Page 27 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“I forgot to tell you,” Tavrin said suddenly, a little too loud, like he’d been searching for an escape from the conversation. “There’s another Spirit Weaver in town. I was a little…”

“Distracted?” Wren teased, grinning. Then his words sank in. Her smile faltered. “Wait. Another? Are you sure? Someone passing through?”

Tavrin stood, tugging her up beside him. A jittery energy had replaced his earlier enthusiasm—not the flutter of someone freshly in love, but something restless and uneasy.

“That’s part of why I came so early,” he said quickly. “Wanted to see Brunna. After…” He trailed off, strides lengthening until Wren had to hurry to keep up.

“Her name’s Hennah,” he said at last. “She’s got a tent by the Farm Gate, where the other visitors camp. Stopped me last night when I was walking back.” His gaze drifted—then hardened, like the memory itself still made his teeth clench.

“She said she had a message. Not prophecy, really. More like a warning.” His voice dipped lower, words carrying a weight he was trying to shrug off.

Wren caught his arm, forcing him to look at her. “Stop. Talk to me. What warning?”

“That my choices would lead me to harm.” He said it flippantly, but his eyes betrayed him—the same fear she’d seen when he used to wake from dreams he refused to explain.

Cold unease slipped through her stomach. She caught Tavrin’s arm and made him look at her. “Harm? What kind of—”

“I’m sure she meant my choice to stay here.” He cut her off gently, tugging free of her grasp. “I’ve waited too long to be scared off by a stranger’s words.”

The warning hadn’t chased him off.

It had made him choose.

Still, the old fear crept in—that he’d find an excuse to leave again. She almost gave the fear a voice, but Tavrin spoke first, like he’d read the concern on her face.

“I’m staying, no matter what. Nothing’s changing my mind.”

“I’m glad,” Wren said, squeezing his arm. “But maybe I should go talk to Hennah? Figure out if she’s genuine.”

The stories—of charlatans pretending to be Spirit Weavers, selling glimpses of the future for coin—were so ingrained, she had to be sure. She had to find Hennah, to know what kind of Weaver she really was.

He must’ve seen the worry in her eyes. The darkness slipped from his features, and he patted her hand. “I think you should meet her—even if I think she’s wrong. Might be good for you.”

He pulled a familiar leather-bound journal from his bag. It was thick with pages, bulging with scraps and pressed treasures. A brittle sprig of an herb she didn’t recognize poked from one edge, a feather with an oddly metallic sheen from another. Little fragments of the road clung to every page.

Tavrin’s notebook. He never let it out of his sight. It traveled further than she’d ever have a hope of doing, filled with sketches of flowers she’d never seen, maps of towns she’d never set foot in, stories he spun by firelight to make her feel like she’d been there with him.

He pressed it into her hands. “So you’ll know I mean it when I say I’m staying.”

The journal weighed against her palms like something sacred. “But…you’ve worked so hard on it. I can’t—” Her voice broke into a soft, disbelieving stutter. “I can’t take this.”

His eyes—earnest and unguarded for once—searched hers. “It isn’t full yet,” he said quietly. “It’s your turn now.”

It was a call she’d never allowed herself. Helping fix others’ problems, meeting their needs in her own small way, had always been easier than thinking about her own desires. Her fingers brushed soft leather, worn smooth, stained with ink. Tavrin guarded every page like scripture, yet here it was in her hands. More than a book—a piece of him—a map of everywhere he’d been, pressed into her palms like permission to begin her own story.

“This village doesn’t deserve you,” he said suddenly, his gaze flicking toward the square where passersby sent brittle smiles in their direction. Tavrin’s eyes grew harder. “Not while the Fist stalks the streets. Not while Theordrin turns the Cycle into his own banner. They’ll never see you for what you are.”

The journal’s weight grounded her, steady and real, even as doubt whispered, Where else could you possibly belong?

“You really are staying,” she managed, quiet but certain.

“Told you I was.” His grin returned, easy and familiar. “You’ll be desperate to travel now so you can escape me.”

Despite herself, she smiled and pulled him into a hug. His pulse was steady beneath her hands. She let go reluctantly, afraid the moment might vanish if she held on too long.

“I’ve got a few things to figure out,” Tavrin said. “But if you go looking for Hennah…well, she isn’t what you’d expect.”

“That’s not even remotely helpful,” Wren muttered, though curiosity stirred anyway.