Page 153 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“Did someone say they were hungry?” his voice rumbled like thunder. His eyes widened in delight when he spotted Garin and Crumb. “Oh! A sporeling! Cap and Sprig will be thrilled to meet another rootkin.”

He clapped a burly, gentle hand to Garin’s back—the kind that could lift a boulder but landed soft as a blanket. “You’ve got the smell of mushrooms on you,” Wendall said brightly, “not only because of your tiny friend. You’ll love my shroom tartlets. But first—stir this.” He shoved a bowl of dry ingredients into Garin’s hand.

“Nothing’s free,” Garin grumbled. “Let’s get to work.”

Wendall blinked, genuinely confused. “Baking isn’t work. It’s fun that smells like sugar.”

He said it with the sincerity of someone stating that fire was hot. Garin sighed but held his hand out for the spoon.

Leora chuckled. “They’ll be fast friends,” she murmured, looping her arm through Wren’s the way they had as children, guiding her past the open-air kitchen.

Wren glanced back. Crumb was already nestled in a bowl of spinach leaves, sucking on a corner of crust like a contented toddler. Wendall was busy enthralling Garin with a swelling monologue about sugar ratios and blending methods.

“There’s one more person I think you should meet,” Leora said, a note of mischief creeping into her voice. It reminded Wren of the time she’d helped Leora catch frogs to slip into Tavrin’s bag.

“Are they as strange and wonderful as everyone else here?”

“We do specialize in strange and wonderful.” Leora grinned. “You’ll love Tarl. Wait until you see his grimbees.”

“Grim…bees?” Wren couldn’t imagine what creature could have earned such a dire name. “Are they dangerous?”

Leora laughed, soft and bubbling like water slipping over stones. “Not in the way you’re thinking. You’ll see.”

Brunna’s emberkit, Furnie, was unusual. But here? Furnie would fit right in. She wished Tavrin were here to see everything. He would’ve loved it. She made a note to draw some of it in his journal later on. Then he could share it with her, in a way.

A low, thrumming hum carrying an oddly soothing melody grew louder as they rounded a cluster of trees. A tall woven wardrobe came into view. The scent of burned sugar and raisins drifted through its doors, tangy and sweet.

A wiry figure shuffled out and froze when he discovered Leora.

“Oh, newcomer!”

He was an older elven man—thin as a reed, with wisps of silver hair clinging to his balding head and a walking stick as gnarled as the hands that gripped it. He peered at Wren through squinted eyes behind thin-framed glasses.

“Now listen here, miss,” he said, air whistling whenever the words hissed through his teeth. He pointed a bandaged hand at her. “Them bees are smart. Don’t go pokin’ at ’em just ’cause they’re sweet.” He waggled a finger. “They got a bite like vipers, and they’ve been grumpier’n usual.”

“Old Man Tarl is very particular about his girls,” Leora whispered to Wren, trying and failing to hide a grin. “Good morning, Tarl! Don’t scare her off. She’s faced down Witherborn, you know. A few grimbees won’t trouble her.”

“That so?” He whistled through his teeth. “Well, maybe they’ll take to you. They gotta hankerin’ for decay, and there’s more’n they can eat lately. Been producin’ more grimbalm than I can harvest.”

He toddled to the wardrobe and tugged the moss-lined doors open. “Hello dears,” he crooned in a suddenly soft voice. “Got a new friend. Don’t be eatin’ her—she’s not quite dead yet.”

Wren stepped forward, squinting into the dark interior. Leora watched her like a child expecting a surprise.

The wardrobe was divided into fist-sized cubby holes lined with moss, grass, and petals. Half were empty, but the others held bee-like creatures as wide as her palm, curled up like sleeping rabbits. Their bodies were plump and covered in downy fur, striped like bumblebees but with the feathered antennae of a moth. Leaf-veined wings folded neatly across their backs.

Shiny black eyes twitched at the sudden light, the soft buzzing swelling as if they were collectively complaining about being woken. In front of each cubby sat a small stone bowl. Tarl lifted a heavy ceramic jug with a grunt and tipped the thick dark-gold substance from each into it.

Wren gasped, laughter escaping behind her hand. Tarl shot her a glare, but she wasn’t mocking the creatures—she simply couldn’t fathom that things like this existed. One grimbee unfurled its spindly legs, stretched, and buzzed toward Wren. It circled her horn once, then darted off into the trees.

“You’re approved. For now,” Tarl muttered, gently shutting the doors. “Off to meet the Mistress, then? She’s been waitin’ on you. My girls’ve been agitated. Somethin’s stirrin’.” He set the jug down with a heavy thud. “Well, off with you. Got work to get to.” He trudged off, leaning heavily on his stick.

“Told you,” Leora said, eyes dancing.

Wren shook her head softly. “We were both a little odd in Thistlehold, but this. This is…” She searched for the right word and came up empty. “It’s like home—real home. Odd isn’t such a bad thing here.”

Leora pulled her into a quick, fierce hug. “I knew you’d love it.” Her voice gentled. “Are you ready to meet Velhya? She’d understand if you need rest first.”

Something stirred deep in Wren’s chest—a quiet tug, the same pull she’d had since stepping into the Virewood. She’d traveled for days to get here, to understand what it was Velhya saw in her that made her seek Wren out.