Page 151 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“Velhya’s planned for that,” a soft voice called.

Wren’s pulse quickened and tears sprang to her eyes. Even after all these years, the quiet strength of that voice—like a current flowing over stone—was unmistakable.

The crowd parted, and Leora stepped into view. She was older, but somehow the same: soft brown hair—the color of golden caramel candies—shining in the sun. It fell to her shoulders in soft waves, short sandy colored horns arching straight back, so like Tavrin’s. Deep blue eyes like the Fernflow River beneath shade. The same gentleness, softer than moss, deeper than any wellspring.

Watcher balanced on her outstretched arm, then hopped down to scrape his beak against Wren’s hoof. Their eyes met. And everything Wren had been holding back—the fear of wandering aimlessly, guilt for leaving Thistlehold behind, longing for safety she wasn’t sure existed—fell away when her old friend smiled, as if no time had passed at all.

Leora didn’t speak. She stepped forward—swift and sure—hooves whispering against the ground, gripping Wren’s shoulders, eyes shining. Wren reached back, pulling her into a hug, clinging as the gasp she’d been swallowing finally broke through. The Glade held its breath around them. Silent. Safe.

When Leora let go, she cupped Wren’s cheeks, loving and sure.

“You came,” she breathed.

“You’re alive,” Wren whispered. They both laughed—bright, loud, and too fast to draw back—as if a dam had finally burst open between them.

Leora turned to embrace the others. The Gladeans took that as a sign to surge forward, an enthusiastic mass of faces and hands murmuring over the group like concerned hens. After days of dodging monsters in the dark, it was both comforting and completely overwhelming to suddenly have so many people caring for them again.

Leora let out a loud whistle, and the voices around them softened at once. “We’re all very excited you’re here,” she said sincerely. She turned to the gathered Gladeans. “They need to settle in. To rest. So for now, let them be.”

The children whined but dragged their feet back toward the schoolhouse, where a reedy human with large round glasses—a girl not much older than Jessa—waved them inside. Other Gladeans clambered up ropes and vanished into the trees or drifted back to their daily tasks.

Fennik bowed to Leora, then nodded to Wren.

“You’re in good hands,” he said.

“Pleasure to have saved your lives!” Sylvi swept around them like a whirlwind, doling out hugs and pinching Tommick’s cheek. He grimaced, then giggled. She paused in front of Orzen, rising on her toes and planting a kiss on his cheek.

Wren tried not to stare, an irritating twist taking root in her chest. Orzen stood frozen, eyes wide like Sylvi had slapped him instead of kissed him.

“Uh…why?”

Orzen tilted his head, watching Sylvi strut into the trees.

Fennik shrugged. “She does that.”

“Thought it’d be funny!” Sylvi shouted back.

Of course she did. Sylvi was Sylvi—fae chaos wrapped in a small, feral package. You can stop being weird about it, now, Wren told herself. She pinched the bridge of her nose. So many new people. So many strange new people.

Fennik huffed a laugh. “She takes getting used to.”

“I heard that!” Sylvi sang as she vanished between the trees.

“They’re good folk,” Leora said, sliding an arm around Wren’s shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

The Glade settled around them, a fragile pocket of peace. Wren lifted her face to the canopy and let out a long breath. Light filtered down in greens and golds—colors she hadn’t seen in days. The weight of the road loosened. This wasn’t the end of the journey. Only a pause. A single, borrowed heartbeat of space to breathe. Then she could face the rest.

Chapter 39

Where Roots Rest

The Glade was a flurry of movement and sound, but not the frenetic kind Wren imagined she might see in a city. The Gladeans drifted around one another like dancers, each tending to their duties, keeping the community thriving.

If Velhya was the leader of the Gladeans, then Leora was their heart. She led Wren’s group through the bustle, calling out names as they passed. Every Gladean they met bowed their head or offered an excited smile.

Near the firepit, a figure swayed, every sweeping step fluid and sure. With every turn, the earth responded—roots rising to meet her feet, gathering and flattening into woven patterns like a living rug. When she spun toward them, Wren’s breath caught. Bark-darkened skin. Moss-green hair like fresh shoots in Bloomtide. Golden eyes bright with focus.

“Velhya?” Wren whispered.