Page 12 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She couldn’t do it. Never again.

Wren’s focus snapped back to the kitchen, and the world crashed in around her—sharp and unrelenting. The thick, metallic tang of iron filled her nose, mingling with the too-sweet, cloying scent of illness that clung to the air like a damp fog. Dread settled into her bones as the weight of knowing sank in. Wren traced the calluses of his hands, ice cold against her own. She pressed closer. As if that alone might keep him there.

Her mother was suddenly there, one blood-streaked hand resting on Pa’s shoulder, her fingers gripping the torn fabric of his shirt, the threads still clinging to the ruined edges. His eyes flickered open, unfocused at first—then settling on his wife. His smile was weak, pained, but genuine.

“Made it back.”

“You did.” She nodded, her voice breaking. “You were so strong.” Ma leaned over, tears dripping onto his sweat-soaked skin as she pressed a kiss to his brow.

He turned his head, curled black horn dipping into a pool of blood, soaking into the wood of the table. His gaze found Wren, and he tried to reach for her, his hand lifting an inch before he hissed in pain, his body curling in instinctively.

He searched for something near his waist, his arm shaking with the effort of it, his voice a gruff whisper.

“My belt.”

Garin stepped closer, the shadow of the belt falling over the table as he held it near so Pa could fumble through one of the small pouches attached to it. His fingers moved slowly, each motion dragging, as if his muscles were caught in thick, clinging mud.

“Have something for you.” His arm moved clumsily and landed on his chest, the wooden shape shifting in his unsteady fingers. “Promised I’d finish it.”

Curled in his palm was the small, carved squirrel—the one Wren had cried over that morning, certain she’d ruined it by chipping the ear. She leaned in, resting her head carefully on the uninjured side of his chest, her tears slipping free, soaking into the thin, sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt.

“I can fix you.” Her words came out broken, knowing it wasn’t true but wishing it were anyway. “Stay with me. Please.”

His voice was a rasp now, his chest barely rising beneath her cheek. “I’ll always be here.” His words came slower, eyes blinking sluggishly, gaze unfocused. “Not gone, just…different.”

Wren felt the pulse slowing beneath her as he closed his eyes, and she clung harder. She squeezed the carved squirrel, its sharp edges digging into her palm, the wood warm and familiar even as his body cooled beneath her. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him—wood, smoke, pine needles—desperate to hold onto it, to keep it closer than the iron tang of blood that clung to him now.

And then, it was quiet.

Wren blinked, the edges of the memory slipping, already fading. Her hand instinctively found the pouch of her belt where the carved squirrel still rested, a solid, comforting reminder of the strength she carried from him. The fire crackled behind her. A faintly sweet smell lingered from the dwarven ritual. Heat pressed against her back.

She wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, her gaze tracing the deep, worn grooves in the table’s wood. The squirrel’s edges bit faintly into her skin—a sting she still needed.

She couldn’t offer it. Not yet.

Brunna had given her a token, carried for days now within her belt pouch. Her fingers brushed against it—a small, cool weight. “I’m not ready to give up the last piece of him he gave to me. So, instead, I offer this.”

Drawing out the embossed token from her pocket, she set it carefully on the table in front of her. “A spirit token, to protect not only our home, but our memories. To seal them.” She blinked back tears, her voice thick. “He told me he’d be here,” she said, “and he was right. He always was.”

With precise movements, she set the token flat on the edge of the tray, letting it slide down the side with a soft, scraping sound. It settled at the bottom, resting beneath the other memories of him, a quiet, unspoken promise.

The small room settled into a heavy, reverent silence. Their shared memories of Pavric hung in the air.

He really was there among them, just out of reach.

Chapter 4

To Bear the Brand

Last night’s ale soured the air in the Turning Root Inn. The scent of smoked meat wafting from the kitchen made Orzen’s stomach clench desperately. He only had coin for coffee, if that. He’d slept hard where he could the past few seasons.

At first, he told himself it was noble—sleeping rough with a clear conscience, free of the Crimson Brand. That resolve wore thinner every day. But, if this job went well, he’d likely get enough coin to continue running for another season at least.

The Innkeeper—a man named Tallis with graying temples and the scars of an old fighter—gave a short nod and went back to wiping the counter with a stained rag. One of the barmaids, a young woman with golden brown skin and narrow beaded braids, greeted him with a grin too fresh for the dim morning light—like someone who’d never woken up with regrets still clinging to her.

He caught himself, bristling, and huffed out a breath. What are you now? Some bitter old man jealous of a kid’s joy? He tried to return the smile, but it was more like a grimace. Her gaze flicked across his face, lingering on his crooked nose before she recovered. It took all his restraint not to pinch the bridge of it as she approached.

“You’re a bit early for the festival,” she said. Her voice carried like a breeze through leaves, light and unguarded. It was the kind of tone that made people instinctively lean closer. She bent, as if sharing a secret. “You must be the one here to see the Elder.”