Page 15 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Black horns curled back from beneath waves of chestnut hair in an impressive arc—a crown at odds with the wariness etched into her face. The warm, honey colored skin of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. She scanned the room quickly, eyes flicking to each corner, cataloging exits before she stepped in further.

Her gaze brushed him and moved on without a pause. Her shoulders drew in, as if she meant to shrink herself smaller—not only here in the inn, but everywhere.

Orzen studied them over the rim of his mug. He’d been paid to observe her. He was simply getting a head start. Wren met Jessa with a pained smile and a brief hug—the greeting of someone who’d learned affection could be dangerous.

Wren set a leather pack on the bar with more weight than he’d expected and pulled from it two black-stoppered bottles of ink. Jessa practically vibrated, chattering too fast to follow—probably explaining why she was so animated at this hour. About ink, no less. She thrust a small purse into Wren’s hand, gathered the bottles with delight, and vanished back through the kitchen door.

Wren tucked the purse away, nodded once to Tallis—barely looking up from his ledger—and turned to leave. She froze when she caught Orzen watching, as if his gaze had snagged against something that caused her pain. It only lingered a beat, long enough for her dark brown eyes to weigh him.

He found himself wondering what she saw, realized he was looking too long, and gave the barest of smiles. Then a nod, casual as he could manage. Her brows knit. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, ducked her head, and slipped out as quietly and as alone as she’d come.

The kitchen door creaked again. Jessa reappeared and caught him looking toward the empty threshold. She topped off his mug without asking, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I don’t know why you’re here—or what business you’ve got with him. But she doesn’t need more eyes on her.” Jessa’s voice was flat, but the steel behind it cut clean. Then she slipped away, leaving the warning hanging behind her.

Odd request to follow the Spirit Weaver, of all people. She hardly seemed dangerous. Her stillness was likely the threatening part. People like Theordrin—petty, thin-skinned, always reaching for more—never trusted the quiet ones. The ones who noticed everything. The ones you couldn’t fold into a tidy explanation.

Still, coin was coin. She was only a name on a list until she proved otherwise. He’d sworn he’d stop turning people into tasks to solve, but he was slipping into bad habits.

He folded the parchment and slid it into his belt, fingers brushing the familiar weight of the scabbard at his back. A reminder of where his loyalties lived.

Hours later, Orzen had walked most of the southern perimeter, finding nothing more than the usual cracks and weather-warp. Runes—softened with age but still holding—were carved at regular intervals along the wall. Certainly nothing worth the amount of coin Theordrin was throwing at him.

Until he reached the stretch near the Virewood.

The air soured—heavy with sulfur and mildew—thick enough to taste. A bog bordered this section, true, but this was something more. The wall sagged against its own weight. Mortar split in jagged lines, black fungus swelling in the gaps, slick and ripe. Orzen crouched, pressing a finger against the beam. Spongy. Rotten clear through. Too clear to be missed.

He glanced over his shoulder—last thing he needed was some busybody seeing him poke around where he wasn’t supposed to be—then drew his sword. The tip sank deep easily, like he’d pressed it through wet clay. He pulled it free, the steel slick with black muck. Not sap. Too thick and foul by far. He wiped the blade clean, frowning.

Several beams along this stretch were the same. Anyone with eyes could see the wall was rotting here. And Theordrin pulled strings so far away Orzen couldn’t even see them yet. No way he didn’t already know about this.

So why send him?

The wind howled in a low hum. He shoved the rag back into his belt and stood, scowling at the festering stretch of wall. Weakness never showed itself all at once. It crept in, year after year, helped along or ignored—until the wrong moment came, and the whole thing gave way.

His fingers dug into the leather hilt. Why did it feel like he wasn’t only thinking about walls anymore?

He had enough to write a report. It didn’t feel like the satisfaction of a day spent working with his hands, but his purse was full. Ale would dull the sting.

He turned back toward the square. The fountain’s trickle mingled with the chatter of vendors and townsfolk. On the surface, it was cheerful, but the edges strained, a veil pulled thin over unnamed burdens. He’d seen it all day. Voices too bright, eyes too wide—pretending. The air smelled of metal and sweat, like the inside of a helm worn too long in the sun.

Movement by the towering statue of Elaren caught his eye. The Spirit Weaver—Wren. Head down, cloak clutched close around her arm like she was hiding something. He narrowed his eyes. Maybe Theordrin hadn’t been spinning shadows after all.

Another faun joined her. Leather apron, arms like iron bars. Brunna, the smith. A name from the list. So, they knew each other.

Wren’s face was pinched in worry, but Brunna greeted her like kin, affection softening the hard set of her shoulders. Wren loosened her grip on the cloak barely enough to reveal her forearm.

From here, he could only make out a dark stain before she covered it again. New? He didn’t remember it that morning.

Brunna bent close, murmured reassurance. Wren shook her head, horns tilted toward the ground, shoulders sagging deeper under the weight. Then Brunna’s gaze snapped past her and locked on him.

Shit, she saw me.

He pretended to study the fountain’s stonework. Too late. The smith was already coming.

“Never seen you ’round here before.” She stopped in front of him—arms crossed like a gate. “Doin’ a lot of starin’ for a stranger.”

“Simply taking in the sights,” he said, keeping his tone easy.