Page 33 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He needed air—clean air, if Thistlehold still had any left. He needed to hit something. Fix something. Anything to drown out the guilt gnawing at him. Might as well do something simple and honest, something good, since this job was tipping his ledger the wrong way.

The Lower District was where Wren had said Marda would be. Choosing to help was a line in the sand, whether he wanted to admit it or not. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles hurt. Wren’s insistence that he take the need seriously was the problem. He hated doing things in half measures.

But, if helping Marda washed some of the blood from his hands, it’d be worth it. It was a need he could actually meet. Something he could do, for once, that wasn’t for coin or someone else’s cause.

The homes near the central courtyard were better kept. The red X-marks grew more frequent the farther he walked, sprouting like weeds between cobblestones. Not one of these houses was beyond saving. It seemed the town—or at least Theordrin—disagreed.

Wren had described Marda’s cottage well: blue window boxes, their paint peeling from too many Suncrests, and a door patched with a warped board. A home once carefully tended, now quietly surrendering to time.

The thatch wasn’t ruined, only thinned, darkened with mold in a few places, rope ties loosened and swaying in the breeze. A morning’s work could set it right. By nightfall, the place might even shine.

The parchment nailed to her door—bold red X stamped across it—declared otherwise, with bureaucratic certainty. What could he possibly want with these people—this land—once their homes were gone? Nothing was ever simple with men like Theordrin.

Orzen ripped the parchment down, crumpled it in his fist, and tossed it into the street. He could do this much without compromising the job.

Theordrin wouldn’t notice one fixed house.

He knocked, the wood shuddering under his fist. When no one answered, he knocked again, louder. “Mistress Marda? Uh—Wren sent me. Said you might need help with your house.”

The door creaked open a crack. Two pale, clouded eyes blinked up at him. Marda’s wisps of white hair were tucked beneath a woven scarf, her face lined deep with years and defiance. Orzen had rarely met anyone this long-lived.

“Who did you say you were?” Her voice was thin, but forceful, like she’d learned she had to fight to be heard.

“My name’s Orzen. I’m one of Wren’s—” He stopped himself, searching for the right word. “I know her. She said your house might need some repairs.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suspicious, before the door opened another inch. Though her sight was poor, the anger in her expression was unmistakable.

“Young man, you’re not one of them Tower folk, are you? Trying to trick an old woman? You’ll have to knock this house down around me because I won’t be leaving.”

Orzen flinched. Of course, she thought he was one of them.

She expected a Fist at her door—muscle and quiet menace. Not a man with a guilty conscience and a multitude of debts that he wasn’t sure how to pay.

“Trying to stop that from happening.” He lifted his hands, palms open toward her. “I promise, I’m simply here to help.”

She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but after a moment, her hand rose to meet his. Her skin was paper-thin, fragile against his rough palm. People in the Row never lived long enough to get to Marda’s age. It was the first time he’d ever really met someone like her, and it softened a spot in his chest. He patted her hand gently, though the gesture was clumsy. Tenderness was still something he had to practice.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Feel bad for the blind old lady?”

Orzen paused. He wanted to say he wasn’t sure why, but that was a lie. “I’ve got a lot to make up for. Figured helping around here might knock a thing or two off the list.”

The list wasn’t written anywhere, but it lived in him all the same—every wrong choice stamped into memory, waiting to be evened out. He hadn’t added much to it lately, but it still seemed endless. If something tilted the balance, it was worth a second look.

“Your house isn’t so bad,” he added. “I’d start now, but I need to grab a few supplies. Could be back in an hour, have most of it done before dark.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, tender and weary. “Wren’s such a dear. Always looking out for me. You’re a friend, then? I didn’t think she had many here.”

He opened his mouth, ready to agree—friend was probably what she wanted to hear—but the word caught in his throat. It didn’t feel right. Not when he was lying to gain Marda’s trust.

He’d been hired to watch Wren, not help her. And from what he’d seen, she needed someone better than him in her corner. At the very least, she deserved someone honest. That disqualified him immediately. Not that he intended to stay long enough for it to matter anyway.

“I, uh…we’re just—” He cleared his throat, trying to soften it. “We’re getting to know each other. But this seemed important to her so I thought it might be worth a…” he said, slowing when he remembered Wren’s words about not getting involved if he didn’t intend to truly help, “…worth seeing what I could do.”

Marda squeezed his hand. “I’m glad she has a friend who cares about what’s important to her.”

The word friend twisted deep in his gut. Orzen swallowed the urge to correct her. Simpler to let her believe it.

He asked if she had any tools lying around, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere easier. She had a few supplies he could use, but he’d need fresh thatch, some boards for the door—maybe even a bit of paint. Thankfully, he hoarded good nails like gold. He’d have to swing by the inn for his hand tools and nail pouch, then pick up the rest in town and lug it all back.