Page 34 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

With luck, he’d have it done before the light gave out.

Sweat dripped down Orzen’s brow as he tied and pinned the last section of fresh thatch into place. He reached for the rag on his belt, then paused—coffee stains streaked across it from Pell’s shop. Useless. He shoved it back and used the rolled sleeve of his linen shirt instead. Armor wasn’t exactly made for roof-crawling, so he’d left it behind at the inn.

Now, he picked his way carefully down the ladder—borrowed from Marda’s crumbling shed—a rickety thing old enough that he counted it a small miracle he hadn’t died on it.

He stepped back, hands on his hips, and took in the roof. It wouldn’t win him any awards, but it’d hold.

There were still a few hours of daylight. He could fix the door, but the blue paint would have to wait until morning. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t leave the window boxes unpainted. Half-finished work itched under his skin.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Since when had he become such a perfectionist? Sun-madness, probably. Or maybe it was the stubborn part of him that still gave a damn—whether he wanted to or not.

He opened the door, and the scent of baked apples hit him like a hug he hadn’t earned. His stomach growled—traitorously—but he ignored it and called, “It’s going to be loud for a few minutes—sorry in advance.”

From the front room came Marda’s voice, cheerful though it wobbled. She knit with valiant inconsistency—half the stitches already escaping—at the small tea table.

“Honey, I can barely hear the kettle boil. I doubt a hammer’s going to bother me. But if you hurry, you’ll get a fresh apple tart. They’re my specialty.”

He huffed a small laugh, pushing damp hair from his forehead. “Guess I’d better earn one then.”

He began to work. The hammer came off his belt with a familiar weight—solid, scarred, too personal for its purpose. His thumb brushed the flattened head. It still carried the faint scent of smoke, long burned into the iron. The last thing he’d taken from the charred remains of his da’s forge. Sometimes he hated that he’d taken it, but he needed the ache that holding it brought.

The ache was focus. The ache was steady hands.

He started on the warped front boards, prying old nails loose one by one. They squealed like scared piglets, old metal twisting free of older wood. Once the plank came off, he inspected the door again. Only two were cracked.

He’d spent more than he wanted to admit on replacements. But they’d match the old ones. Worth every coin. Especially since they’d been Theordrin’s in the first place.

After a lot of loud banging, one bruised thumb, and a curse that earned a scold from Marda inside, the new boards were in place. A bit of cloth, a brace, a smear of pitch—and the door would keep the Frosthold chill out as well as any fire.

When it was finished, his hands were sticky with resin, his body sore in places he’d nearly forgotten existed—but he felt better than he had all season.

Sleeping in a bed was comforting. This was something else. This was good. He didn’t want to think about why.

He excused himself to clean up, putting the tools back where he’d found them and washing off what he could in the dented basin out back. By the time he’d finished, the sun was sinking behind Thistlehold’s walls. He leaned through the doorway—and froze.

Marda was setting two places at the small table, mismatched silverware glinting in the last of the light. A pot of thin stew steamed in the center, flanked by a neat stack of apple tarts. Orzen swallowed, watching her move carefully in the dim light.

“I, uh…think I’m done for the day.” His gaze flicked to the table. “You expecting company?”

It was a stupid question, and he knew it. But the kindness laid out on her table hit harder than a hammer ever could.

Marda gave him a steady look, then gestured to a chair.

He brushed off his boots and ducked inside. The chair creaked beneath his weight, the cottage suddenly feeling too small for him—like a bear at a tea party.

She patted the edge of the table—orienting herself—and when he stood to help her sit, she waved him off. “Let these old bones struggle,” she said with a hint of pride. “Gives me purpose.”

“You’ve blessed me with your work today.” Her eyes misted, and he looked away. “The gods know what they’re doing. They sent you here for a reason. Don’t waste it.” She settled into her chair and reached for his hand. “And you don’t get to sneak out before I thank you properly. I can’t pay you, but I can feed you.”

“They’re basically the same thing in my book.” His laugh came out thin. He meant it to sound light, but it couldn’t quite lift the weight settling in his chest. “Smells delicious.”

She beamed, and he served her stew, trying to dodge the gratitude in her expression and the guilt rising behind his ribs.

It wasn’t only what he’d done for her. It was why he was here. In her home. In this town. Things were getting complicated. The worst part was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to cut and run this time.

Later, with the last light fading and the scent of apples still clinging to his clothes, Orzen stepped back into the evening air. The streets had softened into their nightly rhythm—shutters closing, a cart rattling somewhere far off, a parent calling a child home. He meant to head straight for the inn. But then he saw her.

Wren, crouched near a tipped-over cart, arms full of scattered apples, speaking softly to the halfling beside her. No spectacle. No audience. Simple, quiet kindness while others walked past.