Page 13 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

When he nodded, she smiled and pulled a heavy iron key from her pocket, holding it out to him.

“I, uh—” He looked at the key and then back toward her expectant face. “I don’t have coin for that yet.”

Her laugh rang out, sparkling at the edges, like he’d stumbled upon an inside joke he wasn’t aware of. “Theordrin’s paying out of his own pocket.” She quirked an eyebrow at him and nodded toward the key. “It’s a perk of the job when you work for him.”

Orzen clenched his jaw, his voice lowering. “I haven’t even accepted it yet.”

She glanced toward a door at the back of the inn, then gave him a long look. “Sure you have,” she said, her voice low and cautious. “You simply don’t know it yet.”

The early morning shadows sharpened. It was a mistake coming here. His contact said the work paid well, and he hadn’t bothered to ask for more details. Orzen took the key from her—a debtor’s cord already constricting.

She must have seen the discomfort because her voice softened. “Let me get you some coffee. Name’s Jessa by the way.” He shook the hand she offered. It was firm and small in his own.

“The Elder enjoys being introduced properly, so you’ll need to wait.” She spoke so quickly it was hard for Orzen to catch all her words. No one should have that much energy this early.

“I can’t help you much with him,” she continued. “But if you want to know anything about the history of Hearthroot, I’m your girl. Anyway, best if you wait here. Frinna will be out any minute.” Jessa grinned and bounded toward the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

The only other patrons were a few quiet, bleary-eyed men hunched over bowls of porridge like they’d slept there. Before Orzen could sit to stew, a halfling appeared in the back doorway. She moved like someone who’d learned to be unseen on purpose. Her hair was threaded with gray, her features small and severe.

“I’m Frinna, sir,” she said with practiced politeness, but her gaze was intelligent, taking measure of his every movement. “The Elder’s expecting you in the back.”

She turned without waiting to see if he was following, her steps quick despite her size. He rushed to catch up and followed her through the door at the back of the inn.

The room was shuttered. Dim. The kind of room meant for private deals. A wide, heavy oak desk took up one wall of the room. The lacquered wood bore a carved crest: a turret worked into a letter H, all varnish and show. The furniture might have been moved in for the occasion, or perhaps this man kept his meetings private by habit. Behind it sat a high-born elf whose silver hair fell too long for anything but vanity.

His mouth twisted in the perpetual sneer of someone who believed the world owed him tribute simply for existing.

This must be Theordrin.

A hulking man lingered at his shoulder—as broad as Orzen himself. The guard was the sort of blunt instrument he’d fought beside in the Brand. A golden badge the size of a palm was fixed at his breast, shaped with the same turret symbol.

Frinna stepped forward, waving a hand toward Theordrin as if presenting a prized work of art.

“May I present—High Arbiter of the Oaken Chair, Elder of the Elemental Council, Theordrin Havelle,” she intoned, all gilded politeness, though her face—when turned away from the Elder completely—held the bored scowl of someone long-suffering.

The silence stretched on. Theordrin barely blinked, waiting.

Am I supposed to bow? Even the thought was ridiculous. Theordrin was a glorified mayor, but the expectation was clear. Orzen inclined his head a fraction.

An uncomfortable smile curled over Theordrin’s thin lips but he’d apparently been satisfied with Orzen’s offer of respect. Frinna waved toward one of the chairs, then placed herself beside the door, blending in as if she were nothing more than another hinge. Orzen sat, back stiff against the wood.

A knock on the door broke the silence, and when it creaked open, Jessa entered carrying a tray of steaming mugs and a small dish of biscuits. She balanced the tray with a teenager’s practiced ease, but her previous grin was gone. Carefully, she slid the tray onto the desk like she’d stumbled into a storm she didn’t want to make worse.

When she left, Theordrin dished two cubes of sugar into his cup and said conversationally, “I didn’t think the Crimson Brand’s reach stretched quite this far from the coast.”

The room tilted. Orzen hadn’t expected him to know that much already. He focused on the bitter steam rising from the mug, a thin shield against the weight of the gaze pinning him in his chair.

“You were raised in Kettle Row, correct? The Brand’s pitiful kingdom.” His smile was the polite bite of a dagger. Orzen forced himself to swallow.

Theordrin went on, as if sharing a fond memory. “I spent time with the Dawnblades in the Auric Shore, you know. Gilded nobles. Merciless sellswords. They’re all the same. Men strutting in gold or blood, convinced it makes them strong. That’s when I understood—decay wears many masks. Only authority cuts it away cleanly.”

“Funny. Authority’s what put the Brand in power in the first place.” Orzen’s voice came out flat, stripped of anything that might reveal the fire smoldering beneath.

Theordrin’s smile twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. He stirred his tea in slow, measured circles.

“Still, Dravek did have a way with children. You served under him. Surely you know. Break them young, make them grateful for the very hand that bent them.”

The walls pressed in. The scrape of the chair against the floor was louder than any answer he could give. He sipped the too-hot coffee. It scorched his throat, but he held the burn until his eyes watered, a small victory over flinching.