Page 36 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She hadn’t expected anything to look different when she got there, but she noticed the roof straight away—neat rope ties, fresh thatch bright in the late-morning light. She slowed, then stopped altogether.

Orzen. Of course, it was him.

He was busy by the front windows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, muscles flexing as he brushed paint in steady strokes. Without his armor, she almost didn’t recognize him. He wore a practical linen work shirt and trousers splattered with bits of bright blue paint.

He was calmer now—methodical, patient—completely absorbed in his work. It was so different from the strange, guarded awkwardness from the day before that she found herself watching until a breeze howled past. He looked up, confused, though thankfully not in her direction.

She squeaked and ducked behind a nearby bush.

Her pulse danced in her chest. The instant she crouched, the absurdity hit her, but embarrassment rooted her there. She hadn’t thought she’d see him again—certainly not so soon after their painful interaction yesterday. Guilt twisted low, and she made a frustrated sound beneath her breath.

She’d been too critical. He really had been telling the truth. He’d needed work, and here he was, quietly fixing Marda’s home like she’d suggested. She lingered, debating whether she could manage to retreat unseen.

“You again?” A deep voice cut through the quiet. “Are you stalking me?”

Wren winced. Slowly, she straightened and stepped into view. He’d paused mid-stroke, brush in hand, eyes fixed on her hiding spot. Amusement flickered in his eyes, and a crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

She tried for composure, but the heat rising up her neck betrayed her—caught like a child sneaking sweets. Clearing her throat, she searched for something resembling poise.

“I’m sure I deserve that,” she said. “I came to see Marda. I didn’t think you’d—” Her words faltered as she took in the new door planks and the delight in his eyes as she stumbled. “I really didn’t think you’d be here,” she finished, lips pressed thin. “You’ve…well, you’ve surprised me.”

He turned back to the window box, brush gliding in neat, confident strokes. “I like to defy expectations,” he said lightly. “Keeps people on their toes—or hooves, I suppose.” He kept working, broad shoulders moving with surprising grace.

She wished the ground would swallow her whole.

Only one way through: say it fast before the shame set her ablaze. “I owe you an apology,” she blurted, stepping closer. “I was rude yesterday. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Rude? You were perfectly pleasant.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, smiling. Something fluttered uncomfortably in her chest. You don’t even know him. Don’t make this weird. She looked away and folded her arms over her chest.

“You’re teasing me,” she said, still not meeting his eyes. “At least I wasn’t being odd.”

A quiet laugh escaped him as he laid down the last strokes of blue. “What an apology.”

She exhaled sharply. “I don’t like people watching me.” She rolled a mourningveil petal between her fingers, softening. “Maybe I was more abrasive than I should’ve been.”

“Quite the understatement.” The brush clinked against the tin as he set it aside. Wiping his hands on a rag at his belt, his eyes lifted to meet hers. He shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly myself either. I promise to be only extremely charming from now on.”

“Is that what this is?” It pulled a reluctant smile from her. “I suppose I’ll be the judge of that.”

The silence that followed wobbled between them—uncertain, tentative, like a lamb testing its legs. Then the front door creaked open, and Wren flinched as Marda’s voice drifted out, light and reedy.

“Wren, is that you, dear? I thought I recognized your voice.”

The tension in Wren’s shoulders eased. She stepped forward, took Marda’s offered hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze before lifting the stem of mourningveil.

“A vendor was selling these in the square,” she said softly. “Maybe you can use them for Ferlan’s altar.”

Marda reached out, fingertips brushing the blossoms. She leaned in to breathe their scent and smiled, eyes misting.

“Ferlan used to bring some home whenever he returned from those long mining trips,” she murmured. “It reminds me of him.”

Her papery hand rose to Wren’s cheek. “You’ve always been so thoughtful. Such a loving girl deserves kind people around her.”

Her gaze shifted past Wren’s shoulder as if to punctuate her point. “Is that young man still out there—the one who fixed my roof for me?”

Orzen cleared his throat. “Still here, ma’am.”