Page 43 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She slowed, muscles tensing. It was the kind of request she was never sure if she should answer, but he appeared genuinely interested.

“You want the deep version, or the quick one?” she asked, her lips twitching.

“I know what information is worth.” He set the bundle down. “Go on, you’ve got secret knowledge, I want to hear it.”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t go selling my secrets, now.”

He blanched and shook his head quickly. “What? No. It was a joke.” He palmed his forehead. “Is it my tone of voice that keeps throwing it off or—”

“Maybe you’re simply awful at telling jokes,” she said, pressing her lips together to suppress a laugh. “I suppose you’ve earned a bit more information. After all, that wood is quite heavy. Okay, look around you.”

He did, giving her a confused look that softened his features. She cleared her throat and continued.

“Everything grows and dies, blooms and wilts. The Cycle is the world doing the same thing, but bigger.” She waved a hand at the trees around them, a breeze blowing gently through the leaves with a dry rustle. “And weaving helps keep it balanced. Water Weavers tap into streams and the moisture in the air. Earth Weavers reach into the soil and feel the slow shifts of dirt and stone. Fire and Air weaving work the same way. Does that make sense?”

She watched him consider her words and nod like he wasn’t sure but motioned for her to continue with a flick of his fingers.

“Spirit weaving touches what’s left behind. When I weave, I see it as threads. They catch what lingers in the world—memories, feelings, bits of life—and when I touch them, I can nudge them into place or tug them where I think they should go.”

He grimaced. “You’ve lost me.”

“I remind things how they’re supposed to be,” she said with a shrug. “That’s how it feels anyway. Sometimes I see images of what’s been before, and I can help it move back that way…or encourage it to move forward.”

“So the pot…?” he asked, eyeing Pell’s shop where the man himself could barely be seen through the window, dusting immaculate shelves.

“I reminded it what it’d once been and helped the threads within it get there.” A quiver of doubt shifted in her stomach as he considered her words.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. It’s far gentler than I realized.” He picked the bundle up again, giving her a look of surprised approval.

Glancing sideways at him, she added, “What did you expect?” She looked away, fingers gripping the strap of her satchel tight as the familiar bitterness rose in her throat. “Nightmares? Curses? That I’d twist people’s emotions like wire?” The resentment in her tone surprised even her.

He lifted both palms. “No, not that. It’s quieter than I imagined it’d be. You hear so many things about Spirit but—”

“All complimentary, I’m sure.” Her arms folded across her chest. “They say we steal children and return them changed. Trade souls for power. Serve the Witherborn.” The sun was too bright. She fixed her gaze ahead. “It’s nothing like what they think.”

He hesitated, then said—too quickly, trying for humor, “Well…if the children came back better behaved, I’d call that a public service.”

Wren blinked at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Still,” he said, his lips twitching into a quiet smirk, “you don’t strike me as the child-stealing type.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s comforting.”

“Listen, I said I’d be charming,” he countered. “Never said I’d be any good at it.”

A snort of laughter escaped before she could catch it. She schooled her features and crossed her arms. “I suppose I could make an exception with my weaving for you. I didn’t say curses were impossible. I just choose not to use my weaving that way.”

He shook his head quickly, raising his hands in mock concern and silently waved her toward the forge looming ahead.

Heat shimmered in the air, the clang of metal ringing like a heartbeat. The acrid scent of heated metal and burning coal rolled into the square, thick and steady. Orzen’s steps faltered. His gaze caught on the orange glow through the open doorway—the hiss of quenching water, the measured rhythm of hammer against steel. For a moment, it seemed like he was caught in memory. Something unguarded crossed his face—an ache, small but raw.

“Been a long time since I’ve been near a forge,” he murmured. “Didn’t realize I’d missed it.”

Wren glanced at him. Something like fear, or shame, crossed his eyes before he blinked it away. Her curiosity stirred, but he didn’t say more.

Within the glow of the forge, Brunna’s broad silhouette moved steadily, hammer rising and falling in a sure, unhurried rhythm. The heat, the clang of metal, the scent of ash and oil. It was home. Beside the bench, Tavrin sat on a stool, idly scratching her emberkit’s ears.

Emberkits weren’t common pets, but they often helped in forges. Brunna had found Furnie as a kit, thin and bedraggled, curled within the cold coals of her furnace. They’d been inseparable ever since.