The Worth of What Calls Us (TWoWCU Book 1)

 

 THE CHASE

 

Rev's lungs burned.

Three days of running, and Ranger West still followed. Three days of sleeping in ditches and stealing bread from windowsills and clutching his stolen goods to his chest like they were worth dying for.

Maybe they were. To someone, at least.

He burst through a gap between buildings and stumbled into what looked like a traveling camp. Colorful wagons circled a clearing. Lanterns hung from poles, swaying in the evening breeze. The smell of cooking—something with rosemary and butter—made his empty stomach clench. People moved about, setting up what looked like a performance stage.

A performance troupe. Perfect. Crowds meant places to hide.

Footsteps pounded behind him. Close. Too close.

"Rev Lacroix!" Ranger West's voice rang out, breathless but determined. "Stop running!"

Rev's heart hammered. He scanned the camp desperately. Wagons, crates, barrels— A man in a worn straw hat looked up from a barrel he'd been examining. Their eyes met. The man's gaze flicked to Rev's face, then to the alley behind him, reading the situation in an instant.

One second. That's all it took.

"In," the man said quietly, pointing to the barrel.

Rev didn't hesitate. He scrambled inside, pulling his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his bundle. The lid closed above him, plunging him into darkness. The smell of old apples surrounded him—sweet, dusty, safe.

He heard the man's weight settle against the barrel. Casual. Like he leaned on barrels every day.

Rev held his breath.

"Have you seen a young man? Seventeen. Fox-like features," West's voice, closer now. Out of breath. "Short, brown hair, carrying stolen goods?"

"Saw someone running that way." The man's voice was smooth, unhurried. Like he was discussing the weather. "Few minutes ago. Seemed in quite a hurry."

"Which direction exactly?"

A pause. Rev's heart thundered so loud he was certain West could hear it.

"West," the man said.

"What?"

"He went West," the man clarified, "Or Northwest. Hard to say. He was moving awfully fast."

Another pause. Rev pressed his hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. He pointed Ranger West, West!

"Thank you!" The Lawman said. 

Rev heard footsteps, running, fading into the distance.

Silence.

Rev counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

A tap on the barrel. "He's gone. You can come out now."

Rev pushed the lid up slowly, blinking in the evening light. His legs had cramped. He climbed out awkwardly, nearly falling.

The man caught his elbow, steadying him. Up close, he was tall and lean, maybe in his early forties. Dark, squinty eyes that seemed to see too much. A beard that needed trimming. Calloused hands.

"Thank you," Rev managed. "I—you didn't have to—"

"No," the man agreed. "I didn't." He studied Rev with that too-knowing gaze. "But I did anyway."

Rev shifted his bundle, suddenly aware of how suspicious he looked. A thief. That's what he was. What West had called him.

The man's eyes dropped to the bundle, then back to Rev's face. "Must be important, whatever you took."

Rev's jaw tightened. "It is. To someone."

"Not to the person you took it from?"

"He doesn't even know it's gone." The words came out defensive, sharp.

The man tilted his head, considering. "What did you steal?"

Rev hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached into his bundle and pulled out a sock.

One single, ordinary sock.

He kept the rest of the bundle close, unwilling to reveal what else he carried.

The man stared at the sock. Rev waited for the laughter, the disbelief, the questions.

Instead, the man's expression softened. "It was calling to you."

Rev's head snapped up. "What?"

"The sock. It was lonely. Calling out. And you heard it." The man said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Rev felt a chill run down his spine. How did he know? No one had ever understood. Not even close. "Yes."

The man's gaze dropped briefly to the bundle still clutched in Rev's other hand, then back to his face. He didn't ask. Didn't push.

"What's your name?"

"Rev."

"Not anymore." The man straightened, brushing dust from his worn vest. "The ranger is looking for Rev Lacroix. He won't find Feren."

"Feren?"

"Can you remember that?"

Rev—no, Feren—nodded slowly. "...Yes."

"Good." The man held out his hand. "I'm Mender. Welcome to the troupe, Feren."

 

THE TROUPE 

 

Mender led Feren to the performance area. A stage inside of a tented room with benches, much like a circus tent.

"We have a show tonight," Mender said. "You'll need to stay out of sight for now. The Ranger might come back."

He led Feren to the back of the stage area, where a heavy curtain separated the performance space from the backstage chaos. Mender pulled it aside.

Behind the curtain, the troupe was in motion. A woman with red hair was checking a map and muttering about timing. Someone was tuning a lute. A grumpy-looking person was adjusting a set piece. The air smelled like sawdust and lamp oil and something cooking.

"Stay here," Mender said quietly. "You can watch through the curtain. Stay out of sight. We'll do introductions after the show."

Feren nodded, finding a spot near some crates where he could sit and see through a gap in the fabric.

Mender stepped into the center of the backstage area, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the activity. "Everyone, this is Feren. We'll do proper introductions after tonight's performance."

A few heads turned. The red-haired woman looked up from her map, eyebrows raised. The young man with the lute waved enthusiastically. The card dealer, who looked to be about Feren's own age, glanced over, expression unreadable. The grumpy one just grunted and went back to work on the set props.

"Places in five!" The red head called out, with a southern drawl. She quickly moved onto her next task.

And just like that, Feren was part of the chaos. He pressed himself against the crates, trying to stay small and invisible. Around him, the troupe moved with practiced efficiency, as the crowd began to file into the tent and take their seats.

The red-haired woman was giving quiet instructions. "Yer openin' with the sunrise piece. Are yer light sources ready?"

A dreamy-looking woman drifted past, carrying what looked like a jar of glowing moths. "Mmm... yes... I think so..."

"Ya think so or ya know so, Sugar?"

"...I know so."

The young man with the lute was humming to himself, fingers dancing over the strings. He seemed completely absorbed, like the rest of the world didn't exist.

The card dealer was shuffling a deck with quick, precise movements. His eyes flicked toward Feren once, twice. Watching.

A warm, motherly woman appeared with a tray of something that smelled incredible. "Honey, you need to eat before the show."

The grumpy one grumbled but took the food.

 Near the back, a figure with horns and strange eyes was checking harnesses and equipment. They moved quietly, efficiently, talking to themselves in third person. "Vigil will check the Trotters. Vigil thinks the left harness needs adjusting."

And Mender stood at the edge of the curtain, calm and still, watching the crowd gather beyond.

"Places," the red-haired woman called softly.

The chaos stilled. Everyone moved to their positions.

Mender stepped through the curtain onto the stage. The crowd quieted, all eyes turning toward him.

He stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle. Then he smiled—warm, welcoming, like greeting old friends.

"Good evening, Travelers and Townsfolk, Dreamers and W meanderers!" His voice carried easily through the tent, smooth and rich. "I'am the Memory Mender. Welcome, welcome! You've found us on a fine night, and we are delighted to share our gifts with you."

He spread his arms, encompassing the stage, the tent, the troupe.

"We are a traveling Family of Misfits and Makers, Storytellers and Starweavers. Tonight, you'll see wonders both great and small—music to lift your spirits, light to dazzle your eyes, and tales to warm your hearts. So settle in, friends. The show is about to begin!"

He gestured toward the side of the stage.

"First, let me introduce our opening act—a young man whose music could wake the sun itself. Please welcome the extraordinary Lyric!" 

The young man with the lute stepped through the curtain. The crowd quieted.

He began to play.

From his hiding spot, Feren watched through the gap in the curtain as the troupe transformed the simple stage into something magical. The music was bright and joyful, like sunrise breaking over hills. The young man played with his whole body—swaying, smiling, completely lost in the melody. The crowd leaned in, captivated.

Then the dreamy woman stepped onto the stage.

She moved slowly, gracefully, like she was walking through water. In her hands, the jar of glowing moths. She opened it.

The moths rose into the air, their soft light pulsing gently. And then—

The light changed.

It bent. Twisted. Multiplied. The moths' glow became ribbons of gold and silver that spiraled above the stage, forming shapes—birds taking flight, flowers blooming, stars wheeling across an invisible sky.

The audience gasped.

Feren's breath caught. It was impossible. Beautiful. Magic.

The woman's hands moved like she was conducting an orchestra, weaving light like thread. Her eyes were distant, dreamy, but her magic was precise and stunning.

Mender stepped back onto the stage, his voice warm with appreciation. "Wasn't that extraordinary? Our Star Tender, the luminous Lumina, everyone!"

The crowd applauded enthusiastically. The dreamy woman drifted offstage, barely acknowledging the applause, already half-lost in her own world.

  "Now then," Mender said, his grin turning mischievous, "we have a young man who claims he can bend luck itself. Let's see if fortune favors him tonight. Please welcome Felix Chance!"

  The card dealer stepped forward next.

  He grinned at the crowd, shuffling his deck with a flourish. "Pick a card," he called to a child in the front row. "Any card."

   The child pointed. The dealer plucked a card from the deck—the three of hearts—and held it up for everyone to see.

   "Remember this card," he said, tucking it back into the deck. He shuffled once, twice, three times. Then he fanned the cards out. "Now, where did it go?"

   The child pointed to a card in the middle. The dealer pulled it out.

   The seven of spades.

   The crowd murmured, confused. The child frowned.

   The dealer grinned wider. "Not there? Hmm. Maybe..." He reached behind the child's ear and pulled out a card. The three of hearts.

   The crowd erupted in laughter and applause.

  But Feren noticed something. For just a moment, the seven of spades had shimmered. Changed. Like reality itself had bent.

   The dealer's grin never faltered, but his eyes were sharp. Calculating.

   "Felix Chance, ladies and gentlemen!" Mender announced as the crowd roared with laughter and applause. "Where luck and skill dance a very fine line!"

   Felix took an exaggerated bow, cards still fanning between his fingers.

   "And now," Mender said, his voice softening, becoming warmer, "let me introduce someone who feeds not just the body, but the soul. Our beloved Rosey Mayberry!"

   The motherly woman appeared next, carrying a tray of small, steaming pastries. She moved through the crowd, offering them freely.

   "Fresh from the oven," she said warmly. "Made with love."

   People took them, smiling, thanking her. And as they ate, their faces softened. Shoulders relaxed. Strangers turned to each other and started talking, laughing. The whole tent felt warmer, safer.

  Feren's stomach growled. Whatever she'd made, it smelled like home.

  The crowd applauded. 

  "My friends," Mender said, The crowd quieted instantly. "We have one more wonder to share with you, but first let me tell you a tale."

   He began to speak, and the world fell away.

Feren couldn't look away. Mender's voice rose and fell like music, painting pictures with words. He told a story about a traveler who'd lost their way, searching for something they couldn't name. The crowd leaned forward, hanging on every word.

And as Mender spoke, the stage transformed around him. The grumpy builder's sets shifted—trees rose, a path appeared, stars glittered overhead. The dreamy woman's lights danced in time with the story. The musician's melody wove through it all.

It wasn't just a story. It was alive.

Halfway through, Feren's heart stopped.

Through the gap in the curtain, he saw Ranger West appear at the back of the tent.

Feren froze. His hands clenched. West was scanning the crowd, his eyes moving methodically from face to face.

Backstage, the motherly woman noticed Feren's panic. She followed his gaze, saw West, and quietly moved to stand between Feren and the curtain gap. Blocking the view. Shielding him.

On stage, Mender didn't miss a beat. But his eyes flicked briefly toward backstage. A silent message: Stay still. You're safe.

West watched for several long minutes. His hand rested on his belt. His jaw was tight with frustration.

Then, finally, he turned and left.

Feren's hands were shaking.

The motherly woman patted his shoulder gently. "You're safe, dear," she whispered. "We've got you." She handed him one of the cookies from the basket that she was carrying. "Eat. You'll feel better."

He took a bite. The cookie was sweet, buttery, and tasted like safety. Like home. His hands stopped shaking.

The performance continued.

"Finally," Mender said, in his announcer's voice, "I would like to introduce to you Our Companion Keeper, the steadfast Vigil, and one of our magnificent Trotters!"

The horned figure appeared briefly, leading one of the massive striped creatures—a Trotter—across the stage. The crowd oohed and ahhed at its size, its unusual markings. The figure spoke quietly to it, and the creature bowed its great head. The Trotter performed a series of tricks, with a grace that seemed impossible for something of it's size.

Finally, the performance ended. Mender stepped back on stage, thanked the audience, and bid them goodnight.

The crowd rose to their feet, applauding. Coins clinked into a hat by the entrance as people filed out, still talking excitedly about what they'd seen.

The troupe filed back through the curtain, the energy shifting from performance to exhaustion. Faces were flushed, smiling, tired.

Mender found Feren still sitting by the crates.

"Come on," he said gently. "Time for proper introductions."

The troupe gathered in a loose circle backstage. Feren stood, feeling every eye on him. His bundle was still clutched against his chest.

Mender rested a hand on Feren's shoulder. "Everyone, Feren will be staying with us. Traveling with us. He's part of the Troupe now."

There was a beat of silence.

North's eyebrows rose. Felix's jaw tightened. Lyric grinned. Rosey nodded like she'd expected nothing less.

"Any objections?" Mender asked quietly.

Another pause. Then Forge grunted. "One more mouth to feed. One more person breaking things."

"One more person to help," Rosey countered gently.

North sighed, but there was no real resistance in it. "Fine. But he pulls his weight, Sugar. We all work here."

"He will," Mender said, glancing at Feren. "Won't you?"

Feren nodded quickly. "Yes. I'll help. However I can."

"Good." Mender gestured around the group. "Now then. Feren, meet the family. Properly, this time."

The red-haired woman stepped forward first, hands on her hips. She had sharp eyes and a no-nonsense air about her. "North. I'm the navigator and scheduler. I plan our routes, keep us on time, and make sure we don't get lost." Her Southern drawl was warm despite her businesslike tone. "Welcome to the troupe, Sugar. Try not to throw off my schedule too much."

The grumpy builder grunted, arms crossed. "Forge. I build the sets, fix the wagons, and repair whatever these fools break." A pointed look at Felix. "Don't break anything."

The young man with the lute practically bounced forward, grinning ear to ear. "I'm Lyric! I play music—flute, lute, sometimes I sing! Did you like the opening piece? I wrote it myself! Do you play any instruments? What's your favorite song?"

"Lyric, breathe," North said dryly.

The card dealer hung back, arms crossed, watching Feren with guarded eyes. "Felix." His tone was neutral, but there was an edge to it. "Felix Chance."

The motherly woman who'd given him the cookie smiled warmly. "Rosey, dear. I cook, I bake, and I make sure everyone eats. You look half-starved. We'll fix that."

The horned figure stepped forward, those strange horizontal-pupil eyes studying Feren carefully. "Vigil." They spoke in third person, their voice calm and measured. "Vigil is also sometimes known as Flint, Stone, Guard, or Steady. Each name Vigil has earned. Vigil tends the creatures. Vigil keeps watch. Vigil welcomes Feren."

The dreamy woman yawned, already drifting toward a wagon. "Lumina... I do the lights... nice to meet you..." She waved vaguely and disappeared into the shadows.

Mender rested a hand on Feren's shoulder. "And you've already met me. Memory Mender. I fix broken things." His eyes were kind. "Welcome home, Feren."

Feren's throat tightened. Home. It had been a while since he truly felt at home anywhere.

"Thank you," he managed. "All of you. For... For everything."

Rosey patted his cheek. "That's what family does, dear."

"Now then," North said, all business again, "we need to pack up and move. We've got three days to the next town, and I want to get on the road before it gets too late."

The troupe scattered, moving with practiced efficiency. Feren stood there, uncertain.

"Come on," Mender said. "I'll show you where you'll sleep. You can help us pack."

 

THE PUPPET

 

The wagons had stopped for the night in a clearing off the main road.

There were three wagons in total, arranged in a loose triangle around a small campfire that had burned down to embers. The Trotters were unharnessed and resting nearby, their breathing slow and rhythmic. Vigil sat with them, keeping watch, speaking softly in third person to the creatures as they dreamed.

Most of the troupe had already gone to sleep. North was curled up in the lead wagon, her maps carefully rolled and stored. Forge had claimed a spot under one of the wagons, wrapped in a blanket and snoring softly. Rosey had her own small wagon, cozy and warm, filled with the lingering scent of bread and herbs.

Lyric had taken a bedroll near the fire, his lute carefully propped beside him. Nearby, Lumina was still awake in her own wagon, distant and dreamy, staring at the stars through a gap in the canvas.

Felix had claimed a spot on the opposite side of the fire, his back to the flames, cards tucked safely away for the night.

Feren lay in the back of the supply wagon, wedged between crates and sacks of grain. Mender had given him a blanket and shown him where to sleep, then disappeared to his own spot somewhere.

But Feren couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ranger West's face. Heard his voice calling out his real name. 'Rev Lacroix!  In the name of the law, I'm bringin' you in!' With the echoed memory he felt the panic of being chased, hunted, caught.

He shifted, trying to get comfortable. The wagon creaked.

"Can't sleep?"

Feren jumped, his heart hammering. Mender was sitting at the edge of the wagon, silhouetted against the faint glow of the embers. Feren hadn't even heard him approach.

"Sorry," Feren whispered. "I didn't mean to wake anyone."

"You didn't." Mender climbed into the wagon, settling cross-legged near Feren. "I don't sleep much. Old habit." He studied Feren in the dim light. "You're scared."

It wasn't a question.

Feren nodded. "What if he finds me? What if he finds all of you because of me?"

"He won't."

"You don't know that."

"No," Mender agreed. "But I know this: you're not alone anymore. And that makes all the difference."

Feren's throat tightened. He looked down at his bundle, still clutched close. The sock. The other thing he couldn't bring himself to name yet.

Mender noticed. "May I see the sock again?"

Feren hesitated, then pulled it out. Just the sock. The other item stayed hidden.

Mender took it gently, turning it over in his hands. "Still calling to you?"

"No," Feren said quietly. "Not anymore. It's... quiet now. Since I took it."

"Because it's not lonely anymore," Mender said. "It found someone who heard it."

Feren looked up, surprised. "You really understand, don't you? You're not just... saying that."

"I understand more than you think." Mender studied the sock thoughtfully. "Do you hear things often? Objects calling?"

Feren swallowed hard. "All the time. I can't... I can't help it. They're lonely. Forgotten. And I hear them, and I have to—" He stopped, shame flooding through him. "I know it sounds crazy."

"It sounds like a gift," Mender said quietly. "A difficult one, maybe. But a gift nonetheless."

Feren stared at him. "A gift? I'm a thief. I steal things. I ran across half the territory because I took a—" He stopped himself. Almost said too much.

"Because you took a sock," Mender finished, holding it up. "And something else you're not ready to talk about yet."

Feren's breath caught. Mender knew. Of course he knew.

But Mender didn't push. Instead, he reached into his vest and pulled out a small sewing kit. "May I?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Give it a purpose. A home." Mender's hands moved quickly, surely. Thread, buttons, scraps of fabric he pulled from his pockets.

Feren watched, mesmerized, as the sock transformed.

Within minutes, it wasn't just a sock anymore.

It was a puppet. Wide button eyes, a stitched smile, a little tongue of red fabric peeking out.

Mender slipped it onto his hand and made it bow. "Hello, Feren," it said in a slightly higher, playful voice. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Thank you for hearing me when I was lonely."

Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the guilt—Feren rolled his eyes and smiled.

Mender's own voice returned, warm and gentle. "For the performances. I tell stories, and this little fellow will help. Especially with the children." He made the puppet wave. "And now the sock has a purpose. A home. It's not lonely anymore."

"It was calling to me," Feren said quietly, the words spilling out.

"I know," Mender said simply. "You heard something that needed to be heard. You answered a call. That's not theft, Feren. That's listening."

Feren held the puppet carefully, his chest tight with emotion. "But the Ranger—"

"Is looking for a thief named Rev Lacroix," Mender said firmly. "Not a young man named Feren who's traveling with a performance troupe. Not someone who hears lonely things and gives them purpose." He met Feren's eyes. "You're not who you were three days ago. You're becoming someone new. Let yourself be him."

Feren nodded slowly, clutching the puppet.

"Now," Mender said, standing and stretching, "try to get some sleep. We have a long day of travel tomorrow, and Rosey will have you peeling potatoes if you're too tired to do anything else."

He climbed out of the wagon, then paused. "Feren?"

"Yes?"

"Welcome home."

Mender disappeared into the shadows.

Feren lay back down, the puppet resting on his chest. For the first time in days, the tightness in his chest eased.

He closed his eyes.

And finally, he slept.

 

MORNING CHORES

 

The next morning, Feren woke to the sound of Vigil's voice drifting through camp.

"No, no, that one is Stone's. Guard told you yesterday. Flint will not tell you again."

Feren climbed out of his bedroll and followed the sound. Behind the wagons, Vigil stood surrounded by creatures—and chaos.

The Trotters were already harnessed and waiting patiently, their striped coats gleaming in the morning light. The lumimoth rested on Vigil's shoulder, its wings folded, glowing faintly even in daylight. And darting through the air like tiny, iridescent comets were three pocket dragons.

They were small—no bigger than Feren's hand—with scales that shimmered blue and green and gold. Their wings beat so fast they hummed, and their eyes were bright with mischief.

One of them had Felix's lucky coin in its tiny claws.

"Give it back!" Felix lunged for the creature, but it zipped out of reach, chittering with what could only be described as laughter.

"Vigil!" Felix shouted. "Your dragons stole my coin again!"

"Stone's dragons did not steal," Vigil said calmly, pouring grain into a trough. "Guard's dragons borrowed."

"They STOLE it!"

The pocket dragon landed on top of the nearest wagon, clutching the coin possessively. The other two landed beside it, forming a tiny, glittering wall of defiance.

Feren couldn't help it—he laughed.

Felix shot him a glare. "It's not funny. They do this every morning."

"It is a little funny," Feren said.

Vigil looked up, noticing Feren for the first time. "Feren is awake. Good. Vigil needs help. Stone's hands are full."

"What do you need?"

"Cloud puffs need brushing. Flint will show you."

"Cloud puffs?"

Vigil pointed to a wooden crate near the wagon. Inside, nestled in soft hay, were three round, fluffy creatures that looked like living clouds. They were white and soft, with no visible eyes or mouths—just gentle, pulsing bodies that floated slightly above the hay.

"They're... floating," Feren said.

"Yes. Guard's puffs do that." Vigil handed him a soft brush. "Brush gently. They like it. Makes them glow."

Feren knelt beside the crate and carefully brushed one of the cloud puffs. It made a soft, contented humming sound and began to glow with a faint, warm light.

"Oh," Feren said, delighted. "They do glow."

"Told you." Vigil returned to the Trotters, checking their harnesses with practiced efficiency.

Above them, Felix was still trying to negotiate with the pocket dragons.

"Come on," he pleaded. "I need that coin. It's my lucky coin."

The dragons chittered at him.

"Fine. What do you want? Food? Shiny things? I'll trade you."

One of the dragons perked up. It dropped the coin—directly into the water trough.

Felix groaned. "Of course."

Feren tried not to laugh again. He failed.

"Stone thinks it is funny too," Vigil said, not looking up. "Flint's dragons like Felix. That is why they bother him."

"They have a weird way of showing it," Felix muttered, fishing his coin out of the trough.

The pocket dragons swooped down and landed on Felix's shoulders, nuzzling against his neck. He sighed, his annoyance melting. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You're cute. You're still thieves."

They chirped happily.

Feren finished brushing the cloud puffs and stood. "What else needs doing?"

"Vigil needs help with the Trotters," Vigil said. "Stone wants to check their hooves. Guard needs someone to hold the lead."

Feren hesitated. The Trotters had been wary of him since he'd joined the troupe. They tolerated him, but they didn't trust him yet.

"I can try," Feren said.

Vigil handed him the lead rope. "Talk to them. Flint's Trotters like voices."

Feren approached slowly, holding the rope loosely. The nearest Trotter—a large one with bold stripes—watched him with cautious eyes.

"Hey," Feren said softly. "I'm just going to hold this while Vigil checks your hooves. Is that okay?"

The Trotter snorted but didn't pull away.

Vigil knelt beside the creature, lifting one massive hoof with ease. "Good. Stone's Trotter is being brave."

Feren kept talking, low and steady. "You're doing great. Vigil's almost done."

The Trotter's ears flicked toward him. Listening.

Vigil moved to the next hoof, then the next. The Trotter stood perfectly still, calm under Feren's voice.

When Vigil finished, the Trotter turned its head and—gently, carefully—nuzzled Feren's shoulder.

Feren froze.

"Guard's Trotter likes you now," Vigil said, standing. "Vigil told you. Just needed time."

Feren reached up slowly and stroked the Trotter's neck. The creature leaned into the touch, rumbling softly.

Something warm and tight settled in Feren's chest.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The Trotter huffed, as if to say, You're welcome.

Behind them, one of the pocket dragons stole Felix's coin again.

"VIGIL!"

"Stone's dragons are just playing, Felix. Guard promises they will give it back."

"When?!"

"Eventually."

Feren laughed, still stroking the Trotter's neck, and for the first time in days, the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.

 

RUMORS 

 

Feren had been with the Troupe for nearly a week. He'd fallen into a rhythm—helping Forge load and unload wagons, assisting Rosey with meal prep, learning to stay out of North's way when she was planning routes, and watching Vigil tend the Trotters with quiet fascination.

He was starting to feel like he belonged.

They'd set up camp on the outskirts of a small trading town. North was negotiating with the local tavern keeper for performance space. Forge was repairing a loose wheel. Lyric was composing a new piece, humming to himself. Lumina was napping in her wagon.

Feren was helping Rosey unpack supplies when he heard it.

Two merchants were talking near the town square, their voices carrying across the market.

"—heard it was a priceless artifact," one said.

"No, no, I heard it was a family heirloom. Worth a fortune."

"My cousin said it was a magical item. That's why the Lord is so desperate to get it back."

The rumors had finally caught up to them. Feren froze, a sack of flour halfway out of the wagon.

Rosey noticed. "Something wrong, dear?"

"No," Feren said quickly. "Just... listening."

The merchants continued. "They say the thief is still out there. Ranger West is tracking him across the territories."

"Across the territories? For one stolen item? Must be valuable."

"Must be."

Feren's hands shook. He set the flour down carefully.

Rosey studied him with those warm, knowing eyes. "Feren?"

"I'm fine," he managed. "I just need some air."

He walked away before she could ask more questions.

That evening, the troupe gathered around the fire for dinner. Rosey had made a stew that smelled like comfort and safety. Lyric was playing soft background music. Felix was shuffling cards absently. North was reviewing her maps by lamplight.

Mender ladled stew into bowls and passed them around. "Heard some interesting gossip in town today."

Feren's stomach dropped.

"Oh?" North looked up. "What kinda  gossip?"

"Apparently there's a great manhunt happening. A thief stole something valuable from a Lord a few towns back. Ranger West is leading the chase."

Felix snorted. "West? That bumbling fool? Good luck with that."

"What did the thief steal?" Lyric asked, eyes wide with curiosity.

Mender shrugged. "Depends who you ask. Some say it's a priceless artifact. Others say it's a magical relic. One person told me it was a sacred family treasure."

Feren kept his head down, focusing on his stew. His appetite had vanished.

"I heard," Rosey said gently, "that the thief might have had a good reason for taking it."

"A good reason for stealing something so valuable?" Felix raised an eyebrow. "That's generous, Rosey."

"Maybe it wasn't really theft," she said. "Maybe it was something else. Something misunderstood."

Mender smiled slightly. "Maybe."

Forge grunted. "Probably none of those things. People love to exaggerate."

"True," Mender agreed, his eyes flicking briefly to Feren. "But it makes for a good story."

The conversation moved on—North complaining about road conditions, Forge grumbling about the wagon wheel, Lyric asking if anyone wanted to hear his new composition.

If only they'd known the truth.

The absurdity of it would have been funny if he wasn't so terrified.

 

As day turned into night, Feren once again found sleep hard to find. He sat outside his wagon, staring at the stars.

Vigil appeared silently from the direction of the Trotters. "Feren cannot sleep?"

"No."

Vigil settled nearby, their strange eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Vigil understands. Sometimes the mind is too loud."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while.

"Vigil," Feren said quietly, "have you ever done something you thought was right, but everyone else thought was wrong?"

Vigil tilted their head, considering. "Vigil has been called many things. Monster. Beast. Unnatural." They gestured to their horns, their eyes, their legs. "Vigil knows what it is to be misunderstood."

"How do you deal with it?"

"Vigil found people who see Vigil truly. Not what Vigil looks like. What Vigil is." They looked at Feren. "Feren has found such people too."

Feren's throat tightened. "What if I don't deserve them?"

"Vigil thinks Feren does not get to decide that. The Troupe has already decided. Feren is family now."

Feren nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Vigil stood. "Vigil will check the Trotters. Feren should try to rest. Tomorrow will be busy."

They disappeared into the shadows, leaving Feren alone with the stars and his thoughts.

Feren sat there for a long time, turning Vigil's words over in his mind.

'Feren is family now.'

He wanted to believe it. But the rumors kept echoing. Priceless artifact. Magical relic. Sacred treasure.

If they knew—

"The stars are bright tonight."

Feren startled. Mender had appeared silently, settling onto the wagon step beside him.

"Vigil said you might still be out here, and I thought you might need some company."

For a moment they sat in silence looking up at the stars.

"The rumors are getting wilder," Mender said after a moment. "By next week, you'll have stolen a dragon's hoard and the crown jewels."

Despite everything, Feren's mouth twitched. "Probably."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I heard what you asked Vigil," Mender said quietly. "About whether you deserve this. Deserve us."

Feren's chest tightened. "I didn't mean—"

"You do," Mender said simply. "Deserve us, I mean. In case you were wondering."

Feren looked down at his hands.

Mender reached into his coat and pulled out something small. A pocket watch, old and worn, its brass casing catching the moonlight.

"I want you to have this," Mender said, pressing it into Feren's hand.

Feren looked down at it, surprised. The watch was warm, heavier than he expected. It ticked steadily against his palm.

"It's beautiful," Feren said. "But I can't—"

"You can," Mender said. "And you should. This watch... it helped me once. When I needed guidance most. When I didn't know who I was anymore or what I was supposed to do."

Feren met his eyes. There was something in Mender's expression—something old and understanding.

"I think you need it now," Mender said gently.

Feren's throat felt tight. "Thank you."

"Keep it close," Mender said, standing. "And try to get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day, and the rumors will keep spinning whether you sleep or not."

He started to walk away, then paused. "Oh, and Feren? Whatever you stole—whatever it really was—it brought you to us. So I can't regret it."

He disappeared into the darkness, leaving Feren alone with the watch.

Feren looked down at it, watching the hands move steadily forward. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He slipped it into his pocket, feeling its weight settle against his chest.

For the first time that night, he felt a little less alone.

 

JEALOUSY 

 

Feren woke to the smell of Rosey's cooking and the sound of Lyric's morning song—a bright, cheerful melody that seemed designed to call  the sunshine.

"Up, up, up!" North called, already dressed and consulting her maps. "We're moving in an hour. Feren, help Forge with the wagons. Lyric, stop serenading the trees and pack your things. Felix, I swear if you're still asleep—"

"I'm awake," Felix grumbled from his bedroll.

Feren climbed out of the wagon, stretching. His body ached from sleeping on sacks of grain, but it was a good ache. Honest work, honest tiredness.

Forge was already inspecting the wagons, muttering to himself. "Feren. Check the harnesses. Make sure nothing's frayed."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me, Sir. Sir was my pa's name. Just Forge."

Feren moved to the Trotters. The massive creatures shifted as he approached, still wary of him. Vigil had said they'd warm up eventually, but it would take time.

He checked the leather straps carefully, running his hands over the buckles and stitching. Everything seemed secure.

"Good," Forge said, appearing behind him. "You're learning. Keep it up and you might actually be useful."

Coming from Forge, that was high praise.

Rosey appeared with wrapped parcels of food. "Breakfast on the road today, dears. We're behind schedule."

North shot her a grateful look. "Thank you, Rosey."

Lyric bounded over, lute slung across his back. "Feren! Want to ride in my wagon today? I can teach you some chords!"

"He's riding with me," Felix said flatly, appearing from nowhere. "I need help organizing supplies."

Lyric's face fell. "But I asked first—"

"Feren can decide for himself," Mender said mildly, loading the last of the props.

All eyes turned to Feren.

He froze, caught between them. Felix's expression was unreadable. Lyric looked hopeful. Mender just waited.

"I... um..."

"He's helping me," North called from the lead wagon. "I need someone to hold the maps while I navigate. Stop fighting over him like he's a new toy."

Feren climbed gratefully into North's wagon. She handed him a rolled map without comment.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't mention it, Sugar. Now hold that steady. We've got a long road ahead."

The wagons rolled forward.

And Feren, for the first time in his life, felt like he was moving toward something instead of running away.

 

The next town was smaller, quieter. They'd arrived in the afternoon and immediately began setting up for an evening performance.

Feren had learned the routine by now. Forge directed the setup of the stage framework. North coordinated timing and logistics. Vigil tended the Trotters and made sure the creatures were comfortable. Rosey prepared refreshments. Lumina tested her light sources. Lyric tuned his instruments.

And Felix set up his performance space with meticulous precision.

Feren had been helping Forge carry wooden planks when Mender called him over.

"Feren, can you help Felix with his props? He's got a lot to carry today."

Feren hesitated. Felix hadn't exactly been welcoming. But Mender was waiting, and Feren didn't want to seem difficult.

"Sure," he said.

He approached Felix, who was arranging a small table and several boxes of cards and props near the stage area.

"Mender said you might need help carrying things?"

Felix glanced up, his expression unreadable. "I've got it."

"Are you sure? I don't mind—"

"I said I've got it." Felix's tone was clipped. He turned back to his setup, dismissing Feren.

Feren stood there awkwardly for a moment, then started to walk away.

"Wait."

Feren turned back.

Felix gestured to a wooden box near the wagon. "You can carry that. Carefully. Don't drop it."

"I won't," Feren said, grateful to be useful.

He picked up the box—it was heavier than it looked, filled with props and trick mechanisms. He carried it carefully to where Felix was setting up and set it down gently.

"Where do you want it?"

"There is fine." Felix didn't look at him, already unpacking another box.

Feren hesitated. "Is there anything else I can—"

"No. I've got the rest."

"Okay." Feren turned to leave.

"Actually," Felix said, his voice sharp. "Check the box. Make sure everything's still in there."

Feren blinked. "What?"

"The box. Open it. Count the contents, Sticky Fingers"

Feren's stomach dropped. "You think I took something?"

"I didn't say that." Felix's eyes were hard. "I just want to make sure nothing's missing. You know. Standard procedure."

The words stung.

"I didn't take anything," Feren said quietly.

"Then you won't mind checking."

Feren opened the box. Inside were carefully wrapped props—silk scarves, trick coins, a set of linking rings, several decks of cards. He counted them, his face burning with shame.

"Everything's here," he said.

"Good." Felix took the box from him. "You can go now."

Feren quickly walked away.

Behind him, he didn't see Rosey watching from near her wagon, her expression sad and knowing.

 

Feren sat behind one of the wagons, away from the bustle of setup. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched. He wasn't going to cry. That would be stupid. He was used to being accused of theft. He was used to being mistrusted

But it hurt more coming from Felix. From someone who was supposed to be family.

His hand found the pocket watch in his coat—the one Mender had given him when the rumors started. He pulled it out, staring at the worn brass face. It ticked steadily, rhythmically. Constant.

He didn't know why, but holding it helped. A little.

"Hello, lad."

Feren nearly dropped it.

The voice was warm, gentle—coming from the watch itself. He looked around wildly, but no one else was nearby. No one else had heard.

"Easy now," the watch said. "It's just me."

"You—you can talk?" Feren whispered.

"Only to you, my boy. Mender didn't mention it, I'd wager?"

"No."

"He wouldn't. Wanted you to discover it yourself." The voice was kind, patient. "I don't have much time right now—talking takes energy, you see. But I wanted you to know: you're not alone."

Feren's throat tightened.

"Someone's coming," the watch said softly. "We'll talk more later. For now—just breathe."

The watch went quiet. Just the ticking remained.

Feren slipped it back into his pocket, his heart still racing, as footsteps approached.

"There you are, dear."

Feren looked up. Rosey stood there with two cups of tea and a gentle smile.

"May I sit?"

He shrugged.

She settled beside him with a soft sigh and handed him a cup. "Felix was unkind to you."

Feren stared into his tea. Said nothing.

"He's scared, you know," Rosey continued.

"Of me?" The words came out sharper than he meant.

"Of losing his place. Felix has been with us for three years. He was the youngest before you came along. The one everyone worried about, fussed over, protected." She smiled sadly. "And then you arrived, and suddenly all that attention shifted."

"I didn't ask for that."

"I know, dear. And so does he, deep down. But fear makes us small and sharp sometimes. Makes us lash out at the wrong people."

"He thinks I'm a thief," Feren said, voice betraying the emotions he was trying to hide. "And I've been trying so hard."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He set the cup down with shaking hands, looking away quickly, waiting for everything to change—for her expression to harden, for the kindness to disappear.

Rosey was quiet for a moment. Then she set down her own tea and reached over, gently covering his clenched hand with hers.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said softly. "I don't know what you've done or where you've been. But I know what I see now. And I see someone who's trying. Someone who works hard, who helps without being asked, who's kind even when others aren't kind to him."

Feren's vision blurred. He blinked hard, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

"But what if that's not enough?" His voice was rough, barely above a whisper. "What if who I was before—"

"Who you were before brought you here," Rosey interrupted gently. "And who you are now is what matters. You're part of this family, Feren. Whatever you're running from, whatever you're trying to leave behind—you don't have to carry it alone anymore."

She didn't ask for details. Didn't pry. Just sat with him, her hand warm over his.

"Felix will come around," she continued. "He'll see what I see eventually— someone worth knowing. Someone worth trusting."

Feren nodded, not trusting his voice. He turned his head away, blinking rapidly.

Rosey squeezed his hand once, then stood and brushed off her skirts.

"Now," she said, her tone lighter. "Drink your tea and come help me set up the refreshment table when you're ready. I need someone to help arrange the pastries, and you're just the person."

Feren managed a nod, and retrieved the teacup from the edge of the wagon beside him. His grip tight on the warm cup, but his hands were now steady.

"Take your time, dear."

He sat there a moment longer after she left, letting the tightness in his chest ease. Then he drained his tea, scrubbed a hand across his eyes, and stood.

The hurt was still there. But it felt a little less sharp.

 

KNOWING  

 

That night, after the fire had burned low and everyone else had gone to bed, Mender found Rosey cleaning the cooking pots. She had some jars of Vigil's fireflies nearby, used like lanterns to illuminate her work.

She looked up when he approached. "Can't sleep?"

"Something like that." He settled onto a crate beside her, the sock puppet resting on his knee. "Can we talk?"

"Of course." She set down the pot she'd been scrubbing and gave him her full attention. "What's on your mind?"

Mender was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. Then he said, "I need to tell you something about the boy. About Feren."

"Alright."

"He's running from something. Someone." Mender met her eyes. "He's a thief, Rosey. Or was. I don't know all the details, but he's the one that Lawson West is scouring the territories to find."

Rosey didn't look surprised. She just nodded slowly.

"I sent the Ranger in the wrong direction," Mender continued. "Bought us some time. But I should have told you from the start. Should have asked before I brought the kid into the troupe." He rubbed his face, looking worn. "I just... I saw him, and I saw someone who needed help. Someone broken. And I couldn't just leave him."

"I know," Rosey said gently.

Mender looked at her. "You know?"

"That he's running? That he's scared?" She smiled sadly. "Of course I know, dear. I've known since the first night."

"You—how?"

"The way he startles at loud noises. The way he watches the roads like he's expecting someone to come after him. The way he looks at all of us like he can't believe we're real.

"And don't think I haven't seen the way he looks at the fine china that I never use, or the look in his eye when he finds a spoon we'd lost" Rosey picked up her dishcloth again, her movements calm and steady. "I know you gave him his name. Feren- Farret. It has you written all over it, and you don't do that unless someone needs to hide."

Mender stared at her. "And you didn't say anything?"

"What was there to say?" She shrugged. "You brought him to us because he needed a family. Because he was alone and scared and had nowhere else to go. That's what we do, isn't it? We take in the lost ones."

"But he's a thief—"

"So was Felix when we found him," Rosey said calmly. "Stealing to survive. And you were running from something too when you joined us all those years ago. Don't think I've forgotten."

Mender went quiet.

"We've all got pasts, dear," Rosey continued. "Some messier than others. But that boy is trying. I see it. He works hard, he's kind to the creatures, he's learning to trust us." She looked at Mender with those knowing eyes. "And he's not the only one who needed fixing, is he?"

"No," Mender admitted. "He's not."

"Then we'll keep him safe," Rosey said simply. "As long as he needs us. And if trouble comes looking, we'll deal with it together. Like we always do."

Mender felt something tight in his chest loosen. "You're not angry that I didn't tell you?"

"I'm not angry that you protected him," Rosey corrected. "That's what you do. You see broken things and you fix them. It's one of the things I—" She paused, then smiled. "It's one of the things I've always admired about you."

There was a weight to those words. A history.

Mender looked at her—really looked at her. The woman who'd been his friend and for more years than he could count. Who'd stood by him through everything. Who knew him better than anyone. And for a moment Mender ached that they could go back to a different time in their lives.

"Rosey—"

"I know," she said softly. "I know, dear. But that's a conversation for another night."

She stood, gathering the clean pots. "For now, let's just take care of our boy. And each other. That's enough."

Mender nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Rosey paused at the wagon steps. "And Mender? Thank you. For trusting me enough to tell me."

"Always," he said.

She smiled and disappeared into her wagon.

Mender sat alone in the lamplight, the sock puppet quiet on his hand.

Rosey had known. Of course she had. With her big lovely green eyes that saw everything. She always did.

 

THE QUEEN OF HEARTS

 

They'd arrived in a larger town a few days later—big enough that North had decided they should split up to cover more ground.

"We'll meet back at the wagons by sundown," she'd said, consulting her map. "Lyric, you take the market square. Lumina, find somewhere with good light. Felix, try the tavern district. Rosey, set up near the bakery—people always gather there. Everyone else, help where yer needed."

It was a strategy they used in bigger towns. More performances meant more coins, more reach, more people touched by what they did.

Feren had volunteered to help Forge carry supplies, but Forge had waved him off. "Go explore. Stay out of trouble."

So Feren wandered.

The town was busy, full of market stalls and street vendors. Colorful fabrics hung from awnings. The smell of fresh bread and roasted nuts filled the air. People haggled over prices, laughed with friends, went about their lives.

And everywhere, things were calling to him.

A chipped teacup on a vendor's table. A forgotten button in the gutter. A wooden toy horse, missing a leg, abandoned near a doorstep.

Lonely. Unwanted. Calling.

Feren's hands itched. His chest tightened. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kept walking, trying to ignore the whispers.

'You don't need them,' he told himself. 'You're not that person anymore. You're Feren. You're part of the troupe. You don't steal.'

But the calls didn't stop.

His hand found the pocket watch in his coat. The metal was warm against his palm, and he gripped it like an anchor.

"Quite a lot of noise, isn't it, lad?"

Feren stopped. The watch had been silent for days. He thought he had imagined it.

"All those voices calling to you," the watch continued gently. "Must feel like drowning sometimes."

"I can handle it," Feren whispered, though his hands were shaking.

"I'm sure you can. But here's a thought—you don't have to answer every call you hear." The voice was patient, kind. "Some things are meant to stay where they are. And some... well, you'll know the difference when it matters."

Feren took a shaky breath, focusing on the watch's steady ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"One step at a time," the watch said softly. "Just keep walking. You're stronger than you think."

The watch went quiet, but its presence remained—warm and steady in his pocket.

Feren kept walking. The voices were still there, still calling, but somehow... easier to bear.

He passed a narrow alley between two shops and heard it—a clearer call than the others. A playing card, face-down in the dirt, trampled and forgotten.

Feren stopped. Looked around. No one was watching.

He crouched down and picked it up. The Queen of Hearts. Dirty, bent at one corner, but whole.

The calling stopped. The card was quiet now, content.

Feren tucked it into his pocket and kept walking, guilt gnawing at him. It was just lying there. 'No one wanted it. It's not stealing if it's abandoned.'

But it still felt wrong.

He turned a corner, trying to escape the feeling, and nearly walked into a small crowd gathered on a street corner.

Felix was there, hat laid out for coins, shuffling his deck with practiced flair.

"Step right up, friends!" Felix called out. "Prepare to see the impossible!"

Feren stopped, grateful for the distraction. He leaned against a building, watching.

Felix was good. Smooth, confident, charismatic. He pulled cards from thin air, made them vanish, predicted choices before they were made. The small crowd was delighted, laughing and gasping.

Feren focused on the performance, using it to drown out the guilt and the sound of calling things. It helped. A little.

Then Felix tried something new. A trick without using his magic.

"You, madam!" He gestured to a woman holding a basket of vegetables. "Pick a card. Any card."

She selected one—the Queen of Hearts. Felix showed it to the crowd, then tucked it back into the deck. He shuffled once, twice, three times.

"Now," Felix said, fanning the cards out, "where did it go?"

The woman pointed to a card in the middle. Felix pulled it out with a flourish.

The Three of Spades.

The woman frowned. A few people in the crowd murmured, confused.

Feren saw it—the flicker of panic in Felix's eyes. His bad luck had struck. The trick had failed.

Felix recovered quickly, laughing it off. "Tricky card, that Queen... Let me try again—"

Feren's hand went to his pocket. The Queen of Hearts he'd picked up earlier. The same card Felix needed.

He didn't think. He just moved.

Feren slipped through the edge of the small crowd and moved quietly behind the woman. He tucked the card into her basket, nestled between the carrots and turnips.

Then he stepped back, melting into the crowd.

"Madam," Feren said softly, just loud enough for her to hear, "check your basket."

The woman blinked, then looked down. Her eyes widened. She pulled out the Queen of Hearts.

The crowd gasped, then burst into applause and laughter.

Felix stared at the card, then at the woman, then scanned the crowd until his eyes landed on Feren. His expression was unreadable.

But he recovered smoothly, taking a bow. "The Queen of Hearts, ladies and gentlemen! She does love to hide in unexpected places!"

The crowd cheered. Coins clinked into Felix's hat.

Feren's hands were shaking slightly. He'd used the card to help. That was good, wasn't it?

But he'd still taken it in the first place.

The crowd dispersed. Felix packed up his things, his movements quick and efficient. He didn't look at Feren.

Feren slipped away before Felix could say anything.

 

The Troupe gathered as the sun began to set. Lyric was buzzing with excitement about his performance. Lumina yawned and reported that children had loved her light show. Rosey had given away half her pastries and was beaming about it.

Felix arrived last, his hat heavy with coins. He nodded to North, handed over his earnings for the group fund, and then his eyes found Feren.

"Feren. A word?"

Feren's stomach dropped. "Sure."

They walked away from the fire, out of earshot of the others. Felix stopped near one of the wagons, arms crossed.

"That was you today," Felix said. "The basket. The card."

Feren nodded. "Yes."

Felix pulled out his deck and fanned it out. "I counted my cards after the performance. All of them are here. Including the Queen of Hearts." He held up two cards. Two queens. One crisp and a little bent from use, the other slightly dirty and faded with a crease in one corner. "My bad luck just made me pull the wrong card."

Feren swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Where did you get it?"

Feren looked down at his feet. "I found it. In an alley. It was just... lying there."

"And you picked it up."

"Yes." 

Felix was quiet for a long moment, looking at the two queens in his hand. Feren braced himself for anger, for accusations, for being kicked out of the Troupe.

"You picked up a random playing card off the street," Felix said slowly. "And then, when my trick failed, you used it to save me."

"I just wanted to help."

"You could have kept it," Felix pointed out. "But you didn't. You gave it away. To help me."

Feren nodded, uncertain where this was going.

Felix was quiet again, then he laughed—soft, genuine, a little bewildered.

"I've been such a jerk to you," he said, shaking his head. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. That you were going to replace me or something. And here you are, helping me when you didn't have to." Felix's expression softened. He held out his hand. "Thank you. And I'm sorry. For being cold. For being jealous. You didn't deserve that."

Feren shook his hand, relief flooding through him. "It's okay."

"It's not. But I'll do better." Felix gave him a crooked grin. "Here." He held out the clean, lightly used Queen of Hearts- his own card. "You can keep it."

"Are you sure?" Feren asked.

"Yeah," said Felix, "Come on. Rosey's probably saved us some food."

Feren took the card and put it carefully in his pocket. Then they walked back to the fire together.

Felix didn't ask why Feren had picked up a random card off the street. He didn't ask about the sticky fingers or the compulsion.

And Feren was grateful for that.

Across the flames, Mender caught Rosey's eye. She smiled.

Their family was growing stronger.

 

LEARNING 

 

The days after Felix's apology were different.

Lighter. Warmer. With Felix finally on his side, the tension was gone. They'd already accepted him as family—but now he needed to find his niche in it.

It started with Felix.

"Alright," Felix said, sitting cross-legged by the fire with his deck of cards. "If you're going to be part of a performance troupe, you should at least know the basics. Watch closely."

He demonstrated a simple shuffle—cards flowing smoothly from one hand to the other, perfectly controlled.

"Now you try."

Feren took the deck. The cards immediately scattered across the ground like startled birds.

Felix stared at the mess. Then at Feren. Then he started laughing.

"Okay," he managed between laughs. "Maybe we start with something easier. Can you just... hold the deck without dropping it?"

"I can try," Feren said, gathering the cards with burning cheeks.

By the end of the lesson, Feren had mastered holding a deck steady and could do a very clumsy overhand shuffle. Felix declared it "a start" and promised they'd try again tomorrow.

"Don't worry," Felix said, clapping him on the shoulder. "My luck is terrible, but at least I can shuffle. You've got... other talents."

"Like what?"

"We'll figure it out."

 

The next morning, Lyric cornered him with a lute.

"Your turn!" Lyric said brightly. "Everyone should know at least one instrument. Here, I'll teach you a simple melody."

He demonstrated—fingers dancing across the strings, a sweet, simple tune emerging.

Feren tried. The sound that came out was... not musical.

Lyric winced. "That's... that's a sound. Let's try again."

They tried again. And again. And again.

Finally, Lyric set down the lute and picked up a tambourine. "How about this? Just shake it on the beat."

Feren shook it off-beat.

Lyric's smile never wavered. "You're very enthusiastic! That counts for something!"

"I'm terrible at this," Feren said.

"You're learning," Lyric corrected. "That's different. Besides, not everyone has to be a musician. You're good at other things."

"Like what?"

"We'll figure it out," Lyric said, echoing Felix's words.

North was less patient.

"Alright, sugar," she said, spreading a map across the wagon seat. "Basic navigation. This is north." She pointed. "This is south. This is east. This is west. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Which way are we heading?"

Feren studied the map. "...West?"

"We're heading northeast, darlin'. Try again."

"Northeast?"

"That's southwest."

Feren groaned.

North sighed, but there was fondness in it. "Bless your heart. You're trying, at least. Tell you what—you can help me organize the maps. Alphabetically. You can do that, right?"

"I can do that."

"Good. Because if you mix up north and south one more time, I'm gonna lose my mind."

But she smiled when she said it.

Forge was surprisingly encouraging.

"Here," he said, handing Feren a hammer and a bent nail. "Straighten it."

Feren examined the nail, then carefully tapped it against a flat stone, working out the bend.

Forge watched silently. When Feren held up the straightened nail, Forge grunted. "Not bad. Now do this one."

They worked in comfortable silence for an hour—straightening nails, tightening bolts, checking wagon joints for weakness.

"You're good at this," Forge said finally.

Feren looked up, surprised. "Really?"

"You pay attention. You're careful. You don't rush." Forge handed him another tool. "That's more important than being fast. Keep practicing."

It was the most praise Feren had ever heard from Forge.

"Thank you," Feren said.

Forge just grunted and went back to work. But Feren caught the hint of a smile.

Lumina's lesson was different.

She sat with Feren in the late afternoon, when the light was golden and soft. A jar of fireflies rested between them, their glow gentle and rhythmic.

"Light isn't something you create," Lumina said dreamily. "It's something you borrow. You ask it to dance, and if it likes you, it will."

"How do you ask?"

"You just... feel it." She raised her hand, and the fireflies' light stretched toward her fingers, forming a thin ribbon of gold. "You listen to what it wants to be. And then you help it become that."

Feren watched, mesmerized. "It's beautiful."

"It's alive," Lumina said. "That's why it's beautiful. You can't force it. You can only invite it."

"You understand that, I think," Lumina said, her eyes distant. "Some people just... notice things. Things other people miss. You seem like that kind of person."

For a brief moment Feren felt uneasy. His eyes shifted nervously to her face, but then he realized she didn't know. Her expression was serene and focused on her work. She couldn't have known, but somehow she'd seen something true about him anyway.

"Maybe," he said quietly.

"It's a good way to be," Lumina murmured, yawning. "The world needs people who pay attention."

She drifted off mid-sentence, her head tilting toward sleep.

Feren sat with the fireflies a while longer, thinking about listening. About light. About things that called.

 

At the end of that week, the Troupe gathered around the fire for dinner. Rosey ladled stew into bowls, watching Feren with warm, knowing eyes.

"So," she said, "How have things been coming along?"

"I'm terrible at cards," Feren admitted. "And music. And navigation."

"But good at repairs," Forge added.

"And noticing things," Lumina murmured.

"And you're very enthusiastic," Lyric said brightly.

"And you're trying," North said. "That's what matters, sugar."

Felix grinned. "Plus, you saved my card trick. That counts for something."

Feren looked around the circle—at their faces, their smiles, their acceptance.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For teaching me. For being patient."

"That's what family does," Rosey said, handing him a bowl. "We help each other learn."

Mender raised his cup. "To Feren. May he never confuse north and south again."

"Hey!" Feren protested, but he was smiling.

Everyone laughed.

And for the first time since joining the troupe, Feren didn't just feel safe.

He felt useful.

 

DREAMS & FLUFFY SLIPPERS 

 

Darkness. The manor at night.

A shadow moved across the courtyard—quick, furtive, wrong.

The Lord watched from somewhere above, somewhere outside of himself. He couldn't move, couldn't shout. Could only watch.

The shadow climbed. Up the trellis, across the balcony, through the servant's entrance. Hands—pale, quick—reached for something in the dim hallway.

Something small. Something that belonged to him.

The hands took it. The shadow turned.

For just a moment, the Lord saw a face—young, sharp-featured, fox-like, with brown tousled hair.

Then the shadow was gone. Out the window. Into the night.

But the Lord could still feel it. His property. Moving away. Farther. Farther.

Northeast. Always northeast.

Lord Ashford Crane jolted awake, gasping.

His tent was dark, the fire burned down to embers. Sweat dampened his silk nightshirt. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He'd been having these dreams for weeks now—ever since the theft. Fragmented visions of the thief, the direction they'd fled. At first, he'd dismissed them as anxiety, anger, obsession.

But they were too consistent. Too specific.

The thief was heading northeast.

Ashford reached for the small wooden box on his nightstand. Inside, wrapped in velvet, was a single button. Cheap fabric, poorly stitched, frayed at the edges. He'd found it on the windowsill the morning after the theft—evidence the intruder had left behind.

He held it now, feeling the faint pull. The connection.

His gift—the prophetic dreams that ran in his family—didn't just show him visions. It let him track. He could follow any trail as long as the item that he focused on belonged to who or what he was tracking. The button was his anchor. His link to the criminal who'd dared trespass in his manor.

And it was leading him northeast.

It was maddening.

Ashford threw off his blankets and rang for his Valet. He donned his long night robe and commanded his Valet to help him put on his slippers. Within minutes he was striding through the camp where Ranger West and his small contingent had made their temporary headquarters.

"West!" he barked.

The ranger emerged from his tent, bleary-eyed and exhausted. His uniform was rumpled, his face unshaven. He looked like he hadn't slept properly in days.

"My Lord," West said, his voice flat with fatigue. "It's the middle of the night."

"I don't care." Ashford pointed northeast. "He's that way. I saw him again. In the dream."

West's jaw tightened. "My Lord, with all due respect—"

"Northeast," Ashford insisted. "Three days ahead of us, maybe four. He's traveling with others now. A group. Wagons."

West stared at him. "How could you possibly know that?"

"I saw it." Ashford's voice was sharp, imperious. "The dreams show me. They get stronger the closer we get. And they've never been wrong."

"Dreams," West repeated, his tone carefully neutral.

"Prophetic dreams," Ashford corrected. "A gift that runs in my family. The thief left something behind—a button from his coat. I can track him through it. I see where he goes."

West had heard this same speech many times.

 Lord Ashford, still wearing his fluffy slippers, stepped closer, his expression hard. "And I'm telling you, Ranger, the thief is northeast. Moving towards the border territories. If we don't move now, we'll lose him."

Lawson rubbed his face, exhaustion etched into every line. "My Lord, we've been chasing this thief for weeks. Across three territories. My men are tired. The horses are tired. And we still don't even know what was stolen—"

"Something was taken!" Ashford snapped. "I can feel it! That's all that matters."

"But what—"

"That's none of your concern!" Ashford cut him off. "Your concern is apprehending the criminal who violated my home and stole my property. Are you going to do your job, Ranger, or do I need to report your incompetence to your superiors?"

West's hands clenched into fists. But his voice remained steady. Professional. "We'll break camp at dawn. Head northeast."

"Good." Ashford turned to leave, then paused. "And West? The dreams are getting clearer. We're close. I can feel it."

He swept away, his ridiculously long night robe fluttering behind him,  leaving West standing in the cold night air.

The ranger looked northeast, towards the dark horizon, and let out a long, weary sigh.

"Three territories," he muttered to himself. "Chasing a shadow based on dreams and a button. And he doesn't even know what was stolen. Just that something was."

But orders were orders. And Lord Crane's family had influence. Enough influence to make Lawson's life even more difficult if he refused.

So at dawn, they would ride northeast.

Again.

 

MARKET DAY

 

The market in Brookhaven was alive with color and noise.

Stalls lined the cobblestone square, overflowing with goods both mundane and magical. A vendor called out prices for self-stirring spoons next to another selling plain wooden ladles. Enchanted lanterns that never needed oil hung beside regular candles. The air smelled of fresh bread, exotic spices, and something faintly metallic—magic, maybe, or just the press of too many people in one place.

Feren stood at the edge of the square, already overwhelmed.

"Alright, everyone!" North announced, consulting her list. "We need supplies. Rosey, you handle food. Forge, tools and repair materials. Vigil, creature feed. Everyone else, don't wander off too far, and meet back here in an hour."

The troupe scattered.

Feren hesitated, unsure where to go.

"Come on," Felix said, appearing at his elbow. "You can help me look for new cards. Mine are getting worn."

Feren nodded gratefully and followed Felix into the market.

It started almost immediately.

A chipped teacup on a pottery stall. Lonely. Forgotten. Nobody wants me anymore.

A wooden button that had rolled under a fabric merchant's table. Lost. Looking for my coat. Where's my coat?

A small brass key hanging from a hook, tarnished and dull. I used to open something important. What did I open? I can't remember.

Feren's hands twitched. His steps slowed.

"You okay?" Felix asked, glancing back.

"Yeah," Feren said quickly. "Just... looking."

Felix studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Let's keep moving. The card vendor is this way."

There were so many. All at once. Calling. I used to be special. I used to be important. I used to be wanted.

They walked past a stall selling enchanted thread—thread that sewed itself, thread that never tangled, thread that changed colors with the wearer's mood. Beautiful. Useful.

And beside it, a basket of plain thread. Ordinary spools in faded colors.

One of them whispered. I used to be red. Bright red. Now I'm just... dull.

Feren stopped.

"Feren?"

He blinked, realizing he'd been staring at the thread basket, his hand halfway extended.

"Sorry," he said, pulling his hand back. "I just—"

"It's okay," Felix said. His expression was understanding, not judgmental. "Old habits, right? Come on. Let's go look at something else."

He steered Feren away gently, keeping up a steady stream of chatter about card tricks and performance ideas.

Feren was grateful. And ashamed.

Felix thought he was fighting the urge to steal.

He wasn't wrong. But he wasn't right either.

Across the market, Vigil was in their element.

"Vigil does not agree with that price," they said firmly to a vendor selling creature feed. "Stone knows the value of quality grain. Guard will pay half."

"Half?!" the vendor sputtered. "This is enchanted feed! Makes creatures healthier, shinier—"

"Flint's Trotters are already shiny," Vigil said. "Vigil takes good care of them. But Vigil will consider your price for the glowflower seeds."

The vendor sighed. "You drive a hard bargain."

"Vigil knows."

 

Nearby, Rosey was examining spices with the focus of a scholar. She held up a small vial of something golden and shimmering. "Is this sun-dried saffron or enchanted?"

"Enchanted, ma'am," the spice merchant said. "Adds warmth to any dish. Literal warmth. Your stew will never go cold."

"How much?"

When he named the price, Rosey laughed. "Oh, dear me, I don't think so. But I'll take three bundles of the regular saffron and that jar of cinnamon."

She moved to the next stall, humming to herself, and returned with a bag of candied ginger. "The Troupe's going to love this," she said to no one in particular, already nibbling on a piece.

North stood in front of a map vendor, hands on her hips.

"These are outdated," she said, pointing to a set of regional maps.

"They're from last year—"

"Exactly. Outdated. The northern pass closed in the spring floods, and this route here?" She tapped the map. "Bandit territory now. I'm not paying full price for maps that'll get us lost or robbed."

The vendor wilted under her gaze. "I can offer a discount—"

"You certainly can," North said sweetly. "Bless yer heart."

She walked away with three new maps at half price.

Forge was grumbling.

"Too many people," he muttered, shouldering his way through the crowd. "Too loud. Too—oh."

He stopped in front of a tool vendor. Rows of hammers, saws, chisels, and planes gleamed in the sunlight. Some were enchanted—self-sharpening, never-rusting, weight-adjusting. Others were plain, well-made, honest tools.

Forge picked up a regular hammer, tested its weight, examined the handle.

"Good balance," he said grudgingly.

"Made it myself," the vendor said proudly.

Forge grunted. "I'll take it. And that set of chisels."

He paid and went on his way.

Lyric and Lumina had wandered off together, as they always did.

Feren and Felix passed them, walking with armfuls of flowers—some glowing faintly, some perfectly ordinary, all beautiful.

"For the wagons," Lyric said happily. "To make them prettier."

Lumina yawned, already tucking a glowing blossom behind her ear. "They were calling to me," she said dreamily. "The light in them. It wanted to be seen."

Feren, overhearing, felt something twist in his chest.

Calling to me.

She understood. In her own way, she understood.

Feren and Felix had made it to the card vendor.

Felix was examining decks with the intensity of a jeweler appraising diamonds. "This one's nice. Good stock. Clean edges." He glanced at Feren. "What do you think?"

Feren tried to focus on the cards. But behind the vendor's stall, half-hidden in a crate, was a tiny wooden horse. A child's toy. One leg broken, paint chipped.

I used to be loved. Someone played with me every day. Where did they go?

Feren's vision blurred.

"Feren?"

He blinked hard, holding a hand to his aching head.

Felix's expression shifted to concern. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah. Just... a lot of people. A lot of... stuff."

Felix looked around the crowded market, then back at Feren. Understanding dawned. "Too much temptation, huh?"

Feren nodded, letting Felix believe it.

"Come on," Felix said, pocketing the deck he'd chosen. "Let's get out of here. We can wait for the others outside the square."

They pushed through the crowd toward the edge of the market.

Feren kept his hands in his pockets. Kept his eyes forward. Kept walking.

But the voices followed him.

Lonely. Forgotten. Lost. Broken. Unwanted.

 

Mender moved through the market like a shadow, observing more than shopping. His eyes scanning the crowd. Not so much for goods. For people.

He watched Vigil negotiate with fierce pride. Watched Rosey light up over spices. Watched North charm her way to better prices. Watched Forge grudgingly approve of quality tools.

And he watched Feren.

Watched him slow. Stop. Stare. Struggle.

Watched Felix notice and gently redirect.

Mender's expression softened. The boy was learning. And more importantly, he wasn't alone anymore.

Once he'd realized that everyone was alright, he wandering through the market he found a candy vendor. He bought a small bag of honey candies— Feren's favorite, he'd noticed—and slipped them into his pocket for later.

A little further he paused at a stall selling old books and curiosities—things with history, things with stories. His fingers traced the spine of a worn journal, its pages yellowed with age.

"That one's got some years on it," the vendor said. "Found it in an estate sale. No idea what's written inside—language I don't recognize."

Mender opened it carefully. The writing was faded, but he could make out a few words. A diary, maybe. Or a record of travels long past.

"How much?" he asked.

The vendor named a price. Mender paid it without haggling, tucked it in his coat pocket, and continued down the crowded streets.

He found the boys again, sitting on a low wall just outside of the market, Felix talking about nothing in particular, Feren listening with obvious relief.

"Doing alright?" Mender asked, his eyes on Feren.

"Yeah," Feren said. "Just needed some quiet."

Mender nodded slowly. He understood. Of course he did.

"The others will be done soon," Mender said. "Then we'll head back to camp. Rosey bought candied ginger. You'll like it."

"Thanks," Feren said quietly.

Mender rested a hand on his shoulder briefly, then walked back towards the market.

Felix glanced at Feren. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Feren said. And he meant it. "Thanks for... you know. Helping."

"That's what brothers do," Felix said simply.

An hour later, the troupe reconvened at the wagons, arms full of purchases.

Vigil had secured three types of feed and a bag of glowflower seeds. Rosey had spices, herbs, fresh bread, and enough candied ginger to share. North had maps and a smug expression. Forge had tools and was almost smiling. Lyric and Lumina had flowers spilling out of their arms.

Felix had new cards. Feren had survived, with a mild headache.

"Good haul, everyone," Mender said, helping load the wagons. "Let's head back."

As they rolled out of town, Rosey passed around the candied ginger.

Feren took a piece. It was sweet and sharp and warm.

Felix nudged him. "See? Told you it'd be okay."

Feren smiled. "Yeah. You did."

And for now, it was.

 

AROUND THE CAMPFIRE 

 

That evening, the troupe gathered around the fire.

It had become Feren's favorite time of day—when the work was done, the performances over, and everyone came together. The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. The smell of Rosey's cooking filled the air, rich and comforting.

Feren sat between Forge and Vigil, a bowl of stew warming his hands. Across the fire, Felix was shuffling cards absently, but his expression was relaxed. Open. When he caught Feren's eye, he nodded. A small gesture, but it meant everything.

They were okay now.

"Tell us a story, Mender!" Lyric called out, already tuning his lute. "A good one!"

Mender leaned back against a wagon wheel, the sock puppet on his hand. "What kind of story are we wanting tonight?"

"Something funny," Rosey said, ladling more stew into bowls. "We could all use a laugh."

"Funny, she says." Mender's eyes twinkled. The sock puppet turned to look at him. "What do you think, friend? Can we manage funny?"

The puppet nodded enthusiastically.

"Vigil likes funny stories," Vigil said, settling more comfortably. The Trotters shifted nearby, as if listening too.

"Alright then." Mender cleared his throat dramatically. "This is the tale of the Merchant Who Couldn't Count."

Lyric began playing a jaunty tune. Lumina, who'd been half-asleep against a wagon, perked up slightly, her eyes catching the firelight.

"Once upon a time," Mender began, the sock puppet gesturing along with his words, "there was a merchant who sold the finest apples in all the land. Beautiful apples. Red as rubies, sweet as honey. But there was one small problem..."

"He couldn't count!" the sock puppet squeaked.

Everyone laughed.

"That's right," Mender continued. "He'd sell you three apples and charge you for five. He'd buy a dozen eggs and insist he'd only gotten eight. His poor wife tried to help him, but numbers just wouldn't stick in his head."

The story unfolded—ridiculous, warm, full of mishaps and misunderstandings. The merchant accidentally became the richest man in town by miscounting his own profits. His wife became the mayor by miscounting votes. Chaos ensued.

Feren found himself laughing along with the rest. Forge was chuckling, shaking his head. North was grinning despite herself. Even Felix was smiling, his cards forgotten.

When Mender finished, everyone applauded. The sock puppet took a bow.

"Another!" Lyric demanded.

"Not tonight," Rosey said firmly. "Some of us need sleep. Lumina's already half-gone."

It was true. Lumina had dozed off again, her head resting on a folded blanket.

"I can—" Lyric began, already setting his lute aside.

"Vigil will carry her," Vigil said, standing. "Lyric should play."

Lyric looked torn for a moment, then nodded and picked up his lute again.

"Thank you, dear," Rosey said.

Vigil grunted softly in acknowledgement, and lifted Lumina gently—she barely stirred—and carried her toward her wagon. The Companion Keeper moved with surprising grace despite their digitigrade legs.

"Lyric, play us somethin' soft," North said, rolling up her maps. "Somethin' to end the night."

Lyric's expression brightened. His fingers found the strings, and a gentle melody filled the air. Soft, sweet, like starlight made into sound.

Feren watched the fire, the warmth seeping into his bones. Around him, his family—because that's what they were now—settled into comfortable silence.

Felix stood, stretched, and paused by Feren on his way to his bedroll. "Good night, Feren."

"Good night, Felix."

It was simple. But it was real.

Rosey began collecting bowls. Feren stood to help, but she waved him off. "Sit, dear. Enjoy the music."

So he did.

Forge muttered something about checking the wagon wheels one more time and disappeared into the shadows. North folded her maps with meticulous care. Mender sat quietly, the sock puppet resting on his knee, watching the fire with those dark, knowing eyes.

The music continued—Lyric playing for no one and everyone, his gift offered freely to the night.

Feren closed his eyes and let himself feel it. The warmth. The safety. The belonging. He remembered his sister. The feeling of home before the chases and the Troupe. When the fire burned low and Lyric finally set down his lute, the troupe drifted off to their wagons one by one.

Feren climbed into his space in the wagon among the supply sacks. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Queen of Hearts Felix had given him. Clean, crisp, valuable. A symbol of trust. He tucked it under his pillow so he wouldn't lose it.

Tomorrow they'd move on to the next town. There would be more performances, more work, more moments like tonight.

And somewhere out there, Ranger West was still chasing him. The Lord was still dreaming. The rumors were still spreading.

But tonight, Feren was safe. He was home.

 

CREEKSIDE MEMORIES

 

Feren, can you fetch water?" Rosey asked after dinner the following day. "We're running low."

"Sure." Feren grabbed the empty canteens and headed toward the creek they'd camped near.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The creek babbled softly, winding through smooth stones and wild grass. Feren knelt at the edge, filling the first canteen.

And then he stopped.

He knew this creek.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He'd been here before—years ago, with Wren. They'd stopped here on a trip to visit their aunt. Wren had been collecting smooth stones for some project, and he'd been skipping rocks across the water, trying to impress her.

She'd laughed at his terrible throws and shown him the proper technique. Patient. Kind. The way she always was.

Feren set down the wooden bucket and sat on the pebbled shore, his hands resting on his knees.

The creek looked the same. The stones were still smooth and round, worn by years of water. The willow tree on the far bank was bigger now, but it was the same tree.

He picked up a flat stone and turned it over in his hands.

Wren. His sister. She was so close now. Two days, maybe three.

What would he even say to her? I'm sorry I disappeared. I'm sorry I never wrote. I took something for you, but I was too ashamed to give it to you, so I just ran instead.

She'd be hurt. Angry, maybe. She had every right to be.

But North's words echoed in his mind: Running away doesn't make the shame go away. It just makes it heavier.

Feren had been carrying that weight for over a year. And it was so, so heavy.

He threw the stone into the creek. It skipped once, twice, then sank.

Better than his childhood attempts, at least.

"Feren?"

He turned. Mender stood at the edge of the trees, the sock puppet on his hand.

"You've been gone a while," Mender said. "Rosey was starting to worry."

"Sorry." Feren stood quickly, brushing off his pants. "I just—I got distracted."

Mender walked closer, his eyes scanning the creek, the stones, Feren's face. "You know this place."

It wasn't a question.

Feren nodded. "I've been here before. With my sister."

"Ah." Mender settled onto a large rock nearby. "The one you're thinking about."

Feren's head snapped up. "How did you—"

"You've been quiet since this morning. Distracted. And when North mentioned Millbrook, you looked like you'd seen a ghost." Mender's voice was gentle. "It doesn't take much to put the pieces together."

Feren looked down at the water. "She's in Millbrook. She has a shop there."

"And you haven't seen her in a while."

"Over a year."

"Does she know you're alive?"

"I don't know." Feren's voice cracked. "I never wrote. I just... left."

Mender was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You're scared."

"Terrified."

"Of her anger?"

"Of her disappointment." Feren picked up another stone. "She always believed I could be better. And I just kept proving her wrong."

"Did you?" Mender asked. "Or did you just make mistakes while trying to figure out who you were?"

Feren didn't answer.

The sock puppet leaned forward, as if studying him. Then it said, in its squeaky voice, "Sometimes the people who love us see us more clearly than we see ourselves."

Feren looked at the puppet, then at Mender.

"You don't have to decide right now," Mender said. "But you've got some time to think about it. And whatever you choose, we'll support you."

"Even if I ask you to avoid Millbrook?"

"Even then." Mender stood. "But I think you already know what you need to do."

He walked back toward camp, leaving Feren alone with the creek and his thoughts. Feren filled the water bucket, listening to the water, remembering his sister's laugh.

Not long now.

He'd figure it out.

He had to.

 

SONG & STARLIGHT

 

That night, the thoughts that clouded his mind chased away his sleep. Feren's mind wouldn't quiet. Millbrook. Wren.

Finally, he gave up the persute of sleep, deciding that he needed to get some air and take a walk instead. He slipped out of the wagon quietly and walked away from camp. He needed some space to think.

The night was clear and cool. Stars scattered across the sky like spilled salt. Feren climbed the nearest hill without really thinking about where he was going, just needing to move.

At the top, the hillside opened into a meadow dotted with wildflowers—small white blooms that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

And there, in the center of the meadow, was Lumina.

She stood with her arms raised, her face turned toward the stars. She looked more awake than Feren had ever seen her—alert, focused, alive.

Around her, fireflies drifted lazily through the grass. She wasn't creating the light—she was shaping it. The fireflies' glow stretched and twisted, forming ribbons of soft golden light that wove through the air like silk.

It was beautiful.

Feren stopped, not wanting to interrupt.

And then he heard the music.

Soft, gentle, perfectly matched to Lumina's movements. Lyric sat at the edge of the meadow, half-hidden in the flowers, his lute cradled in his lap.

He played for her like she was the only person in the world.

Feren took a step back, feeling like he was intruding on something private.

"The lights are really something"

Feren jumped.

Felix stood beside him, arms crossed, watching the scene below. "I saw you leave camp, and was wondering where you were off to." He nodded towards Lyric and Lumina. "And now I know."

"I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine. They do this every night." Felix settled into the grass, gesturing for Feren to sit. "Lyric follows her up here whenever she practices. Plays for her. She thinks he's just being nice."

Feren sat slowly, his eyes drawn back to the meadow. "She doesn't know?"

"That he's completely in love with her?" Felix shook his head. "Not a clue."

Below Lyric played softly, his fingers moving across the lute strings with practiced ease. The melody was gentle, dreamy, perfectly matched to Lumina's movements. When she raised her hand, the music lifted. When she turned, it followed.

Lumina didn't seem to notice. She was lost in her work, her expression serene and distant.

But Lyric noticed everything. The way her hair caught the starlight. The way she smiled when the light did exactly what she wanted. The way she hummed along to his music without realizing it. She was the center of his world in that moment.

"Everyone else knows," Felix continued, "Rosey, Mender, North—we all see it. But Lumina?" He smiled sadly. "She's too focused on the stars to notice what's right in front of her."

Below, Lumina lowered her arms, and the light settled back into the fireflies. She turned, finally noticing Lyric.

"Oh! You're here." She smiled, sleepy and warm. "How long have you been playing?"

"Not long," Lyric said, though they both knew it was a lie. "Did it help?"

"It always does." She walked over and sat beside him in the grass. "Your music makes the light easier to shape. Like it knows where to go."

"I'm glad."

They sat together in comfortable silence, surrounded by flowers and fireflies. Lumina yawned, already starting to drift.

"You should get some sleep," Lyric said gently.

"Mmm. In a minute." She leaned her head on his shoulder, her eyes already closing. "Just a minute."

Lyric went very still. Then, carefully, he set down his lute and let her rest against him.

He looked at her like she was made of starlight.

Felix stood quietly. "Come on. Too mushy. Let's go."

They slipped back down the hill.

"Does anyone ever tell him?" Feren asked quietly. "That she doesn't realize?"

"Rosey tried once. He said he didn't mind waiting. That she was worth it." Felix shrugged. "And honestly? I think he's right. When she finally figures it out, it's gonna be something, and he'll wait as long as it takes."

Feren thought about that as they walked back to camp. About patience. About loving someone enough to wait for them to see you.

About the way Lyric played like Lumina was the only thing that mattered.

"You okay?" Felix asked. "You seemed pretty restless back there."

Feren hesitated. "Just thinking about someone."

"Your sister?"

Feren looked at him, surprised.

Felix smiled slightly. "Mender mentioned it. Said you were working through something. I won't pry. Just... if you need to talk, I'm around."

"Thanks."

They walked back to camp in comfortable silence.

Maybe Felix was right about Lyric and Lumina. Maybe waiting for someone was worth it.

And maybe—just maybe—facing Wren would be worth it too.

 

WANTED

 

The town of Ashdale was bigger than the last few they'd visited—a proper market town with cobblestone streets and a bustling square.

North guided the wagons through the main road, calling out directions. "We'll set up near the square! Plenty of foot traffic, good visibility!"

Feren rode in the back of the supply wagon, helping Forge secure loose cargo. The town seemed nice enough. Busy. Prosperous. The kind of place that would draw good crowds for a performance.

They rounded the corner into the square, and Feren's world stopped.

Posters.

Everywhere.

Nailed to posts, tacked to shop windows, plastered on the town notice board. Dozens of them. All identical.

WANTED: REV LACROIX

And beneath the bold letters, a sketch. Rough but recognizable—sharp features, tousled hair, fox-like eyes.

His face.

His real name.

THEFT. TRESPASSING. REWARD FOR INFORMATION.

Feren couldn't breathe.

"Whoa," Forge muttered, pulling the wagon to a stop. "Someone's in trouble."

North leaned out from the driver's seat, squinting at the nearest poster. "Rev Lacroix. Wonder what he stole."

"Must've been something valuable," Felix said, walking up beside the wagon. "They don't plaster a whole town for petty theft."

Feren's hands were shaking. He gripped the edge of the wagon, trying to steady himself, trying to think.

They didn't know. They were looking right at his face, his name, and they didn't know.

Because they knew him as Feren. Not Rev.

"Poor bastard," Forge said, shaking his head. "Probably long gone by now."

"Or hiding," Felix said thoughtfully. "Could be anywhere."

Feren forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Don't panic. Don't run.

But his heart was hammering so hard he thought it might break through his ribs.

"Alright, people!" Rosey's voice cut through the noise. "Let's get set up. We've got a show to prepare for."

The troupe moved into action—unloading supplies, setting up the performance area, arranging props. Normal. Routine.

Feren climbed down from the wagon on shaking legs.

Mender was suddenly beside him, his voice low. "Breathe, boy."

Feren looked at him, wide-eyed.

"I see them," Mender said quietly. "I know. Just breathe. We'll figure this out."

"They're everywhere," Feren whispered. "Everyone's going to see—"

"They're looking for Rev Lacroix," Mender said firmly. "Not Feren."

He reached up and took off his worn straw hat—his signature piece, the one he always wore—and placed it firmly on Feren's head.

"Keep your head down, stay with the troupe, and you'll be fine."

Feren touched the brim of the hat, feeling the weight of it. The trust in the gesture.

"But—"

"Trust me." Mender's dark eyes were steady, calm. "I've got you."

Feren nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Mender moved away to help with the setup, leaving Feren standing alone in the middle of the square.

His face. Everywhere. WANTED.

His hand found the pocket watch in his coat, gripping it like a lifeline. The metal was warm, steady.

"Breathe, lad."

The watch's voice was calm, grounding.

"In and out. Nice and slow. You're still here. You're still safe."

"They're everywhere," he said quietly, "The posters—"

"I know," the watch said gently. "But look around you. Really look. What do you see?"

Feren forced himself to look. North studying routes. Forge unloading crates. Felix arranging props. Lyric tuning his lute.

"They see Feren," the watch said softly. "Not Rev. They see their family. Not a wanted poster. Trust that, my boy."

"What if someone recognizes me?"

"Then your family will handle it. But right now? Right now, you need to keep moving. One task at a time. Can you do that?"

Feren took a shaky breath. "I... I think so."

"That's all I'm asking. One moment. One task." The watch paused, then added with gentle humor, "And keep that hat on. Mender's got excellent taste in headwear—very distinguished. Makes you look like a proper troupe member, not a wanted fox."

Despite his terror, Feren's lips twitched.

"There it is," the watch said warmly. "You've got Mender's hat, you've got your family around you, and you've got me in your pocket. You're not alone. Remember that."

The watch went quiet, but its steady ticking remained. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Feren slipped it back into his pocket, and pulled Mender's hat lower over his face.

Feren kept his head down, focusing on the work. Hauling crates. Setting up the stage. Arranging props. Anything to keep busy, to keep from thinking.

But the posters were everywhere. Impossible to ignore.

He saw North pause in front of one, studying it with her sharp, analytical gaze. Saw Lyric glance at it absently before returning to tuning his lute. Saw Forge shake his head and mutter something about "fool kids getting themselves in trouble."

None of them looked at him. None of them seemed to have made the connection.

But it was only a matter of time.

"Feren."

He jumped. Rosey stood behind him, holding a basket of vegetables.

"Can you help me prep for dinner, dear?"

"I—yes. Of course."

He followed her to the cooking area, grateful for something to do with his hands.

Rosey worked in silence for a while, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. Then, without looking up, she said, "You saw the posters."

Feren's knife slipped. He caught it before it fell. "I—"

"It's alright," Rosey said gently. "I'm not asking you to explain. Not yet. But I need you to know something."

Feren looked at her.

"You're part of this family now," Rosey said. "Whatever you did, whatever you're running from—it doesn't change that. Do you understand?"

Feren's throat tightened. "But—"

"No buts." She set down her knife and looked at him directly. "You're ours now. And we take care of our own."

"Even if I'm a thief?" The words came out broken, desperate.

Rosey smiled sadly. "Especially then."

 

THE TRUTH

 

Dinner was wrong.

Not just off—wrong.

Rosey's stew tasted like anxiety. Like worry given form. Every bite sat heavy in the stomach, flavored with dread and fear. It wasn't spoiled or badly made—the ingredients were fine, the technique perfect—but the emotion in it was overwhelming.

Everyone ate slowly, struggling through their bowls.

"Rosey," Forge said carefully, setting down his spoon. "What's going on?"

She looked up, startled. Then down at her own untouched bowl. "I—oh. Oh no."

"It tastes like fear," Lyric said quietly. "And sadness."

Rosey's hands trembled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I was just so worried, and I couldn't stop thinking—"

" 'Bout the posters," North said gently.

Rosey nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "About what might happen. About—" She looked at Feren. "About losing you."

The weight of those words settled over the camp.

Feren felt like he couldn't breathe.

Mender stood. "Family meeting. Everyone to the fire. Now."

The Troupe gathered slowly—the ruined stew abandoned, the truth unavoidable.

"There's something you all need to know," Mender began.

The troupe went quiet.

For once Mender, the great ringleader and story teller, couldn't seem to find his words.

Feren stood, his hands shaking. He took off Mender's hat, holding it carefully. "My real name isn't Feren. It's Rev. Rev Lacroix."

He watched their faces. Confusion. Recognition. Understanding dawning.

"I'm the one they're looking for," Rev said, voice cracking. "I stole something. From a Lord's manor. And I've been running ever since."

Silence.

"Tarnation," North breathed, her hand flying to her chest. 

Felix stared at him. Forge's expression was unreadable. Lyric looked shocked. Lumina, for once, was fully awake and focused.

Vigil spoke first. "Vigil does not care what Feren's name was. Stone cares who Feren is now. Guard and Steady agree," Vigil continued, shifting to his other names. "Flint's friend is still Flint's friend."

Rosey wiped her eyes and stood. "We already knew, dear. Or suspected. Mender told me, but I'd figured it out days ago." She walked over and pulled Feren—Rev—into a tight hug. "It doesn't change anything. You're ours now."

Feren—Rev— found he couldn't speak.

"But I lied," he finally managed, his voice breaking. "I brought danger to you. The Lawman—he's still looking for me. And if he finds me here, with you—"

"Then we'll deal with it," Forge said gruffly, standing. "Together. That's what family does."

"But what if they arrest you too?" Rev's voice rose, desperate. "What if they shut down the Troupe? What if I ruin everything?"

"You won't," North said firmly. She stood and walked over, her hand still on her chest. "Sugar, we've been through worse than one lawman and a pompous lord. We'll figure this out."

"I don't want you to get hurt because of me—"

"Too late," Felix said quietly. "You're already family. That means we're in this whether you like it or not."

Rev looked at Felix—the bully and rival who became a brother.

Felix met his eyes steadily. "I was a thief too. Stole to survive. Got caught more times than I can count." He shrugged. "Rosey and Mender took me in anyway. Gave me a second chance. You deserve the same."

"We all do," Lyric added softly. "We've all got things we're running from. Or trying to forget."

Lumina nodded, more awake and present than Rev had ever seen her. "You belong here. With us."

Rev looked around the circle. At their faces. Their acceptance. Their love.

"What did you steal?" Forge asked, practical as always. "Might help to know what we're dealing with."

Rev hesitated.

Mender stood and walked over, the sock puppet on his hand. He held it up for everyone to see.

"This," Mender said quietly. "One of the things he took was this sock."

The troupe stared at the puppet.

There was a beat of silence.

"A sock," North said slowly.

"A sock," Rev confirmed, his voice small.

Another beat.

Then Felix started laughing. "You're being hunted across three territories for a sock?"

"It was lonely," Rev said defensively. "Lost under a bed. Forgotten. It was calling to me."

"It was calling to you?" Felix doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

"That's his gift," Mender explained, though he was smiling too. "He hears lonely objects. Things that are forgotten, unwanted, lost. They call to him. He can't help taking them."

"So you stole a sock," Forge said, trying to keep a straight face and failing, "because it was sad?"

"Yes!" Rev threw up his hands. "And the Lord mobilized a manhunt for it! He doesn't even know what was stolen—he just knows something was!"

The absurdity of it hit the group all at once.

North started giggling. Then Lyric. Then Rosey, despite her worry. Even Vigil made a sound that might have been a chuckle.

"This is serious!" Rev protested, but he was smiling too, helplessly.

"Oh, it absolutely is," Rosey said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "But you have to admit—it's also ridiculous."

"Ranger Lawson West has been chasing you across territories," Mender said between chortles, "For a sock."

Felix collapsed into the grass, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. "A sock! A SOCK!"

Rev felt something break open in his chest. The fear, the shame, the weight—it cracked, and underneath was something lighter. Something warm.

He started laughing too.

The sock puppet looked at him, then at the group, then seemed to shrug as if to say, What can you do?

"Was there anything else?" North asked when the laughter finally died down, wiping her eyes. "Or just the sock?"

Rev hesitated. "There was... something else. Something I took for someone. But I never gave it to them."

"Your sister?" Rosey asked gently.

Rev nodded. "We're heading to Millbrook. That's where she is. I haven't seen her in over a year. Haven't written. I just... ran."

Understanding settled over the group.

"So that's why you've been so nervous," North said softly.

Rev nodded. "I don't know if she'll forgive me. For leaving. For not staying in touch."

"Only one way to find out," Mender said. "We'll be in Millbrook soon."

Rev's stomach twisted. "What if she doesn't want to see me?"

"Then we'll be there with you," Rosey said. "No matter what happens."

"But first," Forge said, standing and stretching, "we need to get through tomorrow. The Lawman and the Lord are in this town. We saw their camp on the way in."

The warmth drained from the circle.

"They're here?" Rev whispered.

"On the edge of town," North confirmed. "Didn't realize it was connected until now, but yes. They're close."

"Then we leave at first light," Mender said. "Before they start asking questions. We'll head to Millbrook, and keep Rev out of sight until we figure out our next move."

The meeting broke up slowly. People drifted to their wagons, the tension eased but not gone.

Felix paused beside Rev. "For what it's worth? I'm glad you told us."

"Even though I'm being hunted for a sock?"

Felix grinned. "Especially because of that. Makes you way more interesting."

Rev laughed despite himself.

As the camp settled for the night, Rev sat by the dying fire, Mender's hat still in his hands.

They'd reach Millbrook in a couple of days. In a couple of days, he'd face his sister. In a couple of days, everything would change.

But tonight, he wasn't alone.

 

THE ESCAPE 

 

The camp woke in darkness.

No one spoke. They moved like shadows—packing quietly, efficiently, every motion practiced and deliberate. The Trotters were already harnessed, Vigil having worked through the night to prepare them.

Rev stood near the supply wagon, Mender's straw hat pulled low over his face. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Breathe," Mender whispered, passing by with an armload of props. "We're almost ready."

North was at the front wagon, studying her maps by lamplight. Her face was tight with concentration.

"What's the route?" Forge asked quietly.

"Back roads," North said. "Longer, but safer. We'll avoid the main square entirely—too many posters, too many eyes." She traced a line on the map. "If we leave now, we can be out of town before the sun's up. Before anyone starts asking questions."

"And the Lawman's camp?" Rosey asked, her voice low.

"On the eastern edge. We're going west, then north. Should miss them entirely." North folded the map with sharp, precise movements. "But we need to move. Now."

The troupe finished loading in near-silence. Felix secured the last of the cargo. Lyric helped Lumina into her wagon—she was barely awake, moving on instinct. Vigil checked the Trotters one final time, murmuring soft reassurances.

Rev climbed into the back of the supply wagon, tucking himself between crates and canvas. Out of sight.

"Ready?" North called softly.

A chorus of quiet affirmations.

"Then let's go. Quiet as we can."

The wagons rolled forward, wheels creaking softly on the cobblestones. The town was still dark, most windows shuttered, most people still asleep.

Rev kept his head down, his heart hammering. Every sound felt too loud—the Trotters' hooves, the wagon wheels, his own breathing.

They passed a street corner. A wanted poster fluttered in the pre-dawn breeze.

WANTED: REV LACROIX

His face stared back at him from the paper. Rev pulled the hat lower and looked away.

The wagons turned onto a side street, then another. North navigated with quiet confidence, her voice barely above a whisper as she directed Vigil and the others.

They were almost to the edge of town when they heard it.

Voices.

Rev's blood turned to ice.

"—don't care what time it is. I want every shop owner questioned. Someone must have seen him."

Lord Ashford Crane's voice. Imperious. Irritated.

The wagons slowed.

Ahead, at the intersection, two figures stood in the lamplight. The Lord, still in his ridiculous nightrobe and fluffy slippers, gesturing dramatically. And beside him, looking exhausted and resigned, Ranger Lawson West.

"My Lord," West was saying, "it's four in the morning. No one's awake to question—"

"Then wake them up!"

North held up a hand. Stop.

The wagons halted. Silent. Waiting.

Rev barely dared to breathe.

Mender appeared beside the supply wagon, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. He put a finger to his lips.

The Lord and the Ranger were arguing, their backs to the wagons. They hadn't noticed yet.

"We could go around," Felix whispered from the next wagon over.

North shook her head. "Too narrow. We'd have to back up. Too much noise."

"So what do we do?" Forge muttered.

"We wait," Mender said quietly. "And we hope they move."

The seconds stretched into minutes. The Lord continued his tirade. West looked like he wanted to sink into the ground.

Rev's hands were shaking so badly he had to grip the edge of a crate to steady them.

His other hand found the pocket watch, pulling it from his coat. He held it tight, desperate for something solid, something real. 

"Easy, lad," the watch whispered, "Breathe with me. In... and out."

Rev's breath was coming in short, panicked gasps.

"I know you're scared," the watch said gently. "But look around. Your family is here. North is navigating. Mender is watching. They've got you."

Rev didn't dare speak but it seemed the watch could sense his thoughts.

'What if they see me?'

"They won't see you," the watch said gently, reassuringly, "Right now, you need to stay quiet and trust in your family. Can you do that?"

Rev focused on the watch's ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Steady. Constant.

"That's it. Just breathe. Just wait." A pause, then the watch added softly, "You know, I've been in tighter spots than this. Once spent three years in a drawer. Very boring. At least you've got an exciting view of... crates."

Despite his terror, Rev smiled and a sigh of a laugh escaped him.

"There we go," the watch said warmly. "A laugh. Even a small one counts. You're doing fine, my boy. Just a little longer now."

The watch went quiet, but Rev kept holding it, the warm metal and gentle humor grounding him as the seconds crawled by.

Then—finally—the Lord turned and swept away, his robe flourishing like a cape behind him. "Come, West. We'll start with the inn. Someone there must have seen something."

West followed, shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

They disappeared around the corner.

North waited another beat. Then two. Then she whispered, "Now. Quickly."

The wagons rolled forward, faster now, wheels turning as quietly as possible. They passed the intersection where the Lord and West had been standing moments before.

Rev didn't breathe until they were past it.

The edge of town appeared ahead—open road, fields, freedom.

The wagons picked up speed.

And then they were out. Past the last buildings, past the town limits, onto the road heading north.

Rev finally let himself breathe.

"That," Felix said from the next wagon, "was way too close."

"Agreed," Forge muttered.

North didn't slow down. She kept the Trotters moving at a steady pace, putting distance between them and the town.

After a mile, maybe two, she finally relaxed slightly. "We're clear. For now."

Rosey appeared at the back of her wagon, looking pale but determined. "Everyone alright?"

Shaky voices confirmed that they were.

Rev climbed out from between the crates, his legs unsteady. Mender offered him a hand.

"You did good," Mender said. "Stayed calm. Stayed hidden."

"I thought we were caught for sure," Rev said.

"But we weren't." Mender smiled slightly. "And now we're on our way to Millbrook. About two days, and you'll see your sister."

Rev nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The sun was starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. The road stretched ahead, winding through fields and forests.

Behind them, the town—and the Lawman—grew smaller and smaller.

They'd made it.

For now.

 

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

 

They traveled north through rolling hills and open farmland. The morning sun climbed higher, warming the air, and slowly—very slowly—the knot of fear in Rev's chest began to loosen.

Ashdale was behind them. The Lord and Ranger West didn't seem to have followed. And if they were following atleast the Troupe had a good head start.

The landscape changed as they moved. Neat farmsteads gave way to wilder country—meadows dotted with wildflowers, stands of birch and oak, streams that sparkled in the sunlight. The road was good here, well-maintained, and the Trotters settled into an easy rhythm.

North guided them with her usual precision, calling out landmarks and checking her maps. "We'll follow this road for another few miles, then cut west at the ol' mill. Should put us well cleare-a any main routes."

Smart," Forge grunted from his wagon. "Less traffic, less questions."

"Exactly, sugar."

Lyric was playing his flute softly, a wandering melody that matched the gentle sway of the wagons. Lumina dozed in the back of her wagon, one hand trailing over the side, fingers brushing the tall grass as they passed.

Vigil walked alongside the Trotters, murmuring to them in that steady, calming way. "Flint is proud of you. Stone knows you worked hard this morning. Guard says you've earned extra grain tonight."

The Trotters snorted contentedly.

Rev sat in the back of the supply wagon, watching the countryside roll by. 

Felix appeared beside the wagon, walking alongside. "You doing okay?"

Rev nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good." Felix grinned. "Because Rosey's planning something special for dinner tonight. She's been humming all morning."

"That's a good sign," Rev said, managing a small smile.

"The best sign."

They traveled through the afternoon, the sun warm on their backs, the road stretching out ahead of them.

But as the hours passed, the sky began to change.

North looked up, frowning. She pulled her wagon to a brief stop and stood, shading her eyes as she studied the horizon.

"What is it?" Mender called from his wagon.

"Those clouds," North said, pointing west. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, heavy and low. "I don't like the look of them."

Forge followed her gaze. "Storm coming?"

"Looks like it. And a big one." North consulted her map, then the sky again. "We've got maybe two, three hours before it hits. There's a grove 'bout a mile ahead—good shelter. We should make camp there 'fore the rain starts."

"Agreed," Mender said.

"Or," North added, glancing at the clouds again, "we push through and try ta get as far as we can before it catches us. But if those roads turn ta mud..."

"We stop," Forge said firmly. "Not worth the risk."

North nodded. "Then let's pick up the pace. I wanna reach that grove before the first drops fall."

She snapped the reins, and the Trotters moved faster.

The storm decended quickly. The sky darkened, covered by a blanket of dark grey clouds. The rain came down in sheets, the back roads turning into a soup of thick, sucking mud. The Trotters struggled with each step, their hooves slipping.

"We need to keep moving," Rev said, gripping the side of the wagon. "We need to get farther away—"

"We need to stop," North said firmly, as the wind began to pick up. She shook  her head and pulled the lead wagon to a halt.

"But—"

"No buts, sugar." North's voice was kind but unyielding. "The Trotters can't see in this mess, the roads are impassable, and we're all exhausted. Pushin' through in the dark and rain? That's how we lose a wagon. Or worse."

"But what if they catch up?!" At this point the wind was howling and Rev had to raise his voice.

"They won't!" Mender said loudly, appearing beside the wagon. "West is just as stuck as we are! Maybe more so - he doesn't have North navigating!"

North nodded. "We've got a good lead! One night won't change that! But losin' a wheel or injurin' a Trotter?! That would!"

Rev looked at the rain, the mud, the darkness closing in.

"Trust me!" North said as gently as she could while shouting to be heard. "I know these roads! I know what's safe and what's not! And right now?! We stop!"

Vigil was already unharnessing the Trotters. "Stone agrees! Guard will not risk the herd for fear!"

Rev nodded reluctantly, got off the wagon, and helped break camp.

Making camp in the rain was miserable and cold, but at least they were safe.

 

A RAINY DAY STORY

 

Rain drummed against the wagon roof in a steady rhythm, and blurred the world beyond the canvas walls. The kind of rain that made travel impossible and rest inevitable.

Inside the wagon, the troupe was packed together like books on a shelf.

"This is a disaster," North announced, holding up a map that had gotten slightly damp. "Look at this! The ink's runnin', the edges are curlin'—this map is ruined, y'all!"

"It's one map," Forge said from his corner, arms crossed. "You have seventeen others."

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is—" North gestured dramatically at the rain. "—this is UNACCEPTABLE weather!"

"I'll be sure to file a complaint with the sky," Forge muttered.

Feren sat wedged between a crate of supplies and Felix, who was attempting to practice card shuffles in the cramped space. It was not going well.

"Watch this," Felix said confidently, and attempted a bridge shuffle.

Cards exploded everywhere.

"Again?" Lyric said, laughing as cards rained down on his head.

"It's the space!" Felix protested, scrambling to gather them. "There's no room to—"

A card landed in Lumina's tea.

She blinked at it sleepily. "Your card is drowning."

"I see that," Felix said, fishing it out.

Rosey, sitting near the small camp stove they'd set up inside, poured more tea into mismatched cups. "Anyone else want some before Felix ruins it?"

"I didn't ruin it, I just—"

"You absolutely ruined it," North said. Tea had gotten on her map, and she mourned over the stained material.

Vigil poked their head in from the other wagon, rain dripping from their horns. "Flint has checked the Trotters. They are dry. Guard has checked the lumimoth. Also dry. Vigil will check again in ten minutes."

"You just checked five minutes ago," Forge said.

"Steady knows this."

"Then why—"

"Because Stone worries."

Vigil disappeared back into the rain.

"They're going to check every five minutes until the rain stops, aren't they?" Felix said.

"Absolutely," Rosey said, handing him a fresh cup of tea.

Feren accepted his own cup gratefully. The wagon smelled like wet canvas, woodsmoke, and Rosey's honey tea. Outside, the rain poured down in silver curtains. Inside, it was warm. Crowded, chaotic, but warm.

"Mender," Lyric said suddenly, looking up from tuning his lute. "Tell us a story! We're stuck here anyway. Might as well pass the time."

"A funny one," North added. "I need somethin' to cheer me up after this tragedy." She held up the damp map again.

Mender, who had been sitting quietly near the back, smiled faintly. "A funny one?"

"Or a dramatic one!" Lyric said. "Or both!"

"Both," Lumina murmured, half-asleep against a pile of blankets. "Both is good."

Mender considered for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I know a story. About a young man who fancied himself a thief."

"Ooh, a heist story!" Felix said, perking up.

"Not exactly," Mender said. "You see, this young man—his name was Sam—was not a very good thief."

"How not good?" North asked.

"Spectacularly not good."

The rain whispered against the canvas as Mender began.

"Sam grew up in a small village," Mender said, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller. "And from a young age, he decided he wanted to be a rogue. Dashing. Clever. The kind of person who could slip in and out of places unseen."

"Was he?" Lyric asked.

"He was not."

Felix snorted.

"There was the time," Mender continued, "that Sam tried to sneak into a baker's shop through the window. He got stuck. Halfway in, halfway out. It took three people to pull him free."

North laughed. "Oh no."

"And the time he climbed onto a roof to break into a manor house, only to realize he had no idea how to get back down. His friend—a girl from the village named Rose—had to bring a ladder."

Rosey, pouring more tea, smiled softly but said nothing.

"He once locked himself inside a merchant's shop," Mender said. "Accidentally barred the door from the inside. Had to wait until morning for someone to let him out."

"That's amazing," Felix said, grinning. "I thought I had bad luck."

"The dogs in the village knew him by scent," Mender said. "They'd start barking the moment he got close. He couldn't sneak past a single one."

Feren found himself smiling despite everything. The image of this hapless thief was too vivid, too ridiculous.

"Rose—his friend—was always bailing him out," Mender said. "They'd known each other since they were children. She was a cook, even then. Made the best bread in three counties. And every time Sam got himself into trouble, she'd sigh and say, 'What did you do this time?'"

Rosey's smile deepened.

"But Sam kept trying," Mender said. "Because he was stubborn. And one day, he finally succeeded."

The wagon went quiet. Even the rain seemed to soften.

"There was a manor on the edge of town," Mender said. "And Sam had heard that the lady of the house kept a locket—gold, with emeralds. Worth a fortune. He planned for weeks. Watched the house. Learned the routines. And one night, he finally managed to slip inside."

"He didn't get stuck?" North asked.

"Miraculously, no."

"Progress!" Felix said.

"He found the locket," Mender continued. "It was in a drawer in the lady's bedroom. Small. Delicate. Beautiful. He took it and ran."

Mender paused, his expression distant.

"But when he opened it," Mender said quietly, "there were no jewels inside. It was enchanted. A memory keeper."

The wagon was silent now.

"The moment he touched it," Mender said, "he was flooded with memories that weren't his. A mother's love for her child. Years of grief. The child had died young, and the locket was all she had left. Every moment she'd treasured. Every smile. Every laugh. Every loss."

Feren's chest tightened.

"It broke him," Mender said. "He'd stolen before. Tried to, anyway. But he'd never felt what those things meant. Not like this."

"What did he do?" Lyric asked softly.

"He tried to return it," Mender said. "But the damage was done. Something in him had changed. He could feel memories now. In objects. In people. Fractured ones. Painful ones. Lost ones."

"He couldn't go back to stealing," Mender said. "So he learned to mend instead."

The rain drummed softly against the roof.

"And Rose?" Lumina asked, her eyes open now, focused.

"Rose stayed with him," Mender said. "She didn't turn away. She helped him understand what he'd become. And eventually, they left the village together. Started new lives."

He smiled faintly. "Sam became someone else. Someone better."

Rosey set down her teacup. "And Rose made cinnamon rolls on Sundays."

Mender's eyes met hers. "She did."

The troupe was quiet for a moment, absorbing the story.

Then North sniffed. "Well, that got me right in the heart, didn't it?"

"That was beautiful," Lyric said.

"Poor Sam," Lumina murmured.

Felix glanced at Mender thoughtfully, but said nothing.

Feren looked between Mender and Rosey. There was something in the way they'd looked at each other. Something familiar. Something old.

But before he could think too hard about it—

"VIGIL IS CHECKING THE TROTTERS AGAIN!" came a shout from outside.

"IT'S BEEN THREE MINUTES!" Forge yelled back.

"STONE DOES NOT CARE!"

The moment broke. Everyone laughed.

"Alright," Rosey said, standing and brushing off her skirts. "Who wants more tea before Vigil tracks mud all over everything?"

"Me!" Lyric said.

"Me too," North said, carefully tucking her maps away.

Felix nudged Feren. "Good story, right?"

"Yeah," Feren said quietly. "Really good."

Outside, the rain poured down in rivers and streams, washing the world clean.

Inside, the troupe was warm and dry and together.

 

The rain had stopped sometime in the night.

Rev woke to pale morning light filtering through the wagon canvas and the sound of Vigil already moving around outside.

"Steady says the roads are passable," Vigil was saying to someone. "Stone checked. Mud is drying. Guard says we can leave within the hour."

Rev sat up, rubbing his eyes. Around him, the rest of the troupe was stirring—Felix groaning and pulling a blanket over his head, Lyric already humming softly, Lumina still fast asleep in her corner.

Outside, the world smelled clean. Fresh. The smell of damp earth.

Rev climbed out of the wagon carefully, his boots squelching slightly in the damp grass. The sky was clear now, pale blue with wisps of cloud. The storm had passed.

North was already up, of course, studying her maps in the early light. Forge was checking the wagon wheels, making sure nothing had been damaged by the mud. Rosey had a small fire going and was heating water for tea.

"Morning, dear," Rosey said, spotting Rev. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough," Rev said, though that wasn't entirely true. He'd dreamed of Wren. Of things he couldn't take back. Of words he'd never said, and the year of silence stretching between them like a chasm.

"Tea will be ready in a minute," Rosey said. "We'll have a quick breakfast, then get moving. North says we should reach Millbrook by evening if the roads cooperate."

Evening. Tonight.

Rev's stomach twisted.

Vigil appeared from the direction of the Trotters, looking satisfied. "Flint has checked the harnesses. All dry. Stone says the Trotters are rested and ready. Steady agrees—we can move."

"Good," North called from her wagon. "Let's pack up, y'all. I want to be on the road within the hour."

The troupe moved with practiced efficiency. Wagons were repacked, supplies secured, the fire doused. Felix emerged from the wagon looking rumpled and grumpy, but he helped anyway. Lyric sang a cheerful traveling song that made Lumina smile sleepily.

Mender worked quietly, his movements calm and deliberate. He caught Rev's eye once and nodded—a small gesture of reassurance.

You've got this.

Within the hour, the wagons were ready. The Trotters were harnessed, the road ahead was clear, and the sun was climbing higher.

"A'right, people!" North called from the lead wagon. "Millbrook's awaitin'! Let's move!"

The wagons rolled forward, wheels crunching on the drying road.

Rev climbed into the back of the supply wagon, watching the campsite disappear behind them.

One more day. One more stretch of road.

And then he'd see Wren.

 

TIME

 

The wagons rolled steadily north. They'd been traveling since early morning, putting the rainy camp behind them.

Most of the Troupe was resting or working quietly. North was reviewing maps. Forge was repairing a harness. Lyric was composing softly on his lute.

Rev sat in the back of the supply wagon, legs dangling over the edge. He pulled out the pocket watch for the third time in an hour, checking its face. Nearly noon.

"Checking the time again?" the watch asked, amused. "That's the third time in an hour, lad."

"Sorry," Rev muttered, embarrassed.

"No need to apologize. I'm a watch. Being checked is literally my job." A warm chuckle. "Though between you and me, I'm more of a companion than a timepiece these days."

Rev smiled slightly. "You're good at it."

"Well, I've had time to practice." A pause. "Quite a lot of time, actually."

Rev groaned. "Was that a pun?"

"Was it?" The watch sounded entirely too pleased with itself. "I hadn't noticed. Must be second nature by now."

"That's terrible."

"Thank you. I've been working on my timing."

Rev laughed. 

"There we go," the watch said warmly. "That's what I like to hear. You've been wound up tighter than my springs lately."

"Can you blame me?"

"Not at all. But laughter helps. Trust me—I've seen a lot of years, a lot of people. The ones who can still laugh? They're the ones who make it through."

Rev looked down at the watch, running his thumb over the worn brass casing. "Mender said you helped him once. When he didn't know who he was anymore."

"He did, did he?" The watch's voice softened. "Well. That's a story for another time. Right now, you're the one who needs me. And I'm exactly where I'm meant to be."

"In my pocket?"

"In your hands, lad. In your life. Helping you find your way forward."

Rev held the watch a moment longer, then slipped it carefully back into his pocket.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Anytime," the watch said quietly. "Literally. I'm always here."

Rev leaned back against the wagon, feeling the watch's steady weight in his pocket. He dozed off for a short time, the motion of the wagon calling sleep to him.

When he woke, the sun had shifted lower in the sky. Late afternoon. The landscape had changed—they were climbing into hillier country now, the road winding through gentle slopes.

Rev climbed from the supply wagon and made his way to North's wagon at the front of the line.

"Mind if I ride up here for a while?" he asked.

North glanced at him, then gestured to the seat. "Course not, sugar. Climb on up."

Rev sat beside her, supposedly helping with navigation, but mostly just staring at the road ahead. Every mile brought them closer to Millbrook. Closer to Wren.

Closer to the moment he'd been dreading for over a year.

"You're awfully quiet, sugar," North said, not taking her eyes off the road.

"Just thinking."

"About your sister?"

Rev nodded.

North was quiet for a moment, then said, "Ya know, when I finally went back ta see my mama after three years, I was terrified. Spent the whole journey convincin' myself she'd slam the door in my face."

"What happened?"

"She cried. Hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe. Then she made me sit down an' eat while she told me everythin' I'd missed." North smiled at the memory. "Sometimes the people who love us surprise us. In good ways."

"What if Wren doesn't want to see me?"

"Then at least ya tried," North said simply. "And you'll know. Not knowin' is worse than any answer, trust me on that."

Rev looked down at his hands. In his pocket, wrapped carefully in cloth, was the gift he had stolen for his sister. Heavy. Waiting

"We'll be there by evenin', " North said. "Millbrook's just over that ridge."

Rev's stomach dropped. "That soon?"

"That soon." She glanced at him. "You ready?"

"No."

"Good. Means ya care." North adjusted the reins. "The people worth facin' are always the ones that scare us most."

 

The sun was setting when Millbrook came into view.

The afternoon wore on. The sun climbed higher, then began its slow descent toward the western hills.

The landscape changed as they traveled—rolling farmland giving way to steeper hills, forests of pine and oak, streams that cut through rocky valleys. The road wound higher, climbing steadily.

Rev had returned to the supply wagon, his conversation with North still echoing in his mind. Sometimes the people who love us surprise us. In good ways.

He wanted to believe that. He really did.

But doubt was a heavy thing, and it sat in his chest like a stone.

The wagons crested a hill, and North called back from the lead, "There it is, y'all! Millbrook!"

Rev's heart lurched.

He stood, gripping the side of the wagon, and looked.

The sun was setting when Millbrook came into view.

It was smaller than Rev remembered—a quiet town nestled in a valley, with a main street lined with shops and a church steeple rising above the rooftops. Smoke curled from chimneys. Lamplight glowed in windows. The last rays of sunlight painted everything gold and amber.

Home.

Or it had been, once.

Rev stared at the town, he'd once known. He could see the main square from here, the old fountain in the center. The bakery where Wren used to buy bread. The cobblestone streets they'd run through as children. And somewhere down there, hidden among the shops, was Wren's place. Her healing shop. 

"You alright back there?" Felix called, appearing beside the wagon.

Rev nodded, not trusting his voice.

Felix studied him for a moment, then said quietly, "It's going to be okay. You know that, right?"

"I don't know that," Rev said.

"Well, I do." Felix grinned. "And I'm never wrong about these things."

"You're wrong about card tricks all the time."

"That's different. That's luck." Felix's grin softened. "This? This is family. And family... family finds a way."

Rev looked back at the town. Millbrook. Wren. The moment he'd been running toward—and running from—for over a year.

"Let's go!" North called from the front. "We'll set up in the square, just like we planned!"

The wagons rolled forward, descending into the valley.

They rolled into Millbrook's main square as the last light faded from the sky.

The square was quiet at this hour—a few people heading home for the evening, shopkeepers closing up for the night. The fountain in the center still burbled softly, just as Rev remembered.

North guided the wagons to a spot near the edge of the square, away from the main traffic but visible enough to look like a traveling troupe passing through.

"Alright, y'all," North said quietly as they came to a stop. "Let's make this look natural. We're just here for the night, scoutin' for a performance tomorrow."

The troupe moved with practiced ease. Vigil began unharnessing the Trotters. Forge checked the wagon wheels. Lyric pulled out his lute and started playing softly—just background music, nothing that would draw too much attention.

Rev stood beside the supply wagon, his eyes scanning the shops that lined the square.

There.

On the far side, tucked between a tailor's shop and a bookbinder, was a small storefront with a painted sign hanging above the door.

LACROIX HEALING

His sister's name. Their family name.

The shop was modest—a single window displaying jars of herbs and salves, a wooden door painted deep green. Warm light glowed from inside. She was still there. Still working.

Rev's heart hammered in his chest.

"That's it?" Mender asked quietly, appearing beside him.

Rev nodded.

"It's a good shop," Mender said. "Looks well-kept. Welcoming."

"She always wanted a place like this," Rev whispered. "We used to talk about it when we were kids. She'd heal people, I'd..." He trailed off.

"You'd what?"

"I don't know. I never figured out my part." Rev's hands clenched. "I just knew I'd be there with her."

Mender was quiet for a moment. "You're here now."

"A year too late."

"Maybe. Or maybe exactly when you're meant to be." Mender put a hand on Rev's shoulder. "Only one way to find out."

Rev stared at the shop. The green door. The light in the window.

Somewhere inside, Wren was working. His twin. His sister. The person he'd abandoned.

"I should go now," Rev said. "Before I lose my nerve."

"We'll be right here," Mender said. "Take all the time you need."

Rev nodded. He reached into his pocket, feeling the weight of the gift wrapped carefully in cloth. Heavy. Waiting.

The troupe had stopped working. One by one, they gathered around him—quiet, supportive, waiting.

"You've got this," Felix said, his usual grin replaced with something softer. Something genuine.

"Stone believes in you," Vigil added, their goat eyes warm in the lamplight.

Rosey squeezed his hand gently. "We'll be right here, dear. Take all the time you need."

North caught his eye. " 'Member what I said, sugar. Sometimes the people who love us surprise us."

Lyric had stopped playing. "We'll be right here," he said. "The whole time."

"Right here," Lumina echoed, more awake and focused than Rev had ever seen her during evening hours.

Rev looked at them—this strange, wonderful family he'd found. The people who'd taken him in, protected him, believed in him even when he didn't believe in himself.

He touched the brim of Mender's hat—still on his head—and took it off, handing it back. "Thank you. For everything."

Mender took the hat but didn't put it on. Just held it, his expression kind. "Go on, now. She's waiting, even if she doesn't know it yet."

Rev nodded. He reached into his pocket and felt the weight of his sister's stolen gift. The gift he had carried with him for so long.

Then he turned and walked across the square.

Towards the green door.

Towards Wren.

Rev stood outside the shop, his hand on the door handle.

He couldn't move.

Inside, his sister was working. Wren. His twin. The person who knew him better than anyone.

The person he'd abandoned without a word.

His hand trembled on the handle. He could turn around. Walk away. Pretend he'd never come.

"Still out here, are we?" the watch said gently.

He jumped, startled, and took the watch from his pocket. He stared  down at it's brass face.

"I can't," Rev whispered. "What if she—"

"What if she what?" the watch asked. "Slams the door? Yells at you? Tells you to leave?"

Rev nodded miserably.

"Then at least you'll know," the watch said simply. "Right now, you're stuck in the worst moment—the not knowing. The wondering. The what-ifs."

Rev's throat tightened.

"Time doesn't move backwards, lad. Can't undo what's done. Can't unsay what's said—or unsay what wasn't said." The watch's voice was kind but firm. "But time does move forward. And sometimes... sometimes it brings us back to the people we need to face."

"What if I've waited too long?"

"Only one way to find out." A pause. "You carried that heavy thing in your pocket across territories, just to give it to her. You heard it calling, and you answered. That means something."

Rev looked down at the watch, then at the door.

"The hardest part is opening the door," the watch said softly. "After that? Time will tell. But you've got to give it the chance."

The watch went quiet.

Rev took a deep breath, slipped the watch back into his pocket, and opened the door. The tiny bell above chimed a welcome as he entered the Shop.

 

TO CONDEMN OR FORGIVE

 

It smelled like herbs and honey, lavender and something clean and sharp—healing salves, medicinal teas. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles and jars, bundles of dried plants, carefully labeled remedies.

And behind the counter, measuring out dried chamomile into a small cloth bag, was a young woman of seventeen who'd had to grow up too soon.

His sister.

Wren had their mother's dark hair, pulled back in a practical braid. Their father's sharp cheekbones. And eyes exactly like Rev's—fox-quick and clever, though hers were tired in a way he didn't remember.

She didn't look up immediately. "I'll be with you in just a moment—"

Then she saw him.

The chamomile scattered across the counter.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

"Rev?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Hi, Wren."

She stared at him like he was a ghost. Like she couldn't quite believe he was real.

Then her expression shifted—shock melting into something harder. Anger. Hurt.

"You—" She came around the counter, her hands shaking. "You disappeared. For over a year. No letters. No messages. Nothing."

"I know—"

"I thought you were dead, Rev!" Her voice cracked. "I thought something terrible had happened to you, and I'd never know, and I'd spend the rest of my life wondering—"

"I'm sorry—"

"Sorry?" Wren laughed, but there were tears in her eyes. "You're sorry? Do you have any idea what it's been like? Running this shop alone? Wondering every single day if you were alive or hurt or—"

"I was scared!" The words burst out of Rev before he could stop them. "I messed up, Wren. I stole something, and there was a lawman, and I panicked, and I just—I ran. And then I didn't know how to come back. Didn't know what to say. How to explain—"

"You could have tried!" Wren's voice broke completely. "You could have sent one letter. One word. Anything to let me know you were okay!"

"I know." Rev's own voice was shaking now. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I was a coward. I should have—I should have stayed. Or written. Or something. Anything."

Wren wiped her eyes roughly. "What did you steal?"

Rev hesitated.

"Tell me," she said. "After everything, you owe me that much."

"A sock," Rev said quietly. "And... something else. Something for you."

Wren blinked. "A sock?"

"It was calling to me. Lonely. Lost under a bed in some lord's manor. I couldn't help it." He looked down at his hands. "And the other thing—I took it because I thought you'd love it. Because I knew what it was, and I knew your magic, and I thought—" His voice caught. "I thought I'd give it to you and you'd understand. Why I have to take things. Why I can't stop hearing them."

"You still hear them?" Wren asked softly. "The lonely things?"

Rev nodded. "All the time. It's gotten worse, I think. Or maybe I just notice it more now."

Wren was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "I can hear one thing. But you hear everything."

"Yeah."

"That must be exhausting."

"It is." Rev looked up at her. "But I found people. A troupe. Performers. They took me in, even though I didn't tell them the truth at first. Even though I was running. They—they became family."

Something softened in Wren's expression. "They're here? In town?"

"In the square. Waiting. In case you—" He swallowed. "In case you didn't want to see me."

"Of course I want to see you, you idiot," Wren said, and suddenly she was hugging him, fierce and tight. "You're my brother. My twin. I've been so angry and so scared and so—"

She was crying. They both were.

"I'm sorry," Rev whispered into her shoulder. "I'm so, so sorry."

"You should be," Wren said, but she didn't let go. "You're buying me dinner. And meeting your troupe. And telling me everything. Every single thing that happened."

"Okay."

"And Rev?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever disappear like that again, I will hunt you down myself. Understood?"

Rev laughed through his tears. "Understood."

Wren pulled back, wiping her eyes. She looked at him—really looked at him. "You look different. Older. Tired."

"So do you."

"Running a shop alone will do that." She managed a small smile. "But I'm glad you're here. Even if I want to strangle you a little."

"That's fair."

Wren started to say something else—

And then the shop door burst open.

"THERE!" Lord Ashford Crane stood in the doorway, pointing dramatically at Rev. His robe was gone, replaced by an ill-fitting traveling coat, but his slippers remained. "That's him! That's the thief!"

Behind him, looking utterly exhausted, was Ranger Lawson West.

"Rev Lacroix," West said wearily. "You're under arrest for theft and trespassing."

Rev's heart stopped.

Wren stepped in front of him immediately, her eyes blazing. "Get out of my shop."

Miss, I'm afraid your brother is a criminal—"

"I don't care," Wren said coldly. "This is private property, and you're not welcome here."

The Lord sputtered. "He stole from me! Valuable items! I demand—"

"What items?" Wren asked sharply.

The Lord faltered. "Well, I—that is—"

"You don't even know, do you?" Wren's voice was scathing.

"I know exactly what he took!" The Lord drew himself up. "Priceless artifacts! Family heirlooms!"

West sighed. "My Lord, perhaps we should—"

The door banged open again—harder this time.

Mender burst through, breathing hard, the rest of the troupe crowding behind him in the doorway. He must have seen Lord Ashford and Ranger West enter from the square.

"Wait!" Mender strode forward and thrust his hand out towards the Lord. "Just take it. Take what he stole. But don't take Rev."

The Lord blinked down at Mender's outstretched hand.

In it was the sock puppet.

Limp. Floppy. One button eye slightly crooked.

Everyone stared at it.

"This," the Lord said slowly, "is what he stole?"

"Yes," Mender said firmly. "It's yours. Take it back. But leave the boy alone."

The Lord looked at the sock puppet. Then at Mender. Then at Rev.

"A... sock," he squeaked faintly.

"A very fine sock," Mender said, though his voice wavered slightly. "From your manor. He took it. It's yours. So take it and go."

West stepped closer, peering at the puppet. "That's... that's evidence of theft?"

"It was under a bed," Rev said quietly from behind Wren. "Lost. Forgotten. It was calling to me."

"It was calling to you," the Lord repeated.

"Yes."

The Lord took the puppet from Mender, holding it gingerly between two fingers like it might bite him.

Everyone in the shop stared at the limp sock dangling from the Lord's hand.

Rosey appeared in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. North stood beside her, eyes wide. Felix was trying very hard not to laugh. Vigil watched silently, Forge beside them with crossed arms.

"My Lord," West said carefully, "are you telling me I've been chasing this boy across three territories... for a sock?"

"Well—when you put it like that—"

"A sock."

"There must have been other things—"

"Was there?" West asked, his voice strained.

The Lord opened and closed his mouth several times, still holding the sock puppet.

Rev reached into his pocket. "There was one other thing."

He pulled out the cloth-wrapped bundle and carefully unwrapped it.

The brass doorknob gleamed in the lamplight. Custom-made. Engraved with the Lord's family crest.

The Lord's eyes went wide. "My doorknob!? From the—the—"

"The unused servant's door," Rev finished. "The one nobody ever opens anymore. It was lonely. Calling to me."

"You stole my custom doorknob," the Lord said faintly, "because it was lonely."

"Yes."

West looked at the doorknob. Then at the sock puppet still dangling from the Lord's hand. Then at Rev.

Then he started laughing.

It started as a chuckle, then grew into full, exhausted, slightly hysterical laughter.

"A doorknob," West gasped between laughs, "and a sock. I've been—I've been tracking you for months—through three territories—sleeping on the ground—eating trail rations—"

He doubled over, wheezing.

" Every deputy mobilized, for a doorknob and a sock!"

The Lord's face went purple. "This is NOT funny, West!"

"It's a little funny, my Lord," West managed, wiping his eyes.

Then Wren started laughing too.Felix lost his battle and burst out laughing. North covered her face, her shoulders shaking. Even Forge cracked a smile.

The Lord looked around at all of them, his face growing redder and redder. "This is—this is a serious matter! He trespassed! He stole!"

"A doorknob and a sock," West repeated, still wheezing. "My Lord, with all due respect—"

"I'll pay for them," Wren said, stepping forward. She was still smiling, but her voice was firm. "The doorknob and the sock. Whatever they're worth. I'll compensate you for your loss."

The Lord sputtered. "It's not about the money—"

"Then what is it about?" Wren asked. "Because it seems to me you've wasted this poor ranger's time, mobilized deputies, and caused a manhunt across three territories for items you didn't even know were missing."

West coughed, trying to hide another laugh.

"I—that is—the principle of the matter!" The Lord drew himself up. "He broke into my home!"

"Through an unlocked servant's entrance," Rev said quietly. "I didn't break anything."

"You still trespassed!"

"I did," Rev admitted. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken your things, even if they were lonely. Even if nobody was using them."

The sincerity in his voice seemed to deflate the Lord slightly.

West straightened, composing himself. He looked at Rev for a long moment. Then at the sock puppet in the Lord's hand. Then at the doorknob.

"My Lord," West said carefully, "I think we should accept the young lady's offer of compensation and... let this matter rest."

"Let it REST?" The Lord's voice rose. "He's a criminal!"

"He's a boy who took a sock and a doorknob," West said tiredly. "And frankly, my Lord, I've been chasing him for months. I'm exhausted. My horse is exhausted. And I'd very much like to go home."

The Lord opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at the sock puppet in his hand.

"Fine," he said stiffly. "FINE. I'll accept compensation. But I want it known that this is a travesty of justice!"

"Noted, my Lord," West said, not quite hiding his smile.

Wren disappeared into the back room and returned with a small pouch of coins. She counted out a generous amount and handed it to the Lord.

He took it. Then, flustered, with a face as red as the brightest tomato, he thrust the sock puppet back into Mender's hands.

"Keep it," he said stiffly.

Mender accepted the puppet, relief flickering across his face. The sock puppet seemed to settle contentedly back onto his hand.

Lord Ashford Crane swept towards the door with as much dignity as he could muster in his traveling slippers.

"This isn't over!" he declared from the doorway.

"I think it is, my Lord," West said gently.

The Lord huffed and disappeared into the street.

West lingered, looking at Rev. "For what it's worth, kid—you led me on quite a chase. I'm almost impressed."

"Sorry," Rev said.

"Don't be. Taught me something." West tipped his hat. "Sometimes the things we chase aren't worth catching."

He nodded to Wren, to the troupe, and followed the Lord out into the night.

The shop fell silent.

Then Felix said, "Did that just happen?"

"I think so," North said faintly.

Rosey walked over and pulled Rev into a hug. "You're safe now, dear. It's over."

Rev sagged against her, the weight of months of running finally lifting. "It's over."

Wren cleared her throat. "So. Are you going to introduce me to your family, or do I have to guess?"

Rev pulled back, smiling, and gestured around the room. "Wren, this is the troupe. The troupe, this is my sister, Wren."

"The healer who collects doorknobs," Mender said, his eyes twinkling.

Wren blinked. "How did you—"

Rev held up the brass doorknob, still in his hand. "I took this for you. Because I knew. I knew what you could do with it."

Wren's eyes went wide. She took the doorknob carefully, reverently. "Rev, this is—this is perfect. The craftsmanship, the weight, the—" She looked up at him. "You really took this for me?"

"I was going to give it to you," Rev said quietly. "But then I ran. And I kept running. And I never—"

"You're here now," Wren said softly. "That's what matters."

 

BUILDING BRIDGES

 

She turned the doorknob over in her hands, examining it. Then she looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a plain wooden door in the back corner—a storage closet, by the look of it.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the door.

"It's your shop," Rev said.

Wren smiled. "Then watch."

She walked to the door, removed the old, plain doorknob, and carefully installed the brass one in its place.

The moment it clicked into position, something shifted. The air hummed. Magic rippled outward like a stone dropped in still water.

Wren turned the doorknob and opened the door. Beyond it was not a storage closet. It was a room that shouldn't exist

Beyond it was not a storage closet. It was a room that shouldn't exist.

Warm light spilled out—soft and golden, like late afternoon sun. The space beyond was larger than the closet had any right to be, with comfortable chairs arranged in a circle, a low table in the center, and walls lined with shelves. But the shelves were empty, waiting. And around the room, set into the walls at regular intervals, were more doors. Six of them. Each with a different doorknob.

"Pocket spaces," Wren said softly, stepping inside. "Each doorknob I install creates a new room. A sanctuary. A place for healing, or storage, or refuge. This one—" She gestured to the room they stood in. "This one is meant to be a gathering place. A hub."

The troupe crowded into the doorway, staring.

"It's beautiful," Rosey breathed, looking at the brassy engraved designs around the room that echoed the design of the doorknob.

"Unfortunately it's not finished," Wren said. She walked to one of the other doors and opened it. Beyond was a small healing room—cots, shelves of remedies, soft lighting. She closed it and opened another. A library, books lining every wall. Another: a garden, somehow growing indoors, filled with medicinal herbs.

"Each space is separate," Wren explained. "Connected only through this central room. But they don't... flow. There's no way to move between them except by coming back here first."

She looked at the empty spaces between the doors. "I've always wished I could build bridges. Connections. So the spaces could talk to each other. So they could be a true sanctuary, not just separate rooms."

Forge stepped forward, his eyes scanning the walls, the doorways, the structure of the impossible space.

"Bridges," he said quietly.

"Yes," Wren said. "But I don't know how. I can create the spaces, but I can't connect them. Not properly."

Forge walked into the room, running his hand along the wall between two doors. "The structure is sound. The magic is stable. You just need..." He paused, thinking. "You need someone who understands how things fit together. How to build connections that hold."

He looked at Wren. "May I?"

"You can do it?" Wren asked, hope lighting her face.

"I fix broken things," Forge said simply. "And I build things that last. This is both."

Wren nodded. "Please."

Forge rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

It wasn't flashy magic—no sparks, no dramatic gestures. Just Forge, moving between the doorways with careful precision, his hands tracing patterns in the air, pulling at the edges of the magic Wren had created. He murmured to himself, calculating angles and load-bearing structures that existed only in magical space.

Slowly, impossibly, bridges began to form.

Not physical bridges—these were made of light and intention, shimmering pathways that connected one doorway to another. They curved through the air like spider silk, delicate but strong, creating a web of connections throughout the central room.

"There," Forge said finally, stepping back. "Try it now."

Wren walked to the healing room door and opened it. Then, instead of stepping through, she reached out and touched one of the light-bridges.

It held.

She stepped onto it, and it supported her weight, carrying her across the central room to the library door. She opened it and stepped through without ever touching the ground.

"It works," she whispered. "It actually works."

She came back through, walking the bridges with growing confidence, moving from space to space with ease. "They're connected. All of them. I can move between any room without coming back to the center. I can—" Her voice broke. "This is what I've always wanted."

She turned to Forge, tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

Forge shrugged, uncomfortable with the emotion. "Just did what needed doing."

"You built bridges," Wren said. "Real ones. Between my spaces. Between—" She looked at Rev, at the troupe. "Between all of us."

Rev stepped into the room, onto one of the bridges. It held him too. He walked across to his sister, and she pulled him into a hug.

"I missed you," Wren whispered.

"I missed you too," Rev said. "Every day."

"Don't leave again."

"I won't. I promise." He pulled back to look at her. "But I can't stay here. Not all the time. The troupe—they're my family too now."

Wren smiled through her tears. "Then I'll come with you. Sometimes. When you travel. These doors can take me anywhere, and bring me back." She gestured to the bridges, to the connected spaces. "I'm not trapped here anymore. And neither are you."

"We're both free," Rev said softly.

She nodded. "Free to follow what calls us," Wren said.

And standing there, surrounded by family—old and new—Rev finally felt whole.

 

CELEBRATION 

 

The Troupe gathered in Wren's central room—the space that had been empty for so long, now filled with family.

Rosey had insisted on cooking, and she'd taken over a corner of the space with supplies from her wagon and herbs from Wren's garden room. The smell of something warm and savory filled the air, and when she finally served the meal, it tasted like pure joy.

Relief. Celebration.

Everyone ate with enthusiasm, the fear-stew from the night before completely forgotten.

"This is incredible, Rosey," Wren said, her eyes wide. "What is this?"

"Happiness," Rosey said simply, smiling. "With a bit of rosemary."

After the meal, Rosey disappeared briefly into one of the side rooms and returned with a cloth-covered basket. "I almost forgot," she said, setting it down on the table. "Honey cakes. For celebrating."

Wren's eyes lit up. "Honey cakes? I haven't had proper honey cakes in years!"

"Then you're in for a treat, dear," Rosey said, uncovering the basket.

The sweet scent of honey and cinnamon filled the air—warm and golden and impossibly comforting. But there was something else too. Something that made everyone pause and breathe in deeply.

It smelled like home.

Not just any home. Each person's home.

Rev smelled the wild herbs that grew behind the house where he and Wren had grown up. Wren smelled her grandmother's kitchen, the one she'd learned healing in.

Felix smelled the carnival where the troupe had found him—sawdust and sugar and the thrill of games.

North smelled magnolias and red clay, the front porch of her mama's house in the deep South.

Mender smelled fresh bread baking in a village he'd left behind long ago, and Rosey's hand in his.

Forge smelled woodsmoke and iron, the forge where they'd learned their craft as a child, the pride of making something with their own hands.

Vigil smelled mountain meadows and wildflowers, the high places where they'd wandered alone before finding the herd—the troupe—that became home.

Lyric smelled his first flute, the wood oil and the excitement of learning music, the moment he'd discovered what his heart wanted to say.

Lumina smelled starlight—if starlight had a scent. Cool and clear and infinite, the night sky she'd always felt more at home under than any roof.

Each person smelled something different. Something precious. Something that made their chest ache in the best way.

"Rosey," Wren whispered, staring at the honey cakes. "What... what is this?"

Rosey smiled gently, that knowing smile she always had. "Just honey cakes, dear. With a little bit of comfort baked in."

She began handing them out—one to each person, warm and golden and perfect.

Rev took a bite, and the taste was even better than the smell. Sweet honey, warm spices, and something indefinable. Something that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold night. Like being told everything would be okay. Like being loved.

"This is magic," Wren said, her voice full of wonder.

"Just a little," Rosey admitted. "Comfort magic. It's what I do best. Everyone needs a little comfort now and then, especially after hard days."

Mender sighed. Rosey caught his eye and smiled. The look on his face was  wistful, with a touch of sadness and tenderness all at once. All focused on her. 

Felix took another bite. "Mmm! I take back every complaint I've ever had about anything ever. This is perfect."

"Stone agrees," Vigil said, already halfway through theirs. "Flint says these are better than extra grain. Guard is impressed."

North had tears in her eyes. "Rosey, sugar, you've outdone yerself."

"I just wanted everyone to feel at home," Rosey said simply. "Here, in Wren's beautiful space. Together."

Wren looked around at the troupe—her brother's family, now hers too—all of them eating honey cakes and smiling and filling her empty room with warmth and light and love.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Rosey squeezed her hand. "Welcome to the family, dear."

After the meal, Lyric pulled out his flute. "We should have music. Proper music. For a proper celebration."

With every bite and morsel finished, Lyric took out his flute. He settled onto one of the comfortable chairs and began to play.

It started soft and sweet—a melody that seemed to dance through the air, weaving between the light-bridges Forge had built. The flute's voice was clear and bright, like birdsong, filling every corner of the impossible space. Then it grew, building into something joyful and soaring, the notes cascading over each other in perfect harmony.

The troupe listened, some swaying, some humming along. Rev sat beside Wren, their shoulders touching, both of them smiling.

Lumina had been arranging small lights throughout the room—borrowing from the golden glow of the space itself, shaping it into soft orbs that floated near the ceiling. She'd been working quietly, as she always did, half-focused and dreamy.

But then Lyric's music shifted.

It became something gentler. More intimate. A love song, though there were no words—just the flute's voice, pure and sweet, speaking what his heart couldn't say.

Lumina paused, a light-orb hovering in her palm.

She looked at Lyric.

Really looked at him.

He was completely absorbed in the music, his eyes closed, the flute pressed to his lips. There was something about the way he played—the way he poured everything into it, the way the music seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him.

The way he always played for her.

The realization hit her like a gentle wave. All those nights he'd stayed up with her while she worked with the stars. All those songs he'd played just for her, even when everyone else was asleep.

The way his face lit up when she complimented his music. The way he always seemed to know exactly what melody she needed to hear. The way his music was the only thing that truly grounded her, brought her into focus, made her feel fully present.

'Oh,' she thought.

The light-orb in her hand flickered, responding to her emotion. It shifted from golden to a soft, warm pink—the color of dawn, of new beginnings.

Lyric opened his eyes and caught her staring.

He smiled—that sweet, innocent smile that was so completely him—and kept playing.

Lumina felt her heart do something strange and wonderful.

She smiled back, and for the first time, she understood what that feeling meant.

The song ended, and the troupe applauded. Lyric lowered the flute, embarrassed and pleased.

"Play another!" Felix called out.

"Yes, please," Lumina said softly.

Lyric looked at her, and something in her expression made him pause. His smile widened, hopeful and wondering.

"Alright," he said, raising the flute to his lips again. "This one's for Lumina."

And as he began to play, Lumina let her lights dance to his music, the two of them creating something beautiful together. Just like they always had. Just like they always would.

Rev watched them, his sister beside him, his family around him.

He felt the weight of the pocket watch in his pocket—silent now, content. Resting.

He'd always thought the calling was a curse. A compulsion he couldn't control. Something that made him different, broken, wrong.

But the doorknob had called to him—and it had brought him to Wren, to her magic, to reconciliation. The sock had called—and it had become part of Mender's stories, bringing joy to children in every town. The watch had called in a way—and it had given him comfort, guidance, friendship when he needed it most.

The things that called to him had led him exactly where he needed to be. To the people who needed him. To the sister who'd been waiting. To the family who saw his worth when he couldn't see it himself.

The calling wasn't a curse.

It was a gift.

And sitting here—surrounded by misfits and outcasts, unwanted things and overlooked people—he finally understood the answer to the question he'd been asking his whole life:

The things that called to him,

hadn't led him astray.

They'd led him to everything

worth finding.

 

EPILOGUE

 

Three months later...

The troupe's wagons rolled into the town of Ashdale—the same town where Rev's wanted posters had once covered every wall.

Now, those posters were long gone, replaced by advertisements for the upcoming performance.

 

THE WANDERING TROUPE ONE NIGHT ONLY Music! Magic! Stories! Spectacle!

Rev sat beside North on the lead wagon, Mender's straw hat still perched on his head. It had become his now—a gift freely given, freely kept.

"Feels different, doesn't it?" North said, guiding the Trotters through the familiar streets. "Coming back without fear."

"Yeah," Rev said, smiling. "It really does."

Behind them, the rest of the troupe prepared for the evening's show. Felix shuffled his cards, practicing a new trick. Forge checked the wagon wheels, muttering about maintenance schedules.

Wren sat in the back of the front wagon, surrounded by her traveling supplies—remedies, herbs, healing tools. She'd been with them for two weeks this time, the longest stretch yet. A doorknob installed in the back of her wagon connected directly to her shop in Millbrook, allowing her to return whenever she needed to check on patients or restock supplies.

Rev climbed back to check on her. "How are you doing?"

Good," Wren said, smiling. "Really good. I have three appointments tomorrow back in Millbrook, but then I'll catch up with you in Riverside."

"You don't have to keep traveling with us if it's too much—"

"Rev," Wren interrupted gently. "I want to. This—" She gestured to the wagons, the troupe, the open road ahead. "This is the best thing that's happened to me in years. I'm not giving it up."

Rev grinned. "Good. Because we're not giving you up either."

More and more, she found herself staying with the troupe. Traveling. Performing small healings in the towns they visited. Being part of something larger than herself.

Outside they could hear the Trotters braying & the lumimoths humming as Vigil tended to their creatures. A few starlings perched on the wagon's edge, chirping curiously. The fireflies Vigil kept in a special lantern pulsed with soft light, and glowflowers hung in small pots from the wagon's sides, their petals luminescent in the fading daylight.

The mischievous pocket dragons were currently trying to steal Felix's cards.

"Not again!" Felix shouted, lunging for them.

"Stone's dragons are just playing," Vigil said calmly.

"They're THIEVES!"

Rev laughed. Some things never changed.

In the wagon behind them, Lyric and Lumina sat together—actually together, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. She was more awake during the day now, more present, though she still came alive at night. But she'd learned to balance both worlds, especially with Lyric's help.

He played a soft melody on his flute, just for her, and she shaped the afternoon light into gentle patterns that danced around them.

"You two are disgustingly sweet," Felix called over.

"Jealous?" Lumina asked, smiling.

"Absolutely not," Felix retorted, blushing as he glanced in the direction of Wren's wagon.

"You are a little," Lyric sang, grinning.

Felix threw a card at him. One of the pocket dragons caught it mid-air and flew away with it, chittering triumphantly.

"I NEED THAT CARD!"

Rosey appeared from her wagon, laughing. "Felix, dear, just let them have it. You know they'll bring it back eventually."

"Eventually isn't good enough!"

Mender walked alongside the wagons, the sock puppet on his hand, entertaining a group of children who'd started following them into town. The puppet waved and bowed, and the children giggled with delight.

 

Later that evening, the troupe performed in Ashdale's town square.

Forge had built a temporary stage—sturdy, beautiful, perfect. North had planned every detail of the performance, her color-coded schedule ensuring everything ran smoothly. Rosey served refreshments that tasted like summer evenings and childhood memories.

Vigil managed the creatures, keeping the lumimoth's glow steady, the cloud puffs floating at just the right height, and the pocket dragons from stealing anything too important.

Lyric's flute soared through the air, bright and joyful. The strings of his lute sang blissful tunes. Lumina's lights danced above the crowd—enhanced by the lumimoth's glow and the fireflies Vigil had carefully released, creating a living constellation. They danced above the crowd, shaping themselves into stars and flowers and impossible creatures. The cloud puffs floated above the stage, their gentle light adding warmth to the spectacle.

Felix dealt cards that seemed to move of their own accord, performing tricks that left the audience gasping. Mender told stories with the sock puppet, captivating and entertaining all who were present. Bringing laughter and tears to the eyes of young and old.

Rev helped with everything—running props, assisting with costume changes, keeping the show moving. He belonged here. Completely. Fully.

And when the performance ended and the crowd applauded, the troupe took their bows together.

As they packed up under the stars, Wren opened her wagon's special door and stepped through to check on her shop. She returned a few minutes later, smiling.

"Everything's fine. Mrs. Chen picked up her arthritis remedy, and I've got enough supplies for another week on the road."

"Then Riverside next?" North asked, consulting her map.

"Riverside next," Wren confirmed.

The troupe settled in for the night. Fires were lit, dinner was served (Rosey's stew tasted like contentment and starlight), and gradually, people drifted to their wagons.

Rev sat by the fire with Mender, watching the embers glow.

"You did good, kid," Mender said quietly.

"We all did," Rev said.

"True enough." Mender looked at the sock puppet on his hand. "You know, I've been thinking. This little guy needs a proper name."

"Yeah?"

"What do you think of 'Lucky'?"

Rev laughed. "Because he's lucky you found him?"

"Because we're all lucky," Mender said. "Every single one of us. Lucky to have found each other."

Rev looked around at the camp—at his sister talking with Rosey, at Lyric and Lumina sitting close together under the stars, at Felix trying to retrieve his cards from the pocket dragons again, at Vigil tending the Trotters with gentle care, at Forge banking the fire, at North planning tomorrow's route.

At his family.

"Yeah," Rev said softly. "We really are."

Above them, the stars shone bright.

And somewhere in the distance, lonely things called out—but Rev didn't have to answer them alone anymore.

He had people who understood.

People who loved him.

People who would help him carry what called to his heart.

And that made all the difference.

THE END