Page 164 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Sound thinned. It collapsed into a hollow tone, like a struck bell. The image shuddered, dragging itself forward. A flash of black tore through it—his mind resisting, even now.

A narrow, stinking street flickered into place. Broken cobbles. The slosh of cheap drink spilling from an cracked doorway. Shouts bleeding together in the dark.

A boy knelt beside a heap of trash—no older than ten. Rags clung to him in scraps, dirt caked so thick Wren barely recognized him as Orzen at all. He dug through overturned crates with frantic, practiced hands until he found it: a half-charred end of bread.

Luck. They would eat. And there was enough for the others.

He clutched it to his chest and darted across the road, slipping through a destroyed door hanging crooked on its hinges. A dozen round eyes glinted in the dim light. Children—some Tommick’s age, some even younger.

Orzen tore the bread with cracked, bleeding fingers, passing pieces to each child. A tiny girl accepted the bread with both hands, whispering her thanks like a prayer. He kept the smallest for himself—little more than a crust.

He folded himself into a corner to eat, breaking off a tiny bite at a time. Chewed slowly, purposefully, as if eating too fast might break the fragile spell of having food at all. This was a good night. The others were fed. They were safe. He’d survived another day and would wake to try again.

The memory shifted and this time, the darkness didn’t just flash. It collapsed. A heavy, suffocating blackness pressed in from all sides—thick with fear that wasn’t hers. Heat bloomed around them. The smell of burning coal and molten metal settled over her chest like a weight.

A forge flickered into shape. Dark. Empty. Expectant.

“Da?” Orzen was so small—eight at most. Young and bright-eyed, his shrill voice filled with fear, echoing in the gloom.

The edges of the scene wavered, stretching into black nothingness outside of the little forge—as if the world outside of it ceased to exist. Something was wrong.

This wasn’t a memory so much as a wound. His resistance was a locked door. Fear, guilt, shame—it all knotted together so securely she could hardly tell where one ended and the next began. He was afraid he wouldn’t survive seeing it. Afraid she’d leave if she did. Afraid it would prove true every awful thing he had believed about himself since the day his father died.

She pushed a thought across the thread.

You’re not alone. Breathe.

His jaw clenched beneath her fingers. His breath warmed her skin, too hot and frantic to be controlled. But slowly, painfully, it steadied. Their breaths synced.

The image sharpened. They were still in the forge, but now it glowed. Intense orange light spilled from the fire. A large man stood at the anvil—short black beard with a long mustache, wavy hair falling across his brow, the same way Orzen’s did. Brannon.

A swell of tangled emotions crashed through the thread. Relief flickered first—as though a piece Orzen had been missing finally slid back into place. Then came the grief. A longing so deep it hollowed her out.

Brannon turned toward his son, face carved from stone, softened only at the edges. Wren could imagine the smile he didn’t quite let himself show—so similar to Orzen’s that it hurt to see.

Little Orzen sat at the worktable, drawing fire runes with bits of coal, the markings scrawled across scraps of parchment. Only a child. Soft-cheeked. Hair sticking up in the back like he’d been sleeping wrong for days. Charcoal smudges blackened his fingers. His tongue poked from the corner of his mouth in earnest concentration as he worked.

Wren’s heart squeezed. He’d been this once—small, hopeful, carrying simple worries that wouldn’t break the world.

“Line’s too thin here,” Brannon murmured over Orzen’s shoulder, tapping an angled mark on the parchment. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

Orzen hurried to fix it, thickening the line. He sought his father’s face, hopeful and eager to please. Brannon nodded, and pride sparked across the boy’s face. He reached for another scrap, eager to try again, but Brannon set a steady hand on his shoulder.

“Time to tuck in.”

“But I’ve almost got this one right,” Orzen said desperately. Brannon raised one brow. “Yes, sir.”

Orzen sighed, gathering the parchment and sweeping bits of charcoal into a tin. He padded toward the small room at the back of the forge—a narrow bed, a wash basin, little else of comfort. Behind him, Brannon smothered the coals for the night.

Then the door slammed open. The jolt echoed in her own bones as little Orzen flinched, dropping behind a crate.

Hide if someone comes at night, his father always said. A pulse of terror went through Orzen, so sharp Wren’s throat went dry. But he didn’t break the connection.

“Late on payment again,” a voice barked. “Uncle’s running out of patience, old man.”

“Paid last sevenday,” Brannon answered with calm steadiness that barely sheathed the steel within. “Your uncle’s impatience isn’t my concern.”

“Should be.” Another voice, thick and low. “You know the rule. The coin or the boy.”