Page 19 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

The history of the Fist itself was more complicated.

When his father died, Theordrin stepped neatly into the vacant council seat. The others had technically voted, but—as with everything about Theordrin—the outcome had never been in question.

Immediately, he argued that Thistlehold needed stronger protection, a unified force, disciplined beyond what the town guard could provide. A force that could strike at corruption before it had the chance to grow. The Tower’s Fist had been born not from necessity, but from Theordrin’s doctrine.

Wren realized too late that she’d been staring.

Zehvana’s eyes met hers—shrewd and unreadable. Wren looked away quickly, murmuring to Frinna that she was ready to get this over with. When she risked another glance toward the sparring field, the Commander was gone. A shadow in brown armor slipped behind the performance stage.

Frinna led Wren to the back. Theordrin’s tent was obvious before the Havelle crest ever came into view—unnecessarily fine for something so temporary. The flap rustled once, then settled, as if someone had recently passed through.

Of course. Zehvana had gone to warn him.

Couldn’t be too cautious with a Spirit Weaver around.

Frinna marched up to the tent without a shred of hesitation, like interrupting a meeting between the Elder of the Oaken Chair and the Commander of the Fist was her natural right. Maybe it was, considering she was the only thing that made his life run smoothly.

Zehvana stood inside, hands on her hips. Her green eyes cut toward Wren the moment she entered. She gestured angrily, as if Wren’s arrival had proven her point.

Theordrin stood behind an elaborately polished wooden desk that was far too ornate for a temporary meeting tent. He was a high-born elf with pale skin the color of turned milk and a fiercely pointed nose. Long platinum hair hung in an immaculate curtain down his back. He and the Commander were of equal height, but the cold, quiet fury in his expression made even Zehvana twitch.

“You think to warn me about my own guests?” he asked, voice brisk and controlled. He flicked a hand in dismissal.

Zehvana looked like she’d been slapped.

For a heartbeat, she hovered, an argument on her lips. But instead, she drew a measured breath, squared her shoulders, and gave a curt nod. Without a word, she brushed past Wren and slipped out through the tent flap.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Theordrin adjusted the heavily embroidered cloak draped over his shoulders and sat in the carved throne waiting behind the desk. His lips curled into what he clearly intended to be a welcoming smile—as if Zehvana had never been there at all.

He gestured toward a tufted velvet stool across from him.

“Please, sit, Miss Wren.”

“I’d prefer to stand. I’m not planning on being here long.”

His smile twisted into a grimace. “I insist.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. The mark hummed on her forearm, and it took everything in her not to tug her shirt over it. He hadn’t noticed yet. The last thing she wanted was to call attention to it.

He waited, watching her in silence until she settled on the chair. It was intentionally low, forcing her to look up at him as they spoke. She clenched her fists to keep from fidgeting.

Frinna shifted beside Wren, and he addressed her without looking. “Maid, have the Commander heat some water for us before she gets too involved with her other duties.”

Frinna’s dry expression didn’t so much as twitch. She moved to the marble side table, plucked the elaborately etched kettle from its tray, and swept from the tent without a word.

Wren watched her go, trying to swallow around the sudden dryness in her throat. Asking one of the most dangerous, battle-tested Fire Weavers in Thistlehold to boil water was a level of audacity Wren couldn’t fathom. She had no doubt the Commander would follow the order.

That was power.

And he’d done it so casually, like even Zehvana’s magic was his to wield how he chose. The creeping sense of dread Wren had carried with her all day coiled around her spine, stiffening into fear that she struggled to tamp down. The tea might’ve been offered as a gesture of hospitality, but it was really bait in a trap.

The air in the tent thickened, heavy with his perfume. It smelled strongly of overripe citrus, but with the reek of musk beneath. Theordrin’s pale blue eyes never left her—crisp and calculating beneath his practiced charm.

Wren had intentionally avoided interacting with Theordrin if she could help it. But staying invisible hadn’t kept her safe. It only kept her quiet long enough for trouble to find her anyway.

The tent was stark in the hollow way that people with too much coin loved—overdecorated but impersonal, heavy with quiet excess. Gold-wire lanterns cast a bright white glow from their crystals; angular patterns knotted through the rug without meaning. The desk was half-buried beneath perfectly arranged stacks of parchment, the only hint that any actual work took place here.