Page 174 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

The finality of the decision snapped like a lock closing. It stole Wren’s breath. She wasn’t sure which of their fates had been sealed by the choice to move forward—hers, or Velhya’s. The shadowed trees swallowed Velhya, and still, Wren stared. Moving confirmed the choice was made. Stillness was false safety.

Orzen’s voice startled her. “Am I the only one who feels underprepared?” he asked.

“Preparation’s just forged courage,” Garin grumbled. “No telling what we’re gonna face, but we help where we can. And we do our best.”

Everyone had a task now. That would have to be enough.

Orzen shifted, nervous energy leaking from every motion. “Right. I’ll feel better when I’ve got my armor on again.” He looked at her for a long time, his expression full of quiet consideration. “I’ll see you tonight before we go, but if you need me…”

She nodded quietly and looked away. It was strange knowing there were so many she could turn to now. Part of her still hated that she needed them at all, but admitting she did wasn’t weakness. And she’d stand longer, knowing they’d be there if she fell.

When Orzen walked away, Garin reached out for her hand. She took his in her own, thumb brushing the familiar scars and calluses she’d grown up knowing.

“Pavric would be proud of you. Marrowen too.” He swallowed hard, fingers squeezing her palm. “They’re not here to say it, so I hope you’ll hear it from me.”

Wren hugged him close, breathing in the scent of smoke and peat. “I wish I were as confident as you. I only want to do what’s best, and I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.”

He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “You’ll know when it matters. You’ve gotta trust yourself enough to accept it, even if it’s the harder choice.”

Velhya seemed to believe that they needed to restore the seal to save the Glade, and maybe that was true, but the idea scraped against her like a too-tight cloak. Death had always been part of the Cycle. Sealing Voryx away couldn’t possibly restore the balance any more than fully releasing him would. Yet it felt like those were the only two options.

“But what if it’s wrong?” She pulled back so she could catch any shift in his expression, as if it might give her the answer. “What if I make everything worse?”

Voryx’s whispers hadn’t all been lies. In the pit of her chest where her Spirit weaving dwelled, a kernel of kinship twisted like a disease. Even the best intentions didn’t absolve a poor choice.

Garin made a gruff sound of disbelief deep in his throat. “Not possible. Nothing’s perfect. Not meant to be. You know that better than anyone else. Whatever happens, we trust you.”

She hoped he was right.

“Plenty to do,” Garin said, straightening and tapping his staff. He nodded toward Aelori, now coaxing vines into shields, and went to join her. Wren lingered a moment longer, then exhaled and followed the current of motion instead.

She placed barriers when asked, carried what was set in her hands, and sorted armor and weapons into piles until her shoulders ached. Being useful helped; letting her body work helped quiet her thoughts.

When the sun began its descent, Wren helped Wendall and Branwynn carry baskets of warm baked goods toward the clearing where Aelori was folicrafting the last table.

She set the basket down and rolled her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Orzen, dark armor glinting in the fading light as he walked away toward the pools in a rush. He disappeared into the trees before she could wonder where he was going.

It was a shame he needed to wear it again. The armor suited him, but she liked the man he’d been in borrowed clothes. He’d been lighter somehow, like he might finally settle enough to choose something good for himself.

Soon after, the horn blew once more. Not urgently this time—a melodic, ceremonial tone that carried through the trees.

Orzen appeared by her side like a shadow, and she flinched—annoyed with herself for being so jumpy. She must’ve missed him crossing back toward the clearing. The Glade was still full of movement, and Pell’s magic softened his steps to mere whispers. He stood near enough for her to hear the leather creaking when he shifted. The closeness didn’t help settle her pulse.

But then he smiled gently, leaned in, and asked, “Are you okay?” Wren didn’t trust her voice, so she only nodded quickly.

The Gladeans finished their last preparations with measured urgency and began to gather. This time, their murmurs fell into a solemn hush, as though they’d crossed a threshold into a place set apart, if only for a moment.

Velhya appeared, Cap and Sprig at her feet, carrying a heavy mantle between them. The cloth was cut like leaves—oranges, browns, yellows—all pieced together like Duskveil’s carpeted forest floor.

Leora followed shortly behind, head bowed and brows knit. When she looked up, her eyes were shining and troubled. She took her place beside Velhya at the foot of the pedestal within the seed pool. The Glade itself quieted so completely that Velhya barely raised her voice when she spoke.

“Tonight, I do not pass the mantle. I entrust it—and the protection of the Glade—into Leora’s care. Aelori Briarhand will stand witness.”

In the crowd, Aelori bowed her head. Then knelt before Cap and Sprig. Together, the rootkin lifted the mantle. Aelori received it carefully, cradling the weight of it in her arms, and rose to stand before Velhya and Leora.

“As the Arboradin stand watch over the seasons, so the witness stands ready,” Aelori intoned, lifting the mantle.

Velhya turned to face Leora with grave ceremony. “The Cycle turns; it transforms. Centuries pass. Kingdoms fall. Even the memory of Nalduun fades. And yet—the Lastbloom tribe stands.” She stepped closer. “I am the remnant. And you are the future.”