Page 32 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Theordrin stood atop a hastily built wooden platform, robes immaculate and gleaming in the morning light. He looked every inch the savior he claimed to be.

A large man wearing Theordrin’s colors—gold pin bright on his collar—nudged Orzen as he slowed to listen. “You’re his new man, right?”

Orzen said nothing.

Silence, apparently, was confirmation enough.

“About time,” the man muttered. “Word is, you’re checking up on some of his friends.”

Another Fist caught Orzen’s eye, grin sharp as a knife. “Nobody tells the truth like the Elder, so listen close or you’ll miss the good stuff.”

Orzen’s stomach turned. He doubted that. But the Air Weaver’s spell had already caught hold of his ears—the words echoing and amplifying like the cobbles themselves were required to listen.

“…you feel it,” Theordrin’s voice slid through the air, smooth as oil. “The Cycle weakens. Our crops wither. Our people sicken. The forest presses closer each cycle. Its very breath is at our gates.” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. “Witherborn claw nearer.”

A wave of disbelieving whispers and gasps broke through the crowd. Someone near Orzen grumbled about children’s fables.

Theordrin’s voice rose in response. “You doubt. But the forest’s hunger is neither myth nor memory. It is real and growing impatient. Only under my direction have the Fist been able to cut them back!”

Then he paused, drawing a breath that trembled with well-rehearsed grief. “This morning, my men found the remains of one of our own. Janah. A beloved member of our village who once danced at our festivals, bringing joy to this very square. She was taken by corruption—lured into darkness. Found near the tree line, the mark of rot upon her skin.”

Gasps rippled outward. The name landed like a stone thrown into water—shock, then exclamations of grief and disbelief. A mother clutched her son. Someone whispered a prayer, flashing the sign of Elaren.

Then, from the edge of the crowd, a man shouted to be heard above the others, voice crackling with fury. “You wanted Janah gone! You’ve done this!”

Every head turned. Several Fist shoved through the crowd toward him as cries rang out around the onlookers. The protester barely had time to flinch before they grabbed him.

Theordrin raised a hand, voice deepening, steady as iron.

“Do not strike him.”

The Fist froze mid-motion, holding the man by both arms.

“We all grieve differently. Fear twists his pain into accusation. But doubt,” Theordrin said, turning toward the crowd once more, holding up a hand in proclamation. “Doubt is the first seed of decay.” With a flick of his wrist, the Fist moved, dragging the man down the street.

Orzen swallowed hard and went still, eyes sweeping the crowd—anxious merchants, weary farmers, ordinary townsfolk leaning toward Theordrin’s words like the strength of them alone would save them.

“We must be vigilant—not only against threats from the forest, but against weakness within our own walls.” Theordrin lifted his arms, sweeping them wide. His tone rose from bleak sermon to fierce tirade.

“The Warden believed rot hides best beneath comfort.” The words rolled through the square like thunder. “We cleanse what would corrupt, as the Warden did before us. As we enter this time of festivity, of memorial for his sacrifice, remember that. This is how we honor the Cycle. This is how it survives—how we survive.”

Cheers rose—thin, trembling, eager. Fear made them loud.

Orzen didn’t clap. The crowd’s roar pressed against him while he studied the man on the dais—hands lifted like a zealot at a temple. Theordrin’s eyes gleamed as though he could count the souls he’d captured one by one.

That voice echoed the tones of men from his past. Dravek’s voice preaching unity through shared pain. Strength through obedience. Culling weakness—where weakness meant defiance. The people of Thistlehold weren’t so different from the Row.

Some nodded along, hands pressed to their hearts. Others looked uneasy, eyes darting to the Fist lining the crowd’s edges. One of the guards caught Orzen’s gaze and gave a slow, approving nod—like they shared some unspoken understanding.

Different town. Different zealot. Same rot.

But here, there was an air of legitimacy Dravek never had, born from Theordrin’s position as elder. It made his skin crawl. This was the man he worked for.

Theordrin’s speech droned on, but Orzen turned away. The words tracked him like stalking wolves.

He should leave now. He’d learned what happened to men who stayed too long, but this job was an echo racing to catch him. He couldn’t abandon it, not this time. He didn’t need another ghost chasing him down.

He was a part of this, whether he liked it or not.