Page 66 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He forced his eyes open. Only the left obeyed—the other lingered in darkness, hot and throbbing. Light stabbed through in a blur. Shapes drifted in and out. A wooden frame. A staircase. Laundry flapped above. Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby. The stench of refuse and coppery blood twisted around him.

Not the forge. Definitely not the Pits. An alley.

And as the fierce ache settled into him—jaw, ribs, pride—he remembered. Theordrin. The damned drink.

He’d woken groggily—two Fist standing over him, grinning like they’d won a prize.

They’d let him get up before they struck. As if beating a half-conscious man was more honorable when he was on his feet. He’d gotten a few hits in. Misjudged once. A hard shot to the face, and he dropped. Then came the rest. Blows to his chest, his back, his side. A boot to the ribs that made the world blink out.

Now he understood why it hurt to breathe.

The weaving had come automatically—born from panic, not will. Fire tore into the world, wild and desperate. He’d barely seen it, only the aftermath—the smell of scorched metal and flesh, the screams, and the silence that followed. One of them had fallen. The other had fled.

He forced the memory aside. Wren was in danger.

Music and cries from the marketplace carried down the alley. It wasn’t the day of Hearthroot yet. He still had time. He needed to move. He’d survived worse, but he couldn’t afford to be caught off guard again.

Pain knifed through his ribs the moment he tried to stand. He pressed a hand against them. Bracing for the next wave, Orzen forced himself onto his side. A raw sound tore from his throat before he bit it back. For one measured breath, he stayed still, then, gritting his teeth, he pushed to his knees, swallowing the next cry.

His palm hit the ground, and something brittle gave way beneath it. Ash streaked his fingers. His vision swam, pulling the world into strange focus. A twisted shape lay on the ground beside him. Blackened. Curled in on itself. Ribs split like charred wood. The remains of the Fist he’d killed with his weaving.

Bile surged, and he turned away.

The alley reeked of smoke and blood. His head swam. He couldn’t tell where the street ended and the sky began. For a moment, nothing moved—no breath, no wind, no sound.

Then he heard it. Tapping—steady and deliberate—followed by heavy footsteps. He froze. Someone was coming. He wouldn’t be able to defend himself in this state. But he needed to survive, to get to Wren, to warn her. He prepared to fight.

A shadow filled the alley’s mouth, hard to make out against the streetlight. The sound of tapping was familiar, though it did nothing to ease the tension knotting in his chest.

Memories strained to connect. He’d heard the same noise his first day here. He’d followed an Elder in the courtyard. The dwarf. Garin. The Stone Chair of the council. Theordrin didn’t like him. That was reason enough to hope he’d help.

Orzen tried to stand again. Pain flared through his ribs like lightning, driving the breath from his lungs. He managed to get one knee under him before the world tilted. His fingers scraped at the bricks as he tried to steady himself.

“You want to struggle all day, or can I help?”

The voice rumbled like stones sliding down a hill.

“Could probably use a hand,” Orzen muttered. The motion split his lip, blood flooding his mouth with the taste of metal. Was there any part of him not torn or bruised?

The dwarf extended a thick arm, and Orzen gripped his shoulder, startled by the strength under his rough tunic—muscles as rigid as bedrock.

“You should know,” Orzen wheezed as Garin steadied him, “Theordrin had me spying on you. In case that changes your mind about helping.”

Garin grunted, shifting his weight beneath Orzen’s arm.

“No. But it does explain why you’re bleeding in an alley.” The stench of scorched flesh hung heavy in the air. Garin’s head tilted, nostrils flaring. “He sent his dogs to finish his fight again?”

“The Fist.”

“Thought so.” Garin shifted under his arm. “You don’t want to be caught here with that.”

Orzen didn’t look back at the blackened shape beside them. “Panicked. Body took over.”

“Good thing it did,” Garin muttered. “You survived. The rest’ll come later.” He pressed his fingers into Orzen’s arm, a firm assurance of his presence. “Come on. The Fist’ll take care of their own. Best we’re not here when they do.”

They kept to the alleys and narrow lanes, avoiding open streets. Orzen’s vision wavered as he leaned on Garin, boots dragging with every uneven step. His legs didn’t feel like his own. Each breath sent a white-hot knife through his ribs. Beyond the walls, gravel replaced cobble. His vision tunneled—pulsed—cleared again. He had to speak.

“Need my gear,” Orzen rasped. “They’ll take it. Sword’s…at the inn.” The words came out broken, slurred, too soft to be his.