Page 61 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She didn’t owe him her friendship.

But she’d wanted to offer it, and that was new.

There’d even been a moment—a heartbeat of time after she stumbled—where he’d looked at her so intently she’d forgotten how to breathe. She thought he might close the space between them. Kiss her.

The thought had startled her as much as it thrilled her. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d wanted him to. But that was her foolishness jumping to conclusions that were never there. He’d stepped back like she’d burned him…

Of course he hadn’t wanted that. It’d only been wishful thinking, which was strange and new in itself. He’d come to Thistlehold because of Theordrin’s job—not because of her.

It wasn’t really Orzen’s admission that hurt her—it was the shadow behind it. It was the way the truth clouded the fleeting moments they’d spent together, until she couldn’t tell what had really been him, and what he’d done for the job.

Theordrin’s reach stretched through everything she believed in until nothing was clean. Even faith can sour if Theordrin touches it long enough.

Brunna’s advice about making the performance her own had sounded so simple last night. In daylight, it felt impossible. The horn caps would help. They were tiny things, but they gave her the bravery she couldn’t summon alone. Still, courage wasn’t what she needed. She needed armor. She needed a new gloamguise.

Draining the last of her tea, her hooves padded softly across the thin rug toward her shelf. A small wooden box was buried beneath a film of dust. When she pulled it free, the air filled with motes that caught the light like sprites.

Her name was carved across the lid in careful, elegant letters—her father’s hand. He’d built it to hold her “treasures”: river stones polished smooth, shells, acorns, and bits of bone from their walks in the Virewood. It had been closed since he died.

She took it to the main room and knelt by the hearth. The last embers pulsed weakly in the grate. Their heat barely reached her as she set the box down and brushed her fingers across the carved lid. Opening it was like unsealing an ancient vault.

Inside, the mask waited. Sky-blue paint faded to dust; the white petals she’d once painted were crooked and clumsy. They were childish now. She wanted something new—something that carried who she was. Not only beautiful, but hers. She ran her thumb across one of the flowers. The paint flaked beneath her touch, tiny curls of white drifting away like snow.

Her mark thrummed faintly on her wrist, and she smiled. Of course. Whatever the mark really meant—wherever the Cycle was calling her—she didn’t want to walk into it afraid. Painting moons would remind her that she didn’t have to hide who she was anymore.

She cleared a space at the table, the quiet hum of the room wrapping around her. And then, unbidden, a different kind of memory rose.

You snuck up on him in the square. You tried to touch his hair.

Her stomach dropped.

Stars…had she really told him it looked soft?

She folded over her knees and buried a muffled groan into her hands. She was absolutely never drinking again. Or, if she did, she’d lock herself in a root cellar until the shame wore off. Even if he did deserve a second chance, she wasn’t sure she could face him after—

“Are you all right?”

Wren jolted upright.

Her mother stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. “You sounded like you were in pain.”

“Nope…only reliving some mortifying memories.” Wren gave a thin laugh and lifted the mask. “I could use some paint, though.”

Her mother raised her eyebrow. “Is this about that man moping outside the house last night like a lost puppy?”

“What?” Wren squeaked, far too quickly. “What man?”

Her mother’s expression folded into pure disbelief.

“Oh, him?” Wren’s voice was too thin to be believed. She waved vaguely toward the door in exaggerated nonchalance. “No, I have more to worry about than—that.”

“Right,” Ma said, already moving to the cupboard. “That’s why I didn’t mention it last night—because you had bigger concerns.” Her mother returned with a tin of pigments and brushes, passing them over. “But I do have eyes.”

Wren opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her face burned. “It’s not—there’s nothing—” She bent over the pigments, suddenly fascinated by sorting them.

Her mother hummed, heading for the kitchen. “Well, if you decide you want to talk about definitely-not-him, I’ll be in the garden.” The door shut softly behind her.

Wren untwisted the lid on the tin a little too quickly, and powder sprinkled across the floorboards. She brushed it away with a curse. Nothing to talk about. Nothing at all.