Page 149 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“Nothing Wendall’s loaves can’t fix,” Sylvi chimed, already splashing ahead to guide them out of the mist. They shuffled on in silence, the twins occasionally humming a mirrored tune that slipped through the air like ribbons on the wind.

They climbed the rise out of the mist into crisp air, as if the border of the Hollow held the stench at bay. Sunlight trickled through the canopy, brighter than it had been even in Stillglen. Then they appeared. Three standing stones—boulders formed by the gods themselves, each as tall as three men with runes carved across their surface in a language she didn’t know—the entrance to Velhya’s Glade.

Wren missed a step, taking in the sight of them. Tears blurred her vision. Some part of her had always doubted—always feared the Glade might only be a story, a dream she was chasing into ruin.

The proof stood before her. Relief surged through her, easing some of the pain of reaching this place. The Cycle wasn’t healed. Their journey wasn’t over. But the Glade was real. And for the first time since Thistlehold burned, they were safe.

Part Three

The Path of Sacrifice

One final act to stem the fall.

A bough for binding, soul for seal.

Chapter 38

Velhya’s Glade

Behind them, the heavy mist of the Hollow dissolved. A nightmare already fading. Stepping between the stones, the world changed. There was no door, no wall, but the shift was instant—like breaking the surface of deep water and finding sunlight waiting.

Ahead, the forest flourished. The air smelled alive again, rich and vibrant. It was a purity Wren hadn’t realized she’d missed until it fully returned. Birds sang overhead, whistles and trills echoing from branch to branch. She hadn’t noticed the silence until now, and the simple sound made her chest ache with relief. Trees and flowers glowed with impossible colors, as if the Glade existed in a perpetual Bloomtide.

A dark berry-laden bush waited beside the hill. Tommick gasped and wriggled free of Branwynn’s grasp. She moved to catch him, but Fennik stopped her with a gentle hand. She watched him go, worry creasing her brow.

Sylvi whistled a high-pitched note before Tommick reached the bush. Branches rattled, leaves trembled, and roots uncurled from beneath, stretching into legs, as the bush rose like something waking from sleep.

Tommick skidded to a halt. A mossy snout and dark eyes turned toward him. What had looked like a bush was really a creature—half plant, half hedgehog, the size of a cart.

“Hello, Quillbury,” Fennik called, cheerful and unbothered.

Sylvi danced ahead, hand outstretched. “Care to share today?” she sang. “They’re quite hungry.”

Quillbury yawned with a creaking of wood, then waddled toward Tommick. He shook like a bear in a pond, branch-like quills clacking, sending berries tumbling to the dirt.

With a soft grunt, the rootkin toddled back into the trees, leaving a trail of fruit behind him. Tommick crouched and picked one up, eyes wide. He popped the bright red berry into his mouth. His grin split open instantly.

“Momma! They’re like apples!”

Wren’s hand ached where the burn still pulled tight as she reached for one. It was an oval with smooth, rosy flesh speckled white. She slipped the fruit into her mouth—mild, sweet and crisp. She laughed; the sound bubbled out of her like water from a fountain. They all gathered around to try one. The twins watched their wonder with equal amusement.

She’d never tasted anything like it—so fresh it almost fizzed on her tongue. Not that she’d ever seen a walking bush either. Or twins that spoke in harmony. Or half the oddities that called the Virewood home. How strange to find something so wonderful after the world had lost all its color.

Garin grumbled beside her, though his tone was more habit than actual irritation. “Can’t stop at every strange creature or we’ll never make it to the Glade.” But when he thought no one was looking, he pocketed a handful of the berries with a small smile.

“Onward, dear hearts!” Sylvi cried.

Fennik whistled long and low, a warbling call like the trill of a bird. After a beat, an echo returned. A mirrored sound, bouncing through the trees from further away.

“They’ll know we’re coming now,” he said. “Onward indeed.”

A soft breeze carrying the scent of mint and honey stirred the canopy as Sylvi spun toward the distant call. Wren sniffed the air. There was something familiar beneath the sweetness, a scent she hadn’t realized she’d missed.

Bread. It was unmistakable. The pleasant scent of yeast and dough wrapped around them like a whisper of welcome.

They crested the rise, and Sylvi paused, spinning on her heel and sweeping her arm wide. “The Gladeans are gathering.”

“They haven’t seen this many visitors in years,” Fennik said.