Page 8 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“You know what I mean, boy. Let me get a sense of you. It’s been a while.” He tapped his staff again and nodded with quiet approval. “You’ve grown. Not so gangly.” He reached out his arm in greeting. Tavrin clasped it against his own and pulled him into an enthusiastic hug, earning a grunt from the old dwarf.

“Amazing,” Tavrin said, stepping back with delight clear on his face. “It never gets old, you moving around with that staff.”

Garin clapped his shoulder, voice dry as a weathered stone. “Gets old every damn day, son.” He gave a slight nod, then sighed. “Forgive the language, Marrowen.”

Tavrin looked like he’d swallowed a bug—caught between a laugh and an apology, his grin flickering uncertainly.

“Boy—it was a joke,” Garin grunted. “Now step aside so I can greet Wren.”

Wren stepped forward and clasped Garin’s hands in her own. His smile reminded her of well-worn paths and sunbaked dirt roads. She leaned down, and he quietly accepted the small hug, his broad, rough hand settling comfortably against her shoulder. She breathed in the earthy scent that always clung to him—damp soil, moss, and the faint, smoky bite of tobacco.

He pulled back as if trying to meet her eyes through the cloth that covered his own.

“Your pa would be proud.”

It made something in her chest ache. His words were a message from her father, carried through loam, unearthed here in the comfort of their small kitchen by the man who’d helped raise her in her Pa’s absence.

Marrowen ladled generous portions of stew—thick with vegetables and barley—onto their plates. Tavrin brought over the rolls and greens, then settled in beside Garin. When everything was in place, Marrowen took her seat at one end of the table, facing the empty chair opposite her. Wren lowered her eyes, and a familiar weight settled in her chest. There would be time for sadness later. For now, she focused on the love in the room, the easy laughter that always bloomed whenever they gathered like this.

Tavrin quickly took over the conversation, launching into tales of places he’d visited since his last stay in Thistlehold. One name caught Wren’s ear—Stonespire. She’d heard of it before: a town carved straight into the craggy cliffs that rose like a needle from the earth. Stone homes clung to the rockface, stairways and ledges winding in dizzying spirals all the way to the peak.

“They say that it was once an active volcano,” Tavrin breathed, leaning in with theatrical intensity. “But the fires have only gone to sleep, waiting for the spark destined to wake them again.”

She’d always admired Tavrin’s courage—the way he walked so confidently beyond the safe borders of Thistlehold and returned with stories of far-off places. It made her chest ache with quiet, unspoken longing for a world she’d likely never see herself. She listened with rapt attention as he described places like Kett Hollow, where gnomes lived in massive, hollowed-out, old-growth trees. Their homes were linked by rope bridges, stretching from trunk to trunk, high into the canopy.

“But,” Tavrin said at last, leaning forward like he was about to share a secret he’d saved just for them, “my favorite town was Mossmeadow. All shepherds. All fauns.” He grinned widely, and Wren’s heart grinned with him. “It was like going to a family reunion!”

Before anyone else could respond, Garin rumbled, “Probably called you the loud one there, too.”

Tavrin’s mouth twitched, and he bowed his head with a sheepish grin, throwing his hands up as if he’d been caught.

Wren laughed, instantly picturing Tavrin bumbling through awkward “faun traditions” in an overly earnest attempt to gain their trust. Marrowen rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth gave her away. Their laughter, heartfelt and earnest, filled the small home, echoing off the wooden beams—loud enough to make her forget for just a moment.

Wren’s eyes flicked toward the empty chair; a reminder of what came next—offerings and shared grief.

Tavrin helped clear the plates as quiet crept back into the small home, this time, more solemn. At the counter, Marrowen stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing and drying the dishes, moving seamlessly as they had so many times before.

Garin shifted across from Wren at the table, pulling his pack up to rest beside him. It landed with a heavy thunk and the sound of something clinking inside.

He leaned in, his voice low and rough. “I think you’re old enough to join me this year,” he said, the sightless gaze of his cloth-covered eyes turned in her direction.

Garin unbuttoned the flap of his pack with nimble fingers, the worn leather creaking as he rustled through its hidden contents. There was a clink of metal and glass as Garin pulled out a dark bottle and two tin cups. The pungent scent that escaped the cork made her nose prickle—some kind of liquor. He set the cups down and poured a small measure into each.

“Dwarven tradition to honor the dead.”

Wren gave him a hard look, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “You honor the dead with drinking?”

Garin laughed—a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountain, rough and unexpected. He slapped his palm on the table, making the cups rattle.

“No better way, in my experience.”

Marrowen came to join them, placing her hand firmly on Garin’s shoulder, asking in a low whisper, “Are you sure this is the year for this?”

Wren glanced at her, and before Garin could answer, she asked, “Did Pa ever join you?”

Garin traced the stone that hung at his neck—carved with dwarven runes—with a slow, deliberate brush of his thumb. It was a habit he did so often, Wren thought it must be a ritual he wasn’t even aware he was doing anymore. Her mother’s hand softened on Garin’s shoulder.

All he said was, “Yes.”