“What are you suggesting?”
“We blend in, see what we can overhear—now, while the sun is high and the streets are busy. We’ll try to poke around, too, see if we can find where the iron revenants are kept, if they’re inside the town walls. Come nightfall, we’ll have to figure out our next move.”
“Blend in?” Julian asked with a raised brow, his gaze raking her up and down. “Good luck.”
His attention made heat sweep her face, and she forced herself not to look away. “I’ll take it off,” she said, gesturing to her bone armor.
“Still,” he muttered, and Wren couldn’t figure out if it was meant to be a compliment or not.
Their plan decided on, she reluctantly removed every piece of armor, save what could be hidden under her clothes. Her swords remained on her back, their sheaths concealing all but the hilt—which was inconspicuous and wrapped in leather—but her bandolier and throwing knives joined the armor inside Julian’s pack, and her pouches of bonedust got tucked into pockets. She was just reordering her belt when she spotted Ghostbane’s empty dagger sheath. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to remove it before, but there was no time like the present.
Julian eyed it curiously. “You never had anything there, did you?”
“Not since I came to the fort,” she replied shortly. Then, because she was feeling morose and wanted pity, “I used to have a family dagger, but it was tak—I lost it, before I was shipped to the Wall.” Svetlana may have demanded it after Wren’s disastrous trial, but she had gambled it mere hours before, had chosen to risk it all to defeat her cousin and come out on top. Much as she’d tried to deny it until now, it was her own fault, and she knew it.
Julian, who had been removing his own armor—he was too recognizable in it—reached into his belt and withdrew one of his. “Here. I know it’s iron, but…”
Wren gaped at it. Leave it to her to find the gift of a used weapon the height of romance, but there it was. She took it, examining the details. It was beautifully made, particularly the swirling designs along the hilt.
“It’s called Ironheart,” he said quietly, then cleared his throat. “It belonged to my mother. Most of my first weapons did. When I was a child, they were the perfect size for me to train with. After I outgrew them, well… they were all I had left of her.”
“Thank you,” Wren said sincerely, the value of the gift taking on new meaning. She hadn’t known that Julian’s mother was dead too. He was even more alone than her, it seemed. At least she still had her father. “I lost my mother too. I mean, she died when I was born, so I never knew her.”
Julian nodded. “I was a baby when my mother died, so I never really knew her either. But…” He trailed off.
“But what?” Wren pressed.
He gave her a self-conscious shrug. “I’ve heard stories.” Wren waited patiently, so he continued. “She was always helping people. She used to visit all the local towns, bringing them extra food or supplies if it was a hard year. She was a sword too, and after the Breach, she did everything she could to protect the miners and their families. To get them out of the Haunted Territory and relocate them somewhere safe. She was trying to evacuate one of the mines when it collapsed. This was before we abandoned the area entirely.” Wren frowned slightly, attempting to puzzle out the timeline. He had a little sister, didn’t he? “My father remarried,” he said by way of explanation, his expression stiff. Wren suspected he didn’t like his stepmother much, but the stories of his mother explained why he was so protective over the people east of the Wall. He was trying to live up to her legacy.
“And you got a little sister out of it,” Wren offered, wanting to make him feel better. “A superstitious and stubborn one?”
His mouth quirked up in the corner, and he seemed pleased that she remembered what he’d said about her. He fiddled with his bracelet again. “Rebecca—Becca. She prefers Becca.”
Wren was strangely gratified that he had told her his sister’s name. That he trusted her with something so simple yet so personal. They stood in silence a moment. Then, all at once, they both seemed to remember what they had been doing. Wren carefully slid Ironheart into Ghostbane’s empty sheath.
When Julian looked at her again, it was with a critical eye, and it didn’t take long for him to spot a problem. “You should probably, uh, clean your face.”
Wren scowled. They’d been traveling for days; it wasn’t like his face was pristine and—well, actually, it pretty much was. How did he do that?
“The makeup,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely at her. His expression was strange, almost anticipatory, and Wren remembered the last time he’d seen her without it.
“Oh, right.” She swiped ineffectually at her face with the back of her hand, but all she managed to do was make things worse, if Julian’s hastily stifled smirk was anything to go by. The eye black was greasy and mostly waterproof, making it difficult to take off. “I use oil at home…，” she muttered.
“Try this,” he said, reaching into his breast pocket to produce what looked suspiciously like an embroidered silk handkerchief. Wren had no idea ironsmiths were so proper.
“Wow, elegant,” she said, taking the pristine scrap of fabric in her dirty hand.
“It’s a handkerchief, not a ball gown,” he said dryly, handing over a small flask. “This is mineral oil. I use it for my blades, but I think it should do the trick.”
Wren held the bottle over the fine silk, hesitating. Shaking his head, Julian took both from her, soaking the handkerchief before giving it back.
“It’s so white…，” Wren argued, though she brought the corner to her eyes and swiped underneath. Julian watched her intently.
After cleaning around her eyes with the edges, she pressed her lips against the center of the cloth. She let the oil soak against her mouth for a moment, then dragged the silk across her face. The result was a black, lip-shaped smear on the fabric.
“That okay?” she asked uneasily, wishing for a mirror. He had already removed his breastplate, which she had used to see her reflection before.
Julian’s gloved hand came up to her face, hovering there for a moment, before it dropped.
“Fine,” he muttered, taking the used cloth and turning away.
Wren started fussing with her belt again, anything to break the tension, though she watched him from under her eyelashes.
His back to her, he stared down at the handkerchief, at the imprint of her mouth visible there. Then he carefully folded the silk and tucked it safely back into his breast pocket. Wren expelled a shaky breath.
“You’ll have to keep your hood up,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s no changing your eye color, but hopefully without direct sunlight on your face, no one will notice.”
“Right,” Wren said, drawing up her hood and composing herself.
Julian hefted the bag, which would be impossibly heavy for Wren, given all the iron armor inside, and they set out.
Getting across the moat was easier than Wren had expected. The water was shallow, meant to deter undead attackers—not living ones—and they scaled the walls using Julian’s whip sword, avoiding the north-facing gate and the guards posted there.