Later, Claire would never quite remember how she came to be in the chaos of Greenwood’s Hearing Hall. All she knew was that one moment, she was running through the newly planted Camouflora, and in the next, she was standing beside Sophie while people rushed about, shouting instructions and carrying in the wounded from the hilltop.

The Hearing Hall was a testament to Tiller talent, a building that had been grown instead of built. Tree trunks formed the walls of the space, and their branches arched upward and inward to form a leafy roof. Though most of the leaves in Arden had fallen, the branches of the Hearing Hall still retained their autumn splendor. It had been decorated for Starfell with garlands of paper stars draped from the ceiling, and the benches had been scooted to the sides to make room for round tables heaped with Tiller delicacies: powdered cookies in the shape of snowdrop flowers, sweet breads filled with jam, flaky spinach pies, and pitchers of sparkling chrysanthemum juice.

But no one was touching them.

Anxious children wearing festive star wreaths were herded out of the hall, while grown-ups turned benches into makeshift beds. Spinners frantically pulled out quilts for those shivering with wraith-burn, and Forgers hammered heat into coins before pressing them into hands blue with cold. Voices called for help, and footsteps pounded as healers from all guilds rushed to attend as many as they could, no matter the guild.

“What should we do?” Claire asked, stepping out of the way of a Tiller sprinting through with jars of an inky purple liquid. “And what happened to the tines?”

But Sophie didn’t seem to have heard her. Her sister was standing on her toes, looking frantic. “Do you see Thorn anywhere?”

Claire’s stomach dropped. She knew she’d seen Sena and Nett running in front of them, even if she didn’t know where they were now, but Thorn … she hadn’t seen him at all.

“If he’s alive,” Sophie said, spinning around, neck craned, “I’m going to murder him!”

“What, why?” Claire asked. Her index finger tapped nervously against the pencil she’d pulled out of her pocket. “He helped us, Sophie! You can’t still be mad at him!”

“Oh yes I can,” Sophie said. She looked left and right. “I’m beyond mad! I’m— THORN!”

Claire jumped and shifted slightly to see the gangly figure of Thorn Barley just entering the Hearing Hall. One arm was clutched to his chest, holding something tight, while his other hung strangely at his side, limp. Dirt streaked his face and his blond hair was matted with leaves. But as he turned in the direction of Sophie’s voice, Claire thought that he had never looked more heroic.

And then Claire saw what Thorn was cradling in his unbroken arm: two tall points, one with an oak leaf stamped on it, while the other held a gemstone.

Two tines.