Page 20 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Some papers bore the silver seal of council business. Others were more personal: performance rosters, stage diagrams, and a sketched gloamguise labeled “custom commission.” The mask’s design covered most of the face, ivy curling along the edges, faint silver lines denoting where trim might be painted. Elegant but rustic—crafted to look handmade. Wren’s eyes lingered only a moment before flitting away.

Beneath his choking perfume, the air reeked of flowers—the cloying sweetness of blooms left long enough to rot. It was the same stench she’d caught on Theordrin in the marketplace days before, when he’d demanded more mintshade.

There wasn’t a single flower in sight.

She gripped the strap of her pack until the leather creaked. In a voice far more confident than she felt, she asked, “Are you going to stare at me until the Commander finishes your errands, or did you need something?”

He chuckled, but the sound held no joy. “I hoped you’d welcome the opportunity to rejoin the community. I hear you haven’t attended since your father passed. A decade is quite long enough to isolate yourself, don’t you think?”

Wren’s fingers clutched the carved squirrel in the leather pouch at her belt. Her tail flicked in the way it did when she was nervous, curling against her backside on the chair. She consciously focused on keeping still.

She’d avoided celebrations in Thistlehold for many reasons, but Hearthroot was an especially painful reminder of what they’d lost. She doubted Theordrin had remembered her father’s death on his own. He certainly hadn’t been around when it had happened and wasn’t the type of man to care enough to ask.

She cleared her throat, but it did nothing to relieve the tension there. “Why would I want to spend time here when you’ve done your best to ensure everyone’s afraid of me?”

“Miss Wren, you wound me. I care deeply for all the people of Thistlehold.” His expressions never matched his words, and the contradiction made the fur on Wren’s legs rise. “You’ve been done wrong by their suspicions. You deserve a chance to persuade them otherwise. A public show of faith in the downtrodden is what Thistlehold needs. You’d be an inspiration. A testament to what I am building here.”

“You mean you want me to make you look good?” She shook her head, and though her heart hammered, she had to fight the urge to stand and leave. “I have no interest in helping make you or the Fist look better.”

Tommick always cowered when they appeared, hands clenched in his mother’s skirt. Joining the Fist was not aspirational, not when their job was to follow Theordrin’s whims. Wren ground her teeth until her jaw hurt.

“The Tower’s Fist manages itself well enough without your help. That tent outside proves it. Children adore them. Endearing, isn’t it? They crave something grander to aspire to.” Theordrin tilted his head, studying her like a rare insect pinned to a velvet board. “Do you not want the same? I aim to provide that opportunity to you through my offer.”

Her life was predictable here. Things were easier to manage when they stayed the same. Her mother needed her. With Tavrin away and her father gone, Wren was all she had. Besides, Wren didn’t need more. Reaching for more was risky. It wasn’t worth it when the cost was so high. But she couldn’t say that—not to Theordrin—so she waited for him to explain.

“Since you’ve no grander aspiration than delivering herbs for the rest of your life, let me inspire you,” Theordrin said dryly. “Imagine it, a spotlight on the truth about Spirit weaving.”

He leaned across the desk, and she couldn’t help looking away. “Consider it a chance to ease their fears, to gain their affection. It’s important for the community that we all move past the…unpleasantness with that boy.”

Wren swallowed hard, digging her nails into the stool’s soft velvet. It always came back to Auren. To her mistake.

It didn’t matter in the end. Being paraded around wasn’t inspiring. Displaying such a sacred part of herself to people who scorned her was a nightmare. She fixed her gaze on the lanternlight, the canvas walls, anything but Theordrin’s eyes.

“The village’s fears extend beyond you. We are in a crisis. Crops wither; leaves refuse to fall. The Cycle itself rebels,” he said with marked gravity. “But I will see us through it. I will ensure Thistlehold survives this challenge. And I need you to help them see that.”

“I’m surprised you noticed the changes at all,” Wren muttered. “Haven’t you been more concerned with rumors of the Witherborn returning?”

“An unfortunate symptom of the trouble we find ourselves in. And yet, here you sit, arguing about minor inconveniences like a petulant child.”

Anger flashed through her. “You hate Spirit weaving. You called me ‘Ash Weaver’ just the other day. I doubt you’ve had a sudden change of heart.”

He closed his eyes, as if the memory of him cornering her in the market wounded him. Wren wasn’t buying it, but she’d let him have his moment if it meant this would be over sooner.

“For that, I am deeply sorry,” he said, voice tinted with false solemnity. “I wasn’t myself that day. Your mother’s powder does wonders for the strain. You understand, surely? Carrying a whole town on your shoulders—it seeps into the body.”

“You were the same man you’ve always been.” He was an Elder, but even a storm’s worth of calm breaths couldn’t compel her to hold back her thoughts. “Mintshade heals stomach pain. It doesn’t make you a better person. Why are you really asking me to do this?”

His smile thinned, the sheen of charm slipping. “Janah has taken ill.” The chill of his gaze gave him away.

Wren’s thoughts spun like wind-tossed leaves. She swallowed, keeping her face still. She didn’t know Janah beyond seeing her dance and sing in front of the inn for coin. Recently, she’d been using her voice for more than singing, denouncing Theordrin and the Fist to anyone who would stop and listen in the courtyard.

Until, suddenly, she wasn’t there.

That’s what happened when you defied Theordrin. Quiet wasn’t safety—it was camouflage, and the only shield Wren had left. Though even that seemed to be losing its power to protect her.

“A shame.” His tone suggested otherwise—like Janah’s absence was an inconvenience easily smoothed over. “That leaves a gap in the performance schedule. You will fill it.”

Wren froze. He couldn’t really think she’d agree.