Page 89 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Ash coated everything like silt in a drained riverbed. Landmarks she’d known by heart were twisted and broken. She didn’t know where she was going. Only that she had to keep moving. The Glen was ruined. The stage had collapsed into a charred heap, blackened beams still glowing with ember light. Yet at its heart, Wren’s tree stood untouched—silver bark gleaming in the morning light, as if the fire had simply bent around it.

A pair of Registry scribes moved between the burned stalls, taking notes while exhausted Fist hauled corpses toward what remained of the bonfire. The scribes spoke softly to anyone lingering—not asking what happened, simply confirming the story they wove.

“Yes, the creatures came from the forest,” one murmured. “And the Spirit Weaver? You didn’t see her fall?”

The man he questioned hesitated. “There were so many people running. Is it true she let them in?”

“We’re investigating that,” the scribe replied, his tone gentle and sure. “One who stands against the Cycle must be held to account.” Brunna was too tired to react. She held the bundle close and kept walking.

The Fist had tried to cover the dead, but the cloth had run out early. Blank faces stared skyward, unmoving. Most were strangers. Some weren’t. Otto, the halfling fiddler. Ilsa, the seamstress. Two little girls—her children—curled beside her like they’d fallen asleep. Each name landed like another stone on Brunna’s back.

At the edge of the square stood the Tree of Memory—bark scorched, branches singed, but still alive. She could almost hear Tavrin’s laugh between its leaves, teasing her about finally dancing with him there. She swallowed hard and kept walking. She stopped looking at faces after that. She couldn’t bear any more.

As she passed the Root—its stone walls blackened but still standing—two figures stepped out of the smoke. Tallis, and beside him a cloaked halfling whose gait was too familiar to mistake. When the smaller figure turned, Brunna glimpsed the edge of Frinna’s face beneath the hood.

“We’ll meet tonight.” Tallis murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear, “Owl’s gathered stories to share.”

He caught Brunna’s eye but must have seen the emptiness there. He nodded once, and they parted—each slipping down a different side street, vanishing into the wounded town.

Cries of pain seeped through the canvas walls in the remains of a festival tent, now propped up with scavenged poles. A makeshift triage. Marrowen worked within, kneeling beside a child on a rough pallet. She smoothed salve over the gash on his cheek with careful hands. Behind her, Lenora worked with steady focus and tired eyes, her magic pulsing faint blue beneath her fingertips as she healed what she could.

Brunna staggered toward Marrowen like a spirit too heavy to cross the Veil. At the sound of hooves, Marrowen looked up, shading her eyes against the early light. Her breath caught. She didn’t wait. She rose and rushed to meet Brunna, pulling her into a desperate embrace—the kind Brunna was usually the one to give. This time, she let herself be held.

Then Marrowen drew back, searching her face.

“Did you see them? Garin? Wren? Tavrin?”

Brunna’s gaze flicked up at his name, and the tears came instantly. “Didn’t see Garin.” Her voice was rough, as if it had forgotten how to speak. “Wren’s mask—” She held it out with trembling hands. “It’s broken, but I don’t think she’s dead. Only gone.”

She hesitated. “Tav…”

Marrowen’s gaze dropped to the bundle, and understanding flooded her face. The word fell between them, taking Brunna’s strength with it. Marrowen caught her before she hit the ground.

The world went dark.

Brunna blinked awake. Her vision blurred as harsh afternoon light streamed through tears in the canvas above her. She groaned and pushed upright. The cloth bundle slid from her lap. Memory flooded in. Tavrin was gone. Wren’s broken mask was all she’d found. Her stomach twisted.

Lenora was suddenly at her side. “Are you hurting anywhere? You were out for hours. Fixed up your hand best I could. Might be rough for a bit, but the skin should heal.”

Brunna shook her head. “I’ll live. Unfortunately.”

She stood, scanning the makeshift sickbay. Bedrolls and pallets were crammed close together, each covered with a survivor in pain. The air was thick with blood, smoke, and cries of anguish that echoed from every direction. Brunna couldn’t stay here.

“Where’s Marrowen?”

“I sent her home,” Lenora said. “She’d been up all night. Needed rest. I’ve heard…” Her gaze drifted. “…the Craftsman District was hit too. Do you have somewhere to go?”

Furnie. Brunna nodded once. “I’m fine.”

She grabbed the bundle and left at a jog.

The Lower District was in ruins. Buildings she’d known all her life were simply gone. Some walls were still standing, scorched but solid. Others were nothing but garden gates and cracked mortar.

The pattern made no sense—until she saw the red Xs. Marked days ago. Every building bearing one was flattened. Her chest went hollow. The rage would come later. For now, there was only the truth. The Registry had planned this. Theordrin. He planned this.

She fixed their names in her mind beside Tavrin’s. Theordrin. The Registry. The Tower’s Fist. She wouldn’t forget. Not ever.

She turned down a side street toward her own block.