. I know the signs. I know the dangers. I know how to keep a mother and child alive.”

  A ripple moves through the hall. The Queen’s lips press together, fighting a smile. The King exhales through his nose and gives a genuine, hopeful smile.

  The physician goes red, then pale, then red again, his eyes burning into me.

  The power in the room shifts as the King lifts a hand, steady and composed. “This leaves us with much to think about and discuss.”

  The tension in the hall loosens. Attendants exhale. The Queen’s shoulders ease, though her eyes stay sharp.

  The King turns back to us. “We are desperate, and you are worth a try. Please — be our honored guests.”

  A murmur moves through the court. The physician looks stricken, but he doesn’t dare speak again.

  The steward steps forward with a practiced bow. “If you will follow me to the banquet hall, we will see that you are well fed, and afterward, a tour of Fendarrow has been arranged.”

  The King nods. “And see that they are well supplied.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The steward says with a bow.

  Shineah’s mother gives the King a curt, respectful bow, and the rest of the Direfangs follow her lead — some graceful, some awkward, but all sincere. The steward gestures for us to follow, and the court parts as we’re led through the corridor toward the banquet hall.

  The moment the doors open, the smell hits us — roasted meat, spiced vegetables, warm bread, something sweet simmering in a pot. Stomachs growl up and down our line, and my mouth begins to water.

  The Direfang children don’t hesitate. They rush forward the moment the steward waves them in, piling plates with anything they can reach.

  The adults follow more slowly, but the relief is visible. Shoulders loosen. Eyes soften. For the first time since the escape, they don’t feel like they are just merely surviving. As we eat, I want to complain about being thrown into this position, but the food is too much of a distraction.

  The residents of Fendarrow stare openly at the children devouring food like they’ve never seen a feast before, then their gazes drift over the Direfangs and me. Their looks aren’t hostile, more of curiosity, surprise… and a quiet satisfaction, as if feeding us is a small victory they can claim for themselves.

  Plates empty quickly, and before the last crumbs are gone, but there is no time to linger and no time for private talk and whispered strategy. The steward is already stepping forward again.

  “If you will follow me,” he says, “the tour of Fendarrow awaits.”

  The Direfangs gather themselves, wiping hands, straightening cloaks, lifting sleepy children from benches. The warmth of the hall fades behind us as we’re ushered back into the courtyard.

  The steward leads us out into the courtyard. He pauses long enough for us to take in the layout before he begins speaking.

  “Fendarrow is built as a great circle,” he explains, sweeping a hand around the open space. “The whole city is arranged in four sections, each one responsible for a different kind of work.”

  He points to the nearest arc of buildings, where looms clack and ropes hang drying in the sun. “This section is for those who work with thread, cloth, rope, nets, and baskets. Their workshops are on the lower floors, and their homes are above.”

  We follow him along the curved path. The sound of hammers grows louder. Sparks flash from open forges. “Here are the metalworkers,” he says. “Tools, hinges, blades, pots, glass — anything shaped by heat.”

  Farther along, stoneworkers chisel blocks and repair the outer walls. Beyond them, rows of green stretch toward the outer ring. “Stonecraft and farming complete the circle,” he says. “Each section has its own craft, its own families, its own responsibilities.”

  The Direfangs watch with open curiosity. None of this is familiar, but the structure is simple enough to grasp.

  The steward continues, “Each section is guided by a guildmaster — the one who oversees the work and manages trade with other kingdoms.”

  The word master hits me like a pebble dropped into a still pond.

  “The guildmasters answer to the King,” the steward says. “He is the master of masters. The head of the household.”

  He continues walking, letting us absorb the idea before he speaks again.

  “In Fendarrow, we do not use coin,” he says. “There is no buying or selling amongst ourselves within these walls.”

  That earns a few confused looks from the Direfangs.

  The steward notices and slows his pace. “Think of the Kingdom as a single home,” he explains. “The King and Queen provide for everyone who lives here — food, clothing, tools, shelter. Everything a person needs.”

  Talla murmurs, “For free?”

  “For family,” the steward corrects gently. “And in return, each person contributes to the household. Those who work with thread weave and mend. Those who work with metal forge and repair. Those who work with stone build and maintain. Those who farm feed us all.”

  Rokan frowns thoughtfully. “So everyone just… does their part?”

  “Yes,” the steward says. “Everyone has a task suited to their skill. Some teach. Some craft. Some harvest. Some defend the walls. All contribute and all are cared for.”

  The Direfangs exchange glances — surprised, but not lost. This is close to what they already know.

  Varrik mutters under his breath, “Feels like a tribe with too many chores.”

  The steward smiles at that. “A tribe is a good word for it. A very large one.”

  We continue along the curve of the circle, the castle always visible at the center like a watchful parent. Workers pause to glance at us. Children lean over balconies. Some stare openly at me — at my ears and teeth and whisper.

  The steward gestures ahead. “And now, the final section of the circle — the weavery. This is where your tour will end.”

  He leads us toward the soft clatter of looms and the scent of dyed thread, the air warming with color and motion as the Direfangs take in the last piece of Fendarrow’s design.

  Two women look up from their work as we approach — one older, with silver threaded through her braid, the other younger, quick?handed and bright?eyed. They straighten when they see the steward, familiarity softening their posture.

  “Master Halda. Mistress Marith,” the steward greets them with an easy nod. “I bring new members of the household.”

  The Direfangs stiffen at that phrasing in disbelief.

  “As royal physicians,” the steward says, turning back to us, “each of you are expected to become part of this home. And it is the King’s desire to provide for you.”

  A ripple moves through the tribe. Shineah’s mother absorbs it with quiet dignity. The younger hunters look stunned. Even Varrik’s usual grumbling dies in his throat.

  The steward gestures to the tailors. “They will take your measurements. Proper clothing will be made and sent to your rooms once ready.”

  Halda steps forward with a measuring cord already in hand. “We’ll see you outfitted for the season,” she says. “Warm layers, sturdy boots, and something respectable.”

  As the tailor loops the cord around my chest, a spark lights in Shineah’s eyes. She squeezes my arm, openly pleased. “You’re getting a shirt,” she says, smiling as she leans in to kiss my shoulder.

  Marith crouches to the children’s height, smiling as she loops the cord around a giggling boy’s shoulders. “Hold still, little one. I can’t sew if you wiggle like a fish.”

  The Direfang children laugh — real laughter, the first since the Whisperwood.

  The adults stand straighter as the tailors move among them. There’s awe in their eyes, a kind of overwhelmed gratitude. This level of hospitality is more than they expected. More than they’ve ever received from outsiders.

  Then — faint but unmistakable — a low, mournful groan drifts across the courtyard.

  Charlie.

  A second follows, deeper and more frustrated.

  Grizz.

  The stables sit just beyond the inner garden wall, and even from here, their complaints carry through the open air. The Direfangs glance toward the sound, sympathy flickering across their faces. I feel it like a tug in my chest. I keep my expression neutral, but the ache settles behind my ribs. *I haven’t forgotten about you…*

  Not every gaze in the weavery is warm. A few workers glance at me with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

  The steward clasps his hands behind his back. “Your rooms are being prepared. When your clothing is finished, it will be delivered to you.”

  The Direfangs exchange hopeful looks. For a moment — a fragile, shimmering moment — it feels like this whole stolen?wolf situation might truly be a misunderstanding. A mistake that can be resolved with calm words and open hands.

  The steward gives a final nod before leaving us. “May this household be a refuge to you.”

  The tailors work with steady hands, moving from person to person with practiced ease. What begins as a simple measuring session stretches into the rhythm of an afternoon. The sun shifts across the courtyard, shadows lengthening as the Direfangs settle into small clusters, talking with the residents who drift over out of curiosity.

  Some of the weavers pause their looms to ask where we came from. A few metalworkers wander over during their break to introduce themselves. Children from the upper balconies creep closer, peering down at the newcomers until boldness wins out and they scamper down the stairs to join the Direfang little ones.

  The tribe warms slowly, like frost melting from leaves. Laughter begins to appear in small, cautious bursts. Even the adults loosen their shoulders as the hours pass.

  By the time the sun dips toward the horizon, the steward returns, clapping his hands lightly. “Dinner is prepared. Come — the hall awaits.”

  We follow him back through the cobbled paths, the castle rising ahead in the warm glow of lanterns. The banquet hall is livelier this time — not formal, not stiff, but warm. Tables are set with roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of stew. Musicians sit along the far wall, tuning strings and tapping drums.

  One of the younger Direfangs stops short in the doorway. “Again?” he blurts, staring at the spread. “We just ate.” Shineah hushes him quickly, but a few of the others smile as they file in.

  I’m still full from lunch, but I’m not passing this up.

  As we take our seats, the music begins — a bright, lilting melody that fills the hall like sunlight. Servers move between the tables with easy familiarity. Their steps fall into the rhythm as they set out bowls of stew and several platters of warm, roasted dishes.

  Shineah fills her plate and takes a bite of something warm. Her eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, taste this!” Before I can react she presses a spoonful of sweet potatoes to my mouth. My eyes widen, then slightly roll back. The mash is soft and buttery, richer than anything we’ve had in a long time. She watches me expectantly, grinning like she’s proud of discovering it.

  I swallow, glance at her plate, then look around for where they’re serving it so I can get a bigger helping.

  The Direfang children stuff their mouths, then watch as a few residents rise to dance, spinning in easy circles. Then one of the local kids grabs a hand and pulls them into the swirl. Their laughter rings out, light and unguarded.

  Even some of the Direfang adults join in, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence. Talla is the first to step forward, pulling a startled Rokan into the dance. Varrik claps along from the table, muttering that he’s too old for such nonsense, though the grin on his face betrays him.

  I stay seated, watching the room move around me — the music, the dancing, the mingling of two groups who only hours ago were strangers. The residents still give me lingering stares — each one feeling like a draft on my skin.

  The music shifts into a gentler rhythm — strings humming, a soft drum keeping time. The dancers slow, forming loose circles and pairs. Laughter drifts through the hall like warm smoke.

  Shineah watches the Direfang children slowly spin with the local kids. Her arms are folded, but her expression has softened. The firelight catches in her hair, turning the strands a deep copper.

  She notices me staring at her, then glances back at the dancers and takes my hand.

  I swallow. “I don’t know how to do any of that.”

  “It’s not about knowing,” she says. “It’s about joining. Seeing you participate will help soften their impressions on you.” She takes a stand and gently tugs me to join her.

  My heart stumbles in my chest. For a moment, I can’t move. Then I allow her to pull me gently into the slow circle of dancers.

  Her other hand settles lightly on my arm. Mine finds her waist, hesitant at first, then steady. We sway with the music, small steps, nothing complicated. The world narrows to the warmth of her fingers and the soft brush of her hair against my shoulder.

  For the first time since entering Fendarrow, I feel the tension in my spine loosen.

  Shineah looks up at me, her expression unreadable at first — then softening into something warm. Something real. Something that feels like the two of us joining like two drops of water, drawn together by a pull neither of us fully understands.

  “You did well today,” she whispers.

  “I felt like I was drowning.”

  “You still stood,” she says. “That matters.”

  The music swells around us. The hall blurs into motion and color. Her hand tightens slightly around mine, grounding me in a way nothing else has all day.

  For a few breaths, the stolen wolves, the suspicious stares, the weight of the throne room — all of it fades.

  It’s just her.

  And me.

  And the quiet space between us finally closing.

  Dinner stretches into the early night. When the music finally slows and the last plates are cleared, the steward returns once more.

  “Your rooms are ready,” he says. “Come — you must be tired.”

  He leads us up a wide staircase in the central keep, as if we were royalty. He then leads us down a quiet corridor lit by warm lanterns. He leads us up a wide staircase in the central keep, as if we were royalty. He then leads us down a quiet corridor lit by warm lanterns. The air is warm here, still, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and clean linen. Doors line both sides of the hall, each marked with a small carved symbol — a leaf, a hammer, a star — nothing ornate, just enough to tell one room from another.

  “These are yours,” the steward says, stopping at the first door. “Prepared this afternoon.”

  He opens it for the Direfangs. The room beyond glows with firelight. Beds with thick quilts. A washbasin already filled. A small table with a basket of fruit and bread. The tribe steps inside with a kind of reverent disbelief.

  “For the first time in days,” Shineah’s mother murmurs, “they will sleep without fear.”

  The steward nods and moves to the next door. “This one as well. And the next. Each family group will have their own space.”

  The Direfangs file into their rooms, murmuring thanks, touching the blankets, testing the mattresses with cautious hands. The children tumble onto the beds, giggling. Even the adults seem lighter, as though the weight of the journey has finally loosened its grip.

  Shineah’s mother pauses at her doorway. “I’ll stay with the little ones tonight,” she says. “They’ll rest easier with someone familiar.”

  The steward inclines his head. “As you wish.”

  He continues down the corridor until only one door remains — the one at the far end, set slightly apart from the others.

  “This suite is yours for the night,” he says, motioning to Shineah and me.

  He opens the door with a small, respectful bow.

  “Rest well. Tomorrow, the King will send for you.”

  His footsteps fade down the lantern?lit hall, leaving the quiet to settle around us like a warm blanket.

  For a moment, everything feels peaceful.

  The guard stationed at the end of the hall gives a short nod and steps aside, allowing us into the room. The door closes, and the room settles into a quiet that feels strange after the road. Shineah steps forward first. Her eyes move across the space — the carved bedposts, the fresh, folded clothes waiting for us on our bed, the basin of warm water. She touches the edge of the washstand with her fingertips, almost testing it.

  I walk past her and drop onto the bed.

  The mattress gives way beneath me, soft and deep. Feathers shift around my weight, and I sink farther than I expect. A breath escapes me before I can stop it. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the room settle into my bones.

  When I open them again, Shineah has found a small wooden brush on the table.

  She lifts it like it’s something precious.

  Her hair is already loose from the day, but she pulls the tie free and lets the rest fall over her shoulders. She starts working through the tangles with slow strokes. Her shoulders ease with each pass. I can hear the soft rasp of the bristles from where I lie.

  I watch the ceiling at first.

  Then my eyes drift back to her.

  She stands near the firelight, her hair catching the glow. She tilts her head slightly as she works through a stubborn knot, lips pressed together in concentration. There’s a softness to her I rarely see — a quiet she never lets herself have on the road.

  I sit up without thinking.

  She glances at me, surprised, then looks away again. A faint color touches her cheeks. She keeps brushing, a little faster now, like she’s aware of my eyes on her.

  I stand and cross the room to a basin of warm water.

  She sits on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots. Her fingers slip on the knots. I kneel in front of her, placing the basin on the floor.

  “Let me,” I say.

  She hesitates for a breath, then lowers her hands.

  I work at the laces, careful and slow. The first boot comes free. I ease it off and set it aside, and then remove her sock. Her foot is warm from the fire. I guide it into the basin. The water ripples around her ankle, and she exhales softly.

  I take the cloth and begin to wash heel, arch and each toe.

  The dirt lifts away in small circles.

  Her skin warms under my hands.

  I don’t look up, but I feel her watching me.

  “Tormack,” she says quietly.

  “Mm?”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.” My voice comes out low, steady.

  I move to her ankle, then her calf. Her muscles tense under my touch, then ease. She leans back slightly, breath shifting in a way I feel more than hear. The fire crackles. Warm water drips from the cloth.

  I reach her knee and pause a moment, then guide the cloth higher, slow and steady, along her thigh. I look up.

  Her eyes meet mine. Something moves in her expression — small, quick, enough to pull me closer without thinking. I lean in and press a kiss to her knee. Light and careful.

  Her breath catches. Then her hand comes down on my wrist. Gentle, yet firm.

  “Tormack,” she says. “Not tonight.”

  Her voice is warm, almost unsteady.

  I nod and look away. I set the cloth aside and ease her foot back into the basin. The warmth of her skin lingers on my hands longer than it should. I stand and reach for the clean shirt folded on the bed. The fabric is smooth, almost too fine for me, but I pull it on.

  Shineah watches me quietly. Her hair has fallen forward over one shoulder, still half?brushed. There’s something in her eyes I can’t read, and I don’t trust myself to try.

  I take a breath. “I’ll sleep with the other animals tonight.”

  Her head lifts sharply. “Tormack—” She hears it. The edge in my voice.

  I shake my head before she can stand. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. We came to rescue our wolves. What better place to keep an ear out for them than in the stables?”

  She hesitates, caught between reaching for me and letting me go. Her fingers curl slightly, like she’s holding herself back.

  “And Charlie and Grizz…” I add, softer. “They didn’t look happy being locked up. I want to make sure they are okay.”

  Shineah’s expression shifts — worry, regret, something else beneath it — but she doesn’t argue. She just watches me, her breath unsteady, as I move toward the door.

  My hand rests on the latch, but I don’t look back. If I do, I won’t leave.

  “Goodnight, Shineah,” I say.

  A long pause.

  “Goodnight,” she answers, barely above a whisper.

  I step into the hall and close the door behind me, the warmth of her knee still lingering on my lips and the sting of my own words echoing in my chest.