Page 166 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

But the other man saw his father standing too. In a single movement, he drove the poker through Brannon’s chest. The metal sank deep, and Brannon lurched, collapsing against the anvil with a cough that sent blood dribbling down his chin. It dripped down the anvil, pooling on the floor beside him.

Brannon’s eyes stared, unblinking.

Sound vanished. Time stretched.

“NO!” Orzen screamed.

The word ripped through the memory, through Wren, as if the boy and the man across from her were crying out at once. Anguish, rage, terror—all bound together in one sound. A roar that cracked the world open.

White-hot fury tore through him—heartbreak too big for a child’s body to hold—and the fire exploded from him. Flames flicked over his skin but didn’t harm him. The bleeding slowed as the gash scorched closed, raw and uneven. Sparks struck the oil barrel. It burst with a crack, sending burning liquid across both attackers. Their armor caught instantly, flames tearing up their bodies as they howled.

The table ignited. The crates caught. Everything burned.

Orzen lurched toward his father, but the smoke swallowed him. Too thick. Too hot. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

If he got out, he could find help. He choked and stumbled toward the door, half-crawling into the street. He collapsed to his knees as the screams of the men died behind him.

No help came in the darkness.

The thread snapped in Wren’s hands. Orzen ripped himself away from her. Pain lanced between her eyes. She gasped, squeezing them shut as the world reeled. She blinked as the ache ebbed. The cottage swam back into place around her. Blurred shapes, lanternlight, the hearth flickering—far too soft after what they’d experienced.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then, ragged breaths broke through, followed by a sound of agony—so raw and fractured it splintered inside her. He folded forward, elbows dug into his knees, shoulders shuddering with sobs he couldn’t contain.

“Orzen…” Her voice cracked.

She reached for him, and the moment her arms wrapped around his shoulders, his whole body trembled. He turned into her—buried his face in the curve of her neck. His breath hitched against her skin, hot and ragged, soaking through her collar. His fingers curled into the back of her tunic, clinging like she was the only solid thing left in a world that had given way beneath him.

It shattered her.

A small sob escaped her before she could stop it.

He stiffened at the sound, as if even her sympathy cut him open further, but she didn’t let go. She slid a hand up, fingers threading into his hair, cradling the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling. She didn’t even know which part she meant. The fire. The loss. The childhood he’d never had. The man, shaped by what she’d seen. All of it.

They stayed like that until his breathing eased. The world quieted. He wasn’t calm—simply too worn to keep fighting. He pulled away. Cold rushed between them like a slammed door. Wren shivered, hugging her shoulders against the sudden absence. Orzen scrubbed at his face with unsteady hands, still refusing to meet her eyes. Swallowed. Tried to speak.

“I just—” The words broke. He tried again. “I can’t…”

He shook his head once, quick and helpless. His jaw locked. His shoulders knotted. Then he lurched to his feet so fast he nearly stumbled. He caught himself on the side table and staggered for the door.

Wren started to rise. “Orzen, wait—”

He shook his head before she could finish. In the doorway he hesitated long enough for her to see the shine in his eyes, the shame straining every muscle.

“I’ll be back,” he rasped.

Not comfort. Not certainty. But it was the only truth he could manage without falling apart. Then he slipped into the night before she could see any more.

Chapter 43

A Piece to Hold Onto

Orzen made it a dozen paces before his steps faltered. It wasn’t the memories still clawing through him. That pain finally had a shape now—a beginning, and a possible ending, once he faced Dravek again. If anything, seeing his father’s face again was a gift, one he’d lost forever to flame and smoke until tonight.

No, it was her reaction that made him stumble. He’d expected Wren to pull away afterward, to call him what he’d called himself for years—murderer, coward, fragile.