Page 35 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

I’m supposed to be watching her. This is simply part of my job.

Her eyes glowed faintly—Spirit Weaving. The broken basket mended beneath her fingers, whispers rippling through the onlookers. She didn’t flinch. She simply returned the basket, gathered the rest of the fruit, and left. She dusted her hands and moved on—alone again, as if kindness was part of her, not something she traded.

No one thanked her. No one helped.

He didn’t call out. He let her go, the faint shimmer of Spirit magic fading down the road. Something tugged at him—the same quiet pull he’d had in Marda’s doorway. Something was urging him not to leave. To finish what he’d started, one way or another.

The more cracks he found in this town, the harder it was to imagine hurting the people—like Wren—still holding it together.

Orzen exhaled, rubbing a hand across his face.

“Gods help me,” he muttered. “I’m not making it out of this town without doing something stupid.”

Like maybe switching sides.

Chapter 11

Knots in the Same Thread

Wren stood at the foot of the Tree of Memories; the limbs dressed for Hearthroot—streamers of every color dancing in a breeze that wasn’t there. Glow-crystals flickered in lanterns like captive fireflies. Beneath them, the dirt lay freshly turned for the rootbread ceremony.

A flicker of excitement rose in her chest, bright as the memory of anticipation she’d shared with her father before every festival. When she tried to hold it, the feeling rang hollow. A faraway bell echoed the same emptiness.

She stepped closer, metal clinking beneath her hooves. There were no hoofprints where she stepped. Hundreds of golden pins with carved letter Hs formed into a tower scattered in shallow drifts. The same pins every Fist wore at their collar. They tumbled over one another like beetles scrambling in the dark.

The ground quaked. Pins rattled and leaped. Lanterns fell, their glow dying with the crack of crystal. Then the tree split down the middle.

A black turret tore upward through its heart, bark peeling in strips as it rose—stone climbing at impossible speed, streamers floating in the air like falling ash. Cobblestones buckled, the square heaving as the tower climbed higher and higher.

Beneath its rising base, the soil sloughed away. At last, the foundation surfaced: a lattice of bones lashed together, grotesque and gleaming. Fragments tumbled from the base as it rose. Horns and ribs tangled in their fall, as if even death itself wished to escape the shadow.

Wren stumbled back and hit the cobblestones hard. Her palms struck frozen metal. Pins carpeted the square, searing cold into her skin—small Hs leaving red brands where they touched.

Above, at the tower’s peak, Theordrin stood beside a cloaked figure. They watched the ruin below with serene satisfaction. Then the cloaked figure laughed—cold and hollow, like wind through a graveyard—and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was smiling.

A familiar burn flared beneath her skin. Her crescent mark glowed with a sickly green light. Threads of shadow coiled outward from it, fine as spider silk, circling her wrist before piercing into her flesh.

Voices whispered like ribbons against her skin, tightening into a noose. One word repeated, low and patient.

Each time a little closer.

Soon.

Wren woke with her hand pressed hard against her mark, breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the light still moved beneath her skin or simply lingered behind her eyes. The scent of herbs and steeped tea drifting through the room helped settle her. A mug sat steaming beside her. Ma’s humming carried through the door—soft, tuneless, and familiar.

She dressed quietly. There’d be no going back to sleep—not with the whispers still echoing in her chest.

It was a rare free day. They’d finally gathered the nettle, and she could deliver the powder Marda had been waiting for. The promise of quiet company drew her toward Marda, with her calm and steady nature, always smelling of rosewater and dough. Marda, who never looked at her like she was a curse.

The courtyard was already alive as Wren stepped through the River Gate. Travelers jostled in the narrow streets, vendors flashed their most polished smiles, and children wove between legs with streamers trailing like tails behind them. Even the breeze carried the buzz of festival anticipation. It should’ve brought her joy, but it only made her remember the strange nightmare.

Inside her mind, everything was louder.

Part of her still wanted to believe Hennah was a fraud. That the warning about Tavrin had been a clever performance for trust and coin. That the prophecy was only a story. But she knew better. Something was watching—deep, ancient, and patient.

Wren passed tables crowded with strangers, all eagerly browsing wares. Then paused. One stall overflowed with buckets of flowers. A cluster of soft purple blooms caught her eye. On her last visit, Marda had told her that her husband used to bring her flowers. Wren had noticed the same kind, long dried and withered, resting on his altar.

The vendor called them mourningveil. They didn’t grow in Thistlehold, and their scent—rich with honey and vanilla—was more perfumed than any bloom Wren had ever found. She bought a single stem, heavy with blossoms, and turned toward the Lower District, cradling it carefully, already picturing the gentle smile that would greet her.