Page 29 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“So…you used Fire weaving?” Wren asked, brow furrowed. “I can’t start a fire with mine.”

Hennah shook her head, her smile deepening with quiet amusement. “Neither can I. Not truly. But I can sing to the stone of sunny days, of the heat it once held deep in the soil. I remind it—” she said softly, “and the stone remembers.”

She poured the tea and passed one to Wren. “Every Weaver calls to their magic in their own tongue.”

Wren turned the words over in her mind. To her, magic had always been a tapestry—threads unseen but real, woven through everything. People, places, even memories. Sometimes she caught glimpses without meaning to, faint glimmers running through the world like veins of silver in stone.

She’d assumed everyone experienced magic that way. Now it seemed foolish, or maybe lonely, like she’d been speaking a private language that no one else understood. But Hennah’s way—listening to melodies in the quiet places—was close enough. Different, yes. But similar in a way that made Wren feel like she wasn’t entirely alone after all.

Silence stretched between them, soft and companionable. Wren sipped her tea. Hennah was right—it was good. Earthy at first, with a wisp of smoke, then blooming into something sweet and wild. Like tasting a place she’d never been.

“You keep talking about the Vale,” Wren said. “Is that where you’re from? It sounds like they aren’t afraid of Spirit weaving there—not like they are here.”

“Mirror Vale is my home.” Hennah’s smile softened, as if she were seeing pine trees instead of canvas walls. “It is a place where Spirit weaving is not so strange as it is here.”

“Mirror Vale?” Wren blinked. “Like Meyra? From the rhyme?”

“Meyra has made it all the way here?” Hennah’s laugh was bright and sudden, like chimes stirred by a breeze. “I’m surprised. Tell me—what does your version of her sound like?”

Wren recited the words, half-embarrassed to speak them aloud in Hennah’s presence. She thought of the children she’d frightened only days before. Of Auren, joining in after she’d hurt him. But she pressed on. When she finished, Hennah’s expression was almost tender, as though she’d recognized a ghost of truth beneath the distortion.

“Meyra lived long before I was born,” Hennah said, turning the mug slowly in her hands. “But I know her story—the real one. At least, the one we remember in the Vale. She was a seer, as I am.” Hennah drew a long breath and continued. “The world called to her, urging her to travel, to share her visions. Though she could glimpse many fates, her gift was bound to death.”

Wren’s lips twitched into a frown. “To see death everywhere you go doesn’t feel like a gift.”

“Meyra didn’t see death as something to fear. To her, it was dusk falling—not an ending, but a change.” Hennah’s voice was gentle and steady. “She wanted to help. To give people a chance to live more fully, to make peace with what lay ahead.”

Wren’s hand slipped into the pouch at her belt. Her fingers closed around the squirrel figurine, thumb brushing its worn, carved fur. She remembered her father’s words—death wasn’t the end, only a different kind of presence.

“But no one wants a mirror held up to their transience,” Hennah went on. “They turned away from Meyra. Some simply ignored her. Others called her cursed. Still, she told them. Always hoping one heart might choose to live more purposefully.”

A silence settled, heavy but not unwelcome.

“And in the end,” Hennah said softly, “her dedication to telling the truth was what ended her life.” Hennah’s pale eyes were calm and unwavering. “People fear what they do not understand. Meyra’s tale is one of bravery in the face of opposition. She wanted only to help, but her bond with death was mistaken for darkness.”

Wren sat very still. The mug in her hands had gone unnoticed, the warmth forgotten. The lantern flame guttered once, as if reacting to her dread. She’d spent her whole life afraid—afraid of letting her magic slip, of pushing too far and hurting someone again. But Meyra hadn’t hurt anyone.

She hadn’t been cast out for danger. She’d been cast out for truth. And truth alone had been enough to kill her.

Wren had never truly considered the danger to herself. She’d always feared what she might become, not what others might do to her. The idea that the same people she wanted to help might strike the first blow settled in her chest like a stone. Wren wasn’t only walking a lonely path, she was walking a dangerous one, and she wasn’t sure if she could be brave like Meyra had been, like Hennah was now.

Hennah didn’t rush to fill the silence. She sipped her tea, watching with quiet understanding. Then, gently, she said, “I believe I know how you’re feeling.”

Wren looked up—and in Hennah’s bright, steady eyes, there was no fear. No pity. Only compassion.

“I, too, know the weight of Meyra’s choices. It is not wrong to fear. Fear only shows us what matters.” She set her hand over Wren’s. “But fear must not be the one who chooses our path.” Hennah went on, her tone unwavering, “I do not wish to be harmed. I hope I never will be. But if the choice ever comes—between following the melody I hear or silencing myself until I vanish—” She held Wren’s gaze, clear and fierce. “Then I will always choose to sing.”

Her words lingered like a chord that refused to fade. Wren poured more tea to keep her hands busy. Steam curled into the air, swirling like breath, like Spirit. She couldn’t imagine being ready to risk her life—to surrender her carefully hidden safety.

“I don’t have as much confidence in myself as you seem to have in me. What makes you think I could ever make that kind of choice?”

Hennah didn’t answer with words. Instead, she reached for Wren’s arm, lifting the sleeve with careful fingers. The crescent mark stood out, dark against her tanned forearm.

“This tells me it’s already inside you,” Hennah murmured. “Your Spirit mark only speaks truth—even when it reveals one that you’re not ready to face.” Her thumb traced the crescent’s curve. “You are of the Cycle, and it is of you. One day, you will protect it. I believe you’ll pay whatever cost that requires—even if it feels impossible now.”

Hennah didn’t sound like someone reciting wisdom. She sounded like someone who’d lived it—who had carried this weight through fire and come out the other side. When Hennah let go, the mark tingled faintly, as if responding to her touch.

“Do you have a Spirit mark?” Wren asked quietly.