Page 90 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Lenora was right—most of it was ash. Pell’s neat glass windows were shattered, wood blackened and curling. Only pieces of the shop’s frame remained. She wondered briefly where he was and if he was okay.

Her forge had fared better. The stones were scorched, the tools twisted chunks of metal, but the bones held. It could be rebuilt. A soft bark echoed from the cold furnace. Brunna froze.

“Furnie?”

The emberkit hopped from the soot-streaked hearth and bounded toward her. Brunna dropped to her knees, scooping her close, burying her face in her friend’s silky fur.

“Oh, girl…” she whispered, breathing in soot and ash and home. “You’re okay.”

She could stay here. Her home was standing. More than most others had. She should stay. But the thought of being alone—of facing the silence with the grief clawing at her throat—was too much. Clutching Furnie and the bundle, Brunna turned down the road toward Wren’s home.

This far from the town, the houses lay untouched, as if the attack had never happened. When Marrowen opened the door, her eyes were rimmed in red. She’d been sent home to rest, but it was clear that she hadn’t managed any sleep. Brunna entered quietly and sank before the hearth, folding her legs beneath her. She stared into the flames like they might give her grief a purpose.

Marrowen moved through the rhythm of tea—filling the pot, measuring leaves—her hands guided by habit more than thought. She sat beside Brunna, arm slipping around her shoulders as they waited for the water to boil.

“You don’t have to talk. But if you want to, I’m here.” Marrowen’s voice was rough, trembling at the edges. “I felt it…knew something happened to him…” Her voice caught. A sob escaped before she could stop it. “Wren’s alive,” Marrowen whispered through her tears “I know it. Garin must be too. Either way, I hope they’re together.”

Brunna leaned against her, and they held each other while the kettle began to hiss. When it whistled, Marrowen rose, poured the tea, and returned. The heat of the mug wrapped around her like a blanket, the liquid trembling with her, spilling warmth across her fingers. Furnie curled beside them, rumbling softly, as if she understood.

Finally, Brunna said, almost to the fire, “I brought him home.”

“Then we’ll honor him together.” Marrowen looked at the tied bundle on Brunna’s knees. She laid a trembling hand over the cloth. “My sweet son.” The sound that rose in her throat nearly broke Brunna, but she swallowed it.

“You know he wasn’t mine,” Marrowen said, “not really. But Marva trusted him with me…and now they’re both gone.” Her tears came quietly, the fire crackling between them.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long,” Brunna whispered. “Should’ve told him sooner. Seems so stupid now, waitin’ for him to settle when I could’ve had more time.”

Marrowen’s laugh was low and hollow. “That boy wasn’t one to be pushed.” She reached out, curling her fingers through Brunna’s. “And he knew you loved him. He always knew. He needed to be ready to choose it.”

Brunna broke then, folding over herself, holding the bundle close. “The last few days felt like the future,” she choked out. “We should’ve had more time. It’s not fair.”

“Oh, child, I know. It’s not.” Marrowen stroked her hair. “But you hold onto those days. Keep them near. Someday you’ll be glad he gave them to you, even if they’ll never be enough.”

They fell into a quiet grief—too heavy to carry, but easier with the other beside them. As the shadows crept in, Brunna asked softly, “Can I stay?”

Marrowen made a gentle sound, the kind a mother makes to soothe a restless child. “Of course you can.”

They ate to fill their stomachs, though neither tasted the food. Later, Marrowen offered Brunna some of Pavric’s clothes—the only ones likely to fit her broad frame.

Brunna slipped out of the festival gown, folding it carefully and setting it beside Tavrin’s bundle. She smoothed the torn fabric once with her palm, fingers lingering. The last thing he’d ever seen her in. He’d have been upset to know she’d ripped it. When he saw it, he said he didn’t deserve her. Called her the prettiest girl at the festival. She’d told him they’d make everyone jealous.

She drew her hand away and pulled on Pavric’s worn shirt, the fabric thin but mended with care at the collar. Tomorrow, they would honor Tavrin—burn his remains and scatter the ashes in Marrowen’s garden. Tonight, he would lie beside her one last time.

In the morning, Brunna woke with stiff muscles and a dull pounding behind her eyes. Furnie lay curled on her chest—a quiet, pleasant weight—her pointed snout nuzzling Brunna’s cheek. She scratched the emberkit behind the ears, then rose and stepped into the kitchen.

Marrowen was already awake, seated by the hearth. She’d mended Wren’s mask and was tracing golden paint across the fracture. She looked up and offered a small nod.

“She’ll want it when she gets back. It’s still hers—broken or not. Still beautiful.”

Brunna carried Tavrin’s bundle to her side. Marrowen set the mask aside, and together they walked quietly to the back garden. Marrowen stacked a small pyre from dry branches and kindling. Furnie followed, bound onto the pile, and curled briefly—her body a soft ember. When she hopped off, the flame had caught.

Brunna placed the red-wrapped bundle on top. She’d kept his mask for the altar—something she couldn’t bring herself to burn.

Marrowen poured a measure of liquor into three small cups and handed one to Brunna.

“Garin wouldn’t believe I’m doing this without him,” she said, a laugh cracking through like glass under heat. She raised her cup. “In fire, what we carry is released.” They drank. The liquor burned.

“We carry and let go,” Marrowen whispered, “so we may carry again.” Then, together, they poured the third cup over the flame. It flared blue—brief and bright—then settled.