Page 108 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Wren caught Garin’s arm and pulled him toward the opening, her hands muck slicked and shaking. Behind her, Silas fired, Orzen hacked—each strike another second bought toward safety.

The entrance was little more than a crevice, black and narrow. Calen’s dying torchlight stretched their shadows across the stone. They stumbled through one by one until the space widened enough to hold them all. Silas shoved in beside Wren, panting. Orzen came last, wide-eyed, streaked with blood and ichor.

Garin thrust his staff toward the opening. Stone surged upward, sealing the mouth of the cave, but one slipped through. It hit the ground, hissing, its clawed wings slashing for Wren. She froze, breath caught.

With a wide sweep of his staff, Garin struck it aside. Orzen finished the creature by piercing his sword through its chest. Hot, black blood splattered across the cave floor, and coated her hooves. She let out a yelp before she could stifle it, wiping them with the hem of her dress.

The wall closed.

Outside, the shrieks turned to muffled scrabbling, then nothing but the faint rasp of claws on stone. One by one, they slumped against the rock, gasping, the echo of wings still trembling in their bones. After a long moment, Garin’s voice rumbled through the dark.

“Anyone hurt?”

“Some scratches, sir,” Calen said quietly. “But I’ll be okay.” His torch guttered, painting their faces in sickly orange. He settled beside Jessa, a tentative arm around her shoulders.

“Feels worse than it is.” Jessa touched the cloth at her waist, wincing. “At least I’m not bleeding.”

At the far end of the small cave, Branwynn rocked Tommick gently, whispering comfort into his hair. He buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“It’s over now,” she murmured. “We’re safe in here.”

“I hate monsters,” he sniffled, voice breaking in the dark.

Orzen dragged a sleeve across his blood-streaked cheek. “I’ll live,” he muttered, his sword still in hand. His gaze fixed on the sealed stone. “More important—what in the hells were those things?”

Wren brushed a hand down her leg. Black blood clung tacky to the fur, the reek of rot and copper thick in her nose. “Whatever they were,” she whispered, “they weren’t natural.”

Across the cave, the monster that slipped through still twitched—nerves firing blindly, legs jerking, claws clicking faintly against the stone. She swallowed hard. Waking from seeing the Rotfather—in a dream that felt all too real—only to be attacked by these creatures was too much of a coincidence for Wren’s liking. But they couldn’t have come because of the dream. Because of her.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, Silas said, “All that meat.” He prodded the twitching corpse with his boot, shoving it closer to the sealed wall. “That’s what drew them.”

The words bit. They’d left everything behind—their packs, their rations, the fire. By morning, it would all be crawling with insects, spoiled and useless. Hard bread and cheese would have to last until they found more.

Orzen sat at the sealed cave mouth, sword across his knees, spine straight as an arrow. He didn’t lean on anyone, didn’t even let his shoulder touch the wall. Garin lowered himself a few feet away, staff leaning against one shoulder, back rigid. They both folded inward, as if distance itself could guard the others.

“Not going to be a pleasant night,” Garin said in the darkness, voice worn. “Try to rest if you can.”

A faint brush sent a jolt up her spine but it was only Silas, lowering himself beside her. She couldn’t see his face, but his hand found hers, cool fingers curling over her knuckles. She tensed but didn’t pull away. His presence was close, almost protective. A small, unusual comfort. The darkness thickened until the only sounds were slow breathing, Tommick’s quiet sobs, and the steady drip of monster blood on stone.

Wren drew her head against her knees, curling smaller. Her hand drifted to the mark on her wrist; warmth pulsed faintly beneath her fingers. Silas said the meat had drawn them, and he was probably right.

Still, she couldn’t shake the memory of the Rotfather’s voice whispering in her sleep, the half-darkness that was almost comforting—maybe she really had called them here. If the stones remembered her, perhaps the monsters of the forest did, too.

Wren’s fingers slipped into her belt pouch without thinking. The whisperstone was warm and smooth beneath her thumb.

What if I drew them to us?

She didn’t mean to send anything, but something inside her had already reached out. The stone hummed, a faint flash of silver leaking through the leather. Maybe she hadn’t sent a message at all. Pell hadn’t been clear about how it worked. The silence dragged so long she convinced herself she’d imagined it—

A spark of red blinked across the cave. Her stone pulsed.

Emotions spilled in first. Confusion. Surprise. A rough-edged intensity that wasn’t hers—followed by something steadier.

Wren? A pause and the connection strengthened, steady as a heartbeat. It wasn’t you. I’m glad you’re ok.

A soft brush of emotions followed his words—not a thought, not her own. Relief. Quiet and instinctive, like pressure released after building for too long. She wasn’t sure why it made her chest hurt. Maybe because it nudged against the space she’d pushed between them.

Thank you for keeping us safe.