Page 51 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He raised the tankard for another long pull—then nearly choked when movement flickered at the edge of his vision. A shape shifted behind a cart. A cloak. A shadow. He turned, blinking.

There she was. Or at least the top half of her. Wren.

Several paces off, crouched behind the cart like a child playing Thief. Her horns bobbed above the wood as she peeked out—dramatically—then ducked back again, about as subtle as a pair of flags waving in the wind.

She darted to a barrel, peeked again, caught his eye—and froze. Then she dropped out of sight like a stone in a well.

He stared at the spot where she’d vanished.

What in the hells is she doing?

He laughed into his drink. Was she…trying to sneak up on him? She was. She absolutely was.

He tilted his tankard, watching over the rim as she crept closer—crouched low, steps exaggerated, her cloak snagging on a crate and sending it clattering to the cobbles. She froze. Waited. Then kept going. Every few feet, she popped up like a gopher, giggling softly to herself, as if she were winning some game only she understood.

Gods, she looked like a forest goblin—if goblins had horns and tiptoed like drunken deer.

He should’ve been irritated. Or concerned.

He was definitely confused.

But there was a slow, unwilling pull of a smile tugging at his mouth. It was utterly absurd and he couldn’t look away.

“Orzen!” she whisper-screamed from behind a barrel—the most unsubtle ghost he’d ever encountered.

“Orzeeeen,” she hissed again, as if dragging it out like that somehow made it spookier. Then she peeked over the rim, caught his eyes a second time, and ducked so fast her horns nearly clipped the wood.

Setting his drink aside, he stood and stretched once before heading her way. She popped up when he reached her.

“Hah! I got you. You were so scared.”

“Practically an assassin,” he murmured.

She huffed, indignant. The look on her face broke his resolve.

Laughter burst out of him before he could hold it back. She glared, but it only made it harder to stop. He doubled over, chuckling like he was mad. Maybe he was. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him laugh like that. Really laugh. The sound of it was so unfamiliar to him, he barely believed it was coming from him at all. When it finally ebbed, he shook his head, avoiding looking at her in case it started over again.

“So, you do have a sense of humor,” she said.

He straightened, schooling his face back into what he was sure was the least convincing frown. “You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

She was grinning up at him like they hadn’t only met two days ago. It warmed something in his chest and he pushed it aside. A foolish thought, truly. And yet, a selfish part of him wanted to keep that smile there. It brightened her features, softened the sadness she’d carried into every interaction he’d witnessed since he’d first seen her. He hated noticing the flush climbing her cheeks, or the gold catching in her curls from the lanterns. Worse still, he couldn’t seem to stop looking.

“I’m on my way home.” Her gaze dipped when she caught him staring, the tips of her ears reddening noticeably. “But I uh, I figured I’d surprise you first. I think I was successful.” She sang the last part like a too-confident bard ending a terrible set.

Orzen blinked. This wasn’t exactly normal—not from her, anyway. Not that he’d really know what was normal for her. But what he had seen so far was cautious and contained—never this loud. Certainly not this unburdened. It should’ve alarmed him. But instead, something ridiculous uncurled in his chest.

She was a disaster on hooves. And still, he smiled. He rubbed his jaw, trying to hide it. Maybe she was simply tipsy. Maybe that’s all it was. But a quiet part of him wondered if this version of her wasn’t new at all—simply buried beneath the need to appear normal.

“I saw you across the square,” he said dryly. “You knocked over crates on your way.”

“Hells,” she muttered. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“The whole square would’ve heard you if it weren’t for them.” Orzen nodded toward the musicians still playing near the inn.

His gaze caught on the silver caps now gleaming on her horns. She hadn’t worn them earlier. They were delicate, but entirely fitting for a Spirit Weaver.

“Those are nice,” he said. “Not great for stealth, though.”