Page 104 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“Even knights?” Tommick whispered, gripping Orzen’s neck with his small hands.

“In my experience?” Orzen caught her eye and gave a small smile. “They need it the most. Don’t tell anyone.”

By the time Silas returned, twilight had sunk to a deep violet behind the trees. “Found a spot,” he said with a clipped smile. “Not far.” He led them to a scattered field of stone where boulders rose like sleeping giants. The outcropping offered shelter from the wind—good enough for the night.

As Wren stepped into the ring of grass, her pulse caught as her mark stirred under her skin. It flickered with pale light, the color of dying stars. The earth trembled softly in reply.

Spirals and sigils carved in unfamiliar patterns bloomed faintly across the stones’ faces. They looked like Spirit runes. These were ancient and unfamiliar, though. The glow dimmed but never faded, the symbols still visible on the surface of the stones.

Everyone froze. Wren swayed, fatigue hitting like a wave. She sank to her knees. Branwynn knelt beside her, palm warm on her brow.

“Easy, dear. Breathe.”

Wren nodded, throat too dry for words, hands shaking in her lap. Silas was next to move, crouching beside her. His expression softened, but his voice stayed cool.

“Seems the forest recognizes its own.”

Silas’s words were meant as comfort, but they stuck to her skin like film. She didn’t belong here. This wasn’t her home. But he was right. The rocks glowed like they knew her.

Garin and Calen set to work lighting a fire in the circle’s heart, giving her space. Calen tried to act casually, but his gaze kept flicking between her and the stones.

“These are ancient,” Jessa murmured, lifting a lantern closer to the boulders and tracing a symbol with her finger. The runes had stopped glowing and were now only faint scars etched in the stone. “They could date back to the Shattered Age itself.” She turned, light glinting in her eyes. “They might’ve been part of a temple to the gods.”

She leaned closer, inspecting a mark shaped like curled antlers and her expression brightened in awe. “This one…it’s the Rotfather’s sign. I’ve seen it in one of my old history books. Shame I don’t have it with me. And look! I’ve never seen one like this before. Could be—” Jessa stopped abruptly, glancing up to find everyone staring. “Right. Notes. I’ll go make some notes.”

Wren smiled softly, though her head pulsed in pain with every movement. Jessa dropped to sit cross-legged, carefully taking one of the bottles of ink from her pack, quill scratching across her journal. For a moment, that gentle rhythm almost passed for ordinary.

Silas sank onto a rock near Jessa, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the carvings. “I’ve seen plenty of runes,” he said to Jessa as she scribbled. “But never one that answered to a Weaver.”

His fingers brushed the stone as though testing a pulse. He continued in a whisper that Wren wasn’t sure she was meant to hear. “Strange, isn’t it?” He never took his eyes from the stone. “Even half-dead on her feet, Wren’s part of this place. It listens to her weaving even when she’s not trying.”

Jessa didn’t look up, dipping the tip of her quill carefully into the jar of ink sitting in the grass before her. “Or it’s warning her.”

“Maybe.” Silas’s mouth curved faintly. “Or maybe this place recognizes something in her.”

The words carried—soft but far too clear, echoing between the stones. Wren’s pulse thudded behind her eyes, each beat radiating painfully. Even the small campfire felt painfully bright. Closing her eyes didn’t seem to help. When she looked up again, Orzen was kneeling in front of her with his waterskin.

“Got anything in your pack that might help?” he asked.

“With what?” She took the skin with a thin, humorless laugh. “The headache or the fact that the forest recognizes me?”

He passed over her pack. “Take your pick.”

Wren rifled in the pockets and slipped out a small vial of her mother’s mint tonic, the scent subtle but comforting. It was almost empty. Hopefully, the forest wouldn’t bother knowing her too many more times or she’d have to suffer without a remedy.

“I’ll choose the problem I can actually solve.” She swallowed a few drops, the mixture thick on her tongue and followed it with a small swig from his waterskin. “Thanks for checking on me.”

“Of course,” he said simply. He hesitated—like there was more he meant to say—but only nodded and joined Garin by the fire.

When the light failed and the air cooled, Jessa set her quill aside. Everyone gathered close around the fire, the smoke rising in thin blue ribbons and the scent of smoked meat floating over the camp. They’d eaten their fill and Silas was smoking the rest so it could be carried with them.

Tommick drifted half-asleep against Calen’s shoulder, fighting rest with every breath. “How about a bedtime story?” Jessa asked softly, brushing the curls from his forehead. “I bet you’ve never heard the tale of Douglass the Dauntless—the halfling hero of the Shattered Age.”

Tommick’s head popped up, suddenly wide awake. “A halfling? No way. You’re making that up.” Branwynn cracked a fond smile at her son.

Jessa shook her head, eyes sparkling in the low light. “On Elaren’s light,” she said, pressing the index finger and thumb of her right hand together. The sign of Elaren—a promise and a prayer for those who followed the god of growth.

Tommick wriggled closer, elbows digging into Calen’s knees. Jessa caught Calen’s eye, smirking, and he quickly looked away.