Wren
I opened the door.
Maybe I shouldn't have. It was the middle of the night, in a warded fortress, and no old woman should have been able to stand in that hallway. But my wolf was pressed against my ribs, not growling, not afraid, leaning toward the door the way you lean toward family, and I have learned to trust her more than I trust locks.
She looked exactly as she had at the festival. Small. Bent. Gray wool. Eyes so pale they were almost white, and warm as banked coals. She looked up at me, at my tear-streaked face, and she smiled that same smile, joy and grief folded together.
"Ah," she said gently. "The wolf told you first. Good. That's the right order. Fate should always come from inside before it comes from outside." She patted my arm with her too-strong hand. "Put the kettle
