Page 21 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

The tent flap rustled. Frinna entered carrying a tray with the ornate kettle and two matching cups, steam curling in thin tendrils above them. She handed Theordrin his first, and Wren caught the scent immediately—her mother’s powder again, no question. Her own cup smelled of elderflower and honey.

Wren nodded silently in thanks but didn’t drink. She placed hers carefully on the desk in front of her. Frinna glanced between them, expression wary, and slipped back through the flap without a word.

“Janah’s voice was…squandered,” he continued when Frinna was gone. “Too easily swayed by bitterness. A branch too weak to bear fruit will always be broken. You, at least, have the strength to carry a role worth remembering.”

“I thought you said she was sick.”

“There are many types of illness, Miss Wren.”

Wren swallowed the panic rising in her throat. He’d given Janah a place of honor in the festival, and when she’d become inconvenient, it was used against her.

“You said you wanted to show the truth of Spirit weaving, but it’s not what you think. It isn’t about order or control—it’s balance. You can’t twist it. Not while I’m the one weaving it.”

A flicker of irritation broke through the veneer. His laugh was as brittle as frost. “Balance is a child’s dream. Do you know what balance breeds? Stagnation. Weakness. A town lulled into thinking it can stand without the hand that guides it.” He leaned forward, pale eyes gleaming. “In the hands of one who understands authority, it becomes something greater. Controlled. Directed. Useful. That is your purpose here.”

“I’m not doing this.” She rose halfway from her chair, but his crisp laugh made her pause.

“Oh, Miss Wren,” he leaned forward, pale eyes glittering, “you misunderstand me. You cannot refuse. Do you imagine your stubborn pride outweighs the needs of the Cycle itself?”

He played at faith from a pedestal of force. She wouldn’t be the pawn he used to draw others into this perversion.

“Are you going to chain me to the stage? How exactly do you think this is going to work?”

“Stupid child!” He rose to his full height, leaning across the desk, eyes filled with frozen fire. “I have handed you an opportunity to not only redeem yourself, but also your mother. Have you not considered her feelings?”

His brows narrowed, sharpening his gaze. “A widow unable to remarry for the shame of having corrupted magic flaunted under her roof. A daughter with neither prospects nor interest in securing them. Yet, you squander the one opportunity you have to relieve your mother of that burden.”

The air chilled around her. The lights seemed to shrink until they were pinpricks glowing in his eyes. The mention of prospects hit harder than she would’ve liked. Wren had resigned herself to the loneliness of it long ago, but it was a wound still fresh enough to sting.

Her mother had never treated her weaving like a curse, but had Wren mistaken acceptance for contentment? Had Marrowen quietly hoped for a life less difficult for them? One where she might have found love again herself, where she wouldn’t have to work so hard to provide for them?

It was part of the reason Wren never left. She’d convinced herself staying was the kinder choice. But they’d lived within the same quiet routine for so long—gathering herbs, making salves, completing deliveries—perhaps Wren had stopped seeing what it had cost them both.

“My mother knows who I am,” Wren said, though it came out softer than she liked. “I don’t need to prove anything to her. Or to you.”

His smile intentionally softened, almost tenderly. If it hadn’t looked so painful for him, it might have passed for sympathy.

“It seems your failure is not enough motivation for you,” he said slowly, fixing his cloak and settling back into his chair. “Perhaps the knowledge that your dear cousin’s return has reached my ears will be more compelling. It would be a shame if the Cycle pruned a branch so dear to you.”

The world narrowed to the sound of Theordrin’s voice. The threat coiled around her ribs like iron bands.

“So rare,” Theordrin continued, “to preserve what we love.”

Questioning Theordrin’s conviction was dangerous. She hated the idea of everyone watching her, but it was only one performance. One small display of her weaving to make Theordrin look generous.

She remembered the bruises Tavrin came home with after fighting kids twice his size when the whispers started. How he’d gotten louder, bolder, to drown them out when she was around.

Tavrin had always protected her. Now it was her turn.

She stared at the floor, the lantern light casting strange, curling shadows from her horns.

“What do you need me to do?”

“That’s better.” Satisfaction bloomed across his face. “I detest making things difficult when there are simpler solutions.”

Wren finally picked up the delicate teacup and took a sip of the cold tea as Theordrin laid out his plans, his eyes aglow with the bleak joy of a man who knew he’d won.

Chapter 7