Page 115 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Burn it all. Can’t you pay attention for one godsdamn minute?

“I’ll focus this time.”

She hesitated long enough to betray that what she’d seen had distracted her. Then her fingers found his arm, gentler now, though even that prickled his skin.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Try again.”

She moved her fingers to his temple again and he closed his eyes. Focus on the fighting, you fool. Her weaving trickled through the spaces in his mind where memory lived. This time, it wasn’t laughter that greeted them.

It was chaos. Smoke in the air. Monstrous Witherborn corpses, dropping around him as his sword flashed. Screams breaking the darkness. The scene played out like it had that night: silver thread from her tunic flashing through the Glen’s gate, her horns catching the torchlight, veil streaming behind her as she vanished into the trees. His voice shouted her name. She didn’t turn; she simply disappeared into the dark.

In the memory, he bolted after her—boots pounding against dirt, breath tearing through his lungs. He’d lost sight of her, but hoofprints marked the path ahead. When he caught up in the forest, she turned.

And it wasn’t her. The horns were similar, but the curve was wrong, the angle too intense. Her eyes, muddy and dull, instead of rich and dark. A mockery he hadn’t seen until it was too late.

His breath hitched. The memory wavered. Every instinct screamed to pull away—to run from the truth that had been clawing at him since the chokevine, since she’d told him Tavrin died protecting her. But he forced himself still. He wouldn’t look away this time.

The scene lurched forward. He saw himself lunging to close the distance, shouting her name. A vine cracked across his ribs. The air left his body in a rush as it slammed him against a tree. His sword fell from his hand, bag thudding to the ground out of reach. The vines cinched around him, leeching the moisture from his skin.

The shadow turned. Grinned. And changed. Limbs stretched. Bones cracked. Skin split, peeled, and fell away. Beneath it—bark and rot, held together by sheer malice. Almost human. Black voids glowed in its hollow eye sockets, and its mouth—too wide—was filled with splintered shards where teeth should have been.

Terror surged, hot and blinding. The memory folded in on itself. Orzen gasped and tore free, ripping out of the weave.

The thread snapped. Wren staggered back, shoulders stiff, breath shaking, as if the echo of his fear had passed through her. He sat hunched over, chest heaving, sweat dampening his brow.

“It wasn’t you,” he rasped. “Sorry—I had to stop it. Didn’t want to feel all that again.”

He fumbled for his waterskin, drinking deeply. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take slow breaths. Each inhale was desperate and ragged. When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him with a desperate kind of sorrow.

“It stole my face. It knew you’d follow.” She gripped his forearm, fingers tight against the leather. “It trapped you in the chokevine on purpose. I’ve been so stupid.”

He couldn’t think of a single word that wouldn’t make her guilt worse. But watching her cry without doing anything tore at something deep inside him. He reached out, fingers barely brushing hers.

She didn’t look at him, but she slid her hand into his and left it there. He stilled, like even that small contact might break if he moved too quickly. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it wasn’t the wall she’d been keeping between them either—the one Silas had slipped through so easily. For now, he’d take it.

“Thank you for showing me,” she whispered.

“I needed to make sure you knew I was serious, when I said I wasn’t going anywhere.” That only seemed to make her sadder, so he added quickly, “Unless Watcher comes back. Then, I might run—bravely—in the other direction.”

Her laughter came fast and bright, like a crack in stone letting sunlight through. It startled him how much he wanted to hear it.

“Watcher knew you were scared,” she said between laughs. “He flew right over you.”

“The beady eyes.” Orzen shuddered theatrically. “He clocked my fear from the start.”

She tried to stifle another laugh and failed—snorting into her hand, eyes still damp but lighter now. The sound unclenched something in him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to hear it, even at his expense. When the laughter faded, the silence didn’t feel so heavy. She gave his hand one last squeeze, then she folded hers in her lap as if unsure what to do with them.

“Listen…about Silas,” she began. “I know he’s abrasive—”

“He’s a dick.”

Wren shot him a withered look but didn’t correct him. He counted that as a win. “I’m not saying I trust him,” she murmured. “I’m saying we still need him.”

He blew a long breath, frustration curling in his chest. “I warned him. About Tommick. The kid’s a good soul. If Silas hurts him again…”

“I know,” she said softly. “You were trying to protect him. I’ll talk to Branwynn—make sure she knows too.”

She rose, brushing her hands over her dress, the same one from the festival, still beautiful beneath the dirt and frayed edges. She caught him looking and sighed, hugging her middle like she was embarrassed by the filthy cloth.