Page 4 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Surely that wasn’t the last time she’d seen her father. Impossible that grief could live so long inside a heart and still feel this raw.

Wren set her pack beside her and unfastened the flap. She pulled free a soft cloth bundle her mother had tucked inside that morning. The thick wedge of dense bread, still fragrant with yeast and pepperbark, stirred up memories of home.

Then came the rustle of wings. A shift of shadow across the sunlit bank. Wren turned and smiled.

A raven perched on a leafy branch above her, feathers sleek and dark—except for one. A single, unblemished white plume curved from his left wing, catching the light like a charm.

“Good afternoon, Watcher,” she said fondly. “You always find me when there’s food to steal.”

The raven tilted his head; glassy black eyes fixed on her. He hopped to a lower root, landing near her shoulder as she tore off a piece of bread and tossed it. He caught it mid-air—his beak snapping shut with a sharp click—then he settled, clearly waiting for more.

“If you’re going to eat with me,” she said, reaching for the cheese, “the least you could do is join the conversation.”

She tossed a bit of the crumbly wedge onto the cracked mud in front of her hooves. Watcher glided down and gobbled the morsel with brisk approval.

Wren chuckled. Maybe it’s not only the magic that unnerves people, she mused. Maybe it’s the part of me that talks to animals, as if they’ll talk back.

She took a bite of the cheese, savoring the tangy flavor, and glanced down to find Watcher staring up at her, eyes gleaming with expectation.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you have to offer? Seen anything unusual lately?” Watcher cawed once and fluttered his wings, feathers rustling in an animated reply. She grinned and tossed him another piece of cheese.

But this time, he let it fall to the ground and didn’t dive for it. Instead, he stared at her—head tilting slowly to the side, black eyes glittering with something like consideration.

Then, with deliberate purpose, his beak tapped against her hoof. The feathers at his neck ruffled, like a cat bristling at a threat.

Wren went still.

Watcher let out three harsh caws, scooped up the cheese at last, and hopped upward, wings fluttering. He settled on the log beside her, regarding her with far too much awareness.

A chill prickled down Wren’s spine.

An old Air Weaver’s saying surfaced in her mind:

A raven’s call is a message—

Once for luck. Twice for sorrow. Three times for dread.

She wasn’t superstitious—not really—but she’d be lying if she said the words didn’t stick. The bread turned to dust on her tongue, suddenly too much to swallow. She gulped from her waterskin, but it did little to ease the apprehension rising in her chest. When Watcher still did not fly away, she tilted her horns at him.

“Bleak and greedy?”

He hopped onto the pack beside her, and she spied the thin loop of parchment tucked beneath his feathers, fastened to his leg.

“Didn’t know you were doing deliveries too.” He lifted his leg as if he’d done this a hundred times before. “May I?” Wren unrolled the parchment and spread it flat.

Wren,

It’s Leora. We used to play together when we were little. Maybe you don’t remember me. It’s been a long time.

The air went still—one skipped beat of silence before sound rushed in. Leora. They’d named Watcher together as children. She’d been one of her few friends, though in the end, she’d left too—simply wandered into the Virewood one day and never returned. Maybe seeing Lenora earlier had been a warning. Wren didn’t believe in coincidences. She forced herself to focus on the words.

If you’re reading this, Watcher really did find you. Velhya said he would. I’ve learned not to question her wisdom. Velhya is Arboradin. We used to call them tree spirits. Remember Meriel? She was one too. But Velhya’s so much more than that. She’s the guardian here.

The forest in the Glade thrives in ways you’d never believe. You’d love it. I remember how your eyes lit up whenever we stumbled across things growing in unexpected places. But lately, the Glade’s been…unwell. The Witherborn are restless. Velhya believes you’re part of this. Maybe even essential to healing what’s breaking around us.

I’ve sketched a map with the landmarks I know still exist. When you find the three standing stones, you’ll be at the Glade’s edge. From there, you’ll feel it. The forest changes.

If you lose your way, Watcher will find you. Please come.