Page 133 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He hesitated, but Jessa fixed him with a glare over the fire.

“You don’t want her waking up to you covered in blood and forest juice. You smell awful. Truly atrocious, all three of you. Go.”

Garin didn’t argue. He tucked Crumb into a pocket of his pack by the fire. The sporeling squeaked furiously, then settled when offered cheese. Calen sniffed at himself in alarm, turned beet-red, and all but sprinted toward the water.

Orzen sighed, stood, and finally unbuckled his sword from his back. He laid it beside Wren and Branwynn and followed the others to the pool.

Orzen had to admit being clean had never felt better. He hadn’t been sure half the grime ground into his skin would ever come out, but he’d scrubbed until his arms were raw, and somehow that helped.

He’d even shaved; the scruff had finally driven him mad. It wasn’t smooth, but it was better than nothing. His armor rested beside the fire, drying in the warmth. For once, he wore a soft tunic and trousers—a set he’d kept rolled in his pack. No reason to sleep rough if he didn’t have to. If he slept at all.

Garin set his wards, mumbled something grumpy, then immediately started snoring. Crumb wedged himself under Garin’s beard like a self-satisfied fungal scarf.

Jessa and Calen continued pretending they somehow managed to lie side by side, hands brushing, faces pink—the awkward dance of two kids desperately struggling to be subtle and failing spectacularly.

Branwynn and Tommick wished him goodnight last. Her gentle voice had encouraged him to rest. But rest wasn’t an option; not when Wren might wake in the dark, terrified and confused. He didn’t know what she might remember, what Silas made her see before she fell.

Maybe Orzen would be the last person she’d want to see when she woke up again. The thought carved into him, but he let the pain of it linger. He couldn’t let himself get used to the idea of her wanting him around, or he might start acting like he deserved more than her friendship.

The moon hung high, a thin sliver pulling toward full. He found himself wondering what this one was called. She’d know. He’d ask if she woke up.

No. When she did. He refused to let the alternative settle.

He sat beside her, elbows on his knees.

The silence dragged at him. She was the whole reason they were here. The reason he was still here, and he realized with frustration that he wasn’t sure what to do without her.

Silas was gone, but his absence was as heavy as his presence. He was out there, lurking, planning to use her in ways Orzen couldn’t predict. It sat like a stone in his throat. The others slept soundly, their snores blending into the quiet calm that settled over the glen.

The silence was thick enough to force the words out of his chest. She’d never hear them. It was the only reason he let them go. “Silas was terrible, and dangerous, but…” His jaw clenched.

He didn’t want to say more, wasn’t sure why he kept talking—only that if he didn’t, he might ignite from the pressure. “The truth is, I hated him because I couldn’t stand it. Watching you depend on him was like losing something I never had.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “You’re free to take comfort from whoever you need. For once, I guess I…I liked the idea it might be me. I kept telling myself I’d leave when this was over. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else.” He shook his head. “It’s ridiculous how impossible that feels now…”

A humorless breath escaped him. “You keep wanting me to be better, and I keep failing at it. But I’m still trying. So could you…” He swallowed. “Could you wake up? Even if all you see is the sword. I’ll take it. Just open your eyes.”

He reached out hesitantly. His callused fingers wrapped around hers. They were small and warm. Her pulse beat slowly, but it was there—a silent drumbeat of hope. He told himself he’d let go in a breath. Then another.

The minutes dragged on, and he stayed where he was, her hand held gently in his. If she woke and pulled away, so be it.

Until then, he wasn’t letting go.

Chapter 35

The Weight of Stillness

Silas’s eyes flared with dark intention, and when the thread of his weaving hit Wren in the chest—cold and hard like the blow from a stone—her vision went black.

Strands of corrupted Spirit, pale and pulsing with green light, writhed across the void. It mirrored her own weaving, but hollowed and rotted through. Silas’s weave. Twisted. Constricting. It yanked her down like a rope tied to her chest.

Wren blinked, and she was kneeling at the roots of the Binding Bough. Once majestic, now its branches twisted—skeletal and brittle, veins of black sap clinging along their lengths like moss. The wound at the center leaked putrid muck, gushing out with every pulse. It slid down the cracked steps toward her, flowing over her hands like honey.

She didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

A whisper hissed from the tree. Welcome, Little Weaver.

The sound slid over her skin, smooth as silk. It slipped into the cracks in her soul—ones she’d overlooked—filling them with the sweet release of closure. The quiet of a permanent end. As final as a tomb. Here, she didn’t have to worry. It was a type of steady rest she’d never experienced.