Page 163 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“You weren’t supposed to have a blade.”

“And you thought I’d follow the rules?” she murmured, wicked grin widening. “Your move, Zenny.”

Beneath her, Orzen’s breath came out quick and shallow. A desperate, reckless hunger flashed in his eyes—a raw wanting Wren had never seen from him before. And then he moved.

One hand knocked the blade aside while the other wrapped around the back of Kael’s neck. In a single, breathless motion, he dragged her down and kissed her. It was urgent, demanding. Heat surged through the connection, startled and fierce, and the world snapped white—

The memory shattered.

Orzen jerked back from Wren, breath harsh, one hand pressed to his eyes.

“Shit,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. You—you didn’t need to see any of that. I forgot—I wouldn’t have shown you if I…”

Wren swallowed hard. Her hands were trembling. She hadn’t noticed until she felt the crushed fabric of her skirt between her fingers. Her face burned, not from what she’d seen, but from having seen such an intimate version of him at all.

“I can’t always control which memories surface,” she whispered in a rush. “I should’ve pulled us out sooner. I—”

“Don’t,” Orzen muttered, squeezing his eyes shut like he couldn’t stand to see her watching him.

“It’s my fault.” He shook his hands out and folded them in his lap between them. “Let’s just try again.”

He drew a shaky breath and moved closer. His skin was clammy beneath her fingertips, tension humming under the surface like a taut wire. She breathed through her nose, centered herself, and let her shoulders drop.

Spirit threads spun from her palms and wove into him—

The world snapped into sound. Voices roared over them.

The cavern was gone. Instead, a pit of trampled sand materialized in brutal clarity. Crude wooden stands ringed them, packed with people. Men and women with dirt-streaked faces—scarred and hollowed by hunger—howled as two bodies collided at its center.

Two boys. Orzen and another. Both younger than Calen.

Just children. The thought came to Wren helplessly.

Thin and wiry, but stronger than they looked. Both boys were already bloodied beyond reason. Orzen’s nose was clearly broken, one eye beginning to blacken. The other boy wasn’t faring much better. He spat blood into the sand and came at Orzen again.

The crowd jeered, waving fight-cards in the air and clenching gambling slips in filthy fists. Spilled blood struck the sand, clumping it in thick red patches. The boys clawed, punched, and kicked with feral desperation—violence born of fear, not sport. Survival, not competition.

Wren’s breath hitched as the other boy slammed a fist into Orzen’s temple. He went down hard, dust puffing beneath him. The world blurred, swimming in and out with every ragged pulse behind his eyes. The crowd’s howl split between cheers and boos.

The other boy wiped the blood from his mouth on wrapped knuckles—the only protection offered during the fight.

Orzen groaned in the sand. Shuddered. Got to his knees. Then, trembling, he pushed himself upright. The memory of pain was unbearable—aches so deep it would take a sevenday to recover. Orzen stood on shaking limbs and faced the bloodied boy across from him again.

Silence rippled across the stands.

Orzen lunged. He drove the boy into the sand and punched. Once. Twice. A sickening crack echoed when bone split. Blood sprayed across the ground. The other boy went slack beneath him, but Orzen kept striking.

A shrill whistle blew, and a tall man strode forward, yanking Orzen off the other boy. One of the pit runners—face carved by scars, with eyes that were flat and indifferent—grabbed Orzen’s arm. With a violent tug, he hoisted Orzen upright, and thrust his bloody fist into the air. The stands erupted, coins clattering as gamblers cheered their winnings or cursed their losses.

Healers rushed in, dragging the other boy away. The crowd roared. No one looked twice. This was how boys from the Row stayed fed.

Then the man shoved a small sack of coin into Orzen’s palm.

Payment for surviving.

For entertaining them. For hurting another child.

He couldn’t have been more than twelve. No child should have known how to fight like that. To take a beating like that and still be expected to stand. A mess of emotions threaded through—fear, numb pride, the hollow certainty that this was normal. Expected. Routine. Not the first time he’d fought here. Not the last.