Page 46 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Brunna let the quiet stretch. The stew bubbled between them. When Wren finally shoved the mushrooms in and set her knife down, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“You think I’m foolish for trusting him.”

“Never foolish,” she said, stirring slowly. Brunna looked at her with an expression both stern and loving. She’d been learning too well from Marrowen. Steam curled up, carrying the earthy scent of onions and thyme. “Only a little dangerous, maybe.”

Wren bristled, scrubbing a rag across the board with more force than necessary. “I’m old enough to decide that for myself.”

“Of course you are, love.” Brunna sighed deeply. “You see the best in people. That’s a blessin’. But not every branch you reach for’s gonna hold.”

Wren had plenty of reminders of that—too many to count. She didn’t know Orzen, not really, but she felt at ease around him in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She wanted to see the best in people, even when they clearly carried stories they weren’t willing to share. Maybe that was a mistake. She knuckled her forehead.

“I’m not sure how else to be,” she admitted.

“Not sayin’ to change. You wouldn’t be you without it.” Brunna looked up at her then, eyes steady and soft. “Just be careful, love. Loneliness has a way of makin’ warmth feel larger than it really is. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt. And he seems the type.”

“He’s…rough around the edges.” Wren’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He clearly had a past he wasn’t willing to share, but no one else had helped Marda. She’d mentioned it once and the next day he was there, doing what she’d asked of him. “I think he’s trying. That’s more than most.”

“Tryin’s a start.” Brunna huffed through her nose. She spooned a bit of broth, grimaced, and tossed another portion of salt into the pot. “But tryin’ ain’t the same as changin’. Some folks don’t know the difference.”

“I know that, but it’s been so long since—”

She hesitated, eyes fixed on the simmering stew, watching bubbles break and vanish before she could name what she meant. Friends weren’t rare—she had a few. But it had been cycles since she’d met anyone new, anyone who didn’t already know every scar and rumor.

“He didn’t flinch when I used Spirit,” she finished finally. “Like it didn’t bother him at all.”

“One strength’s not enough,” Brunna murmured. “Still, it may not be my way, but your open heart’s a rare thing. Worth protectin’. Be sure you don’t hand it to someone who’ll break it for sport.”

Wren’s voice barely rose above the gentle hiss of the stove as she reached for the bowls. “You sound like Ma.”

“Good.” Brunna’s grin broke through the seriousness, shining like starlight. “Marrowen’s got more sense than most. Means I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

Furnie slipped through the flap with a creak of metal and stretched long in front of the stove. She sniffed the air hopefully but settled with a huff when she caught the scent of stew. Emberkits were far more likely to gnaw on old charcoal than soggy carrots.

Brunna spooned the stew into their bowls. It steamed in the cooling air, rich with herbs and root vegetables, and Wren’s stomach rumbled—an ordinary sound that made Brunna laugh under her breath.

“Enough lecturin’,” Brunna said, pressing a bowl into her hands. “I’ll leave you be. But promise me—he acts a fool; you come tell me.”

Wren nodded and folded herself onto the oversoft pillows piled up as Brunna’s makeshift seating area. They ate in companionable silence. The talk drifted to things that didn’t stir the ache in her chest: strange customers who’d passed through the forge, little projects she’d been tinkering with, Tavrin’s stubborn insistence on proving he meant to stay by hovering over Brunna’s every step. It was almost normal.

But the festival was creeping ever closer, and the unease Wren had been trying to smother clawed its way back. Her performance was only days away. Theordrin’s intentions were no clearer than when he’d first coerced her into agreeing to it. She hadn’t told Brunna about that, or about the threat he’d made to Tavrin.

Brunna cleared their bowls, uncorked a dark bottle. The cork popped quick as a spark, and an intense scent of ripened fruit filled the air. She poured amber liquid into two mugs

“Mountain apple cider,” she said with a grin. “Bottled it myself last season. Proper stuff.”

Wren took the cup and leaned against the trunk. The liquid sloshed gently as she tilted it, clouds of spice curling beneath the surface. She’d never actually had cider. It was a staple of the festival, and everyone loved it. There had to be something to it, though to Wren it always seemed like fancy apple juice.

“There’s more botherin’ you. See it in your eyes,” Brunna said, peering over the rim of her mug. “Can’t fix it if you won’t tell me.”

Wren let out a long breath. Furnie’s quiet snores punctuated her words, the story spilling out—Frinna in the market, Theordrin’s summons, the way his voice turned a subtle line into a threat. By the time she reached the end, the words caught in her throat.

“He made it sound simple. A performance for the town’s benefit, to show my Spirit weaving. But it wasn’t. He—” She met Brunna’s eyes, finding hot coals, but she couldn’t stop now. “He threatened Tavrin.”

Brunna’s cup hit the table with a crack. “He did what?” Cider vaulted over the rim, hissing where it struck the still-warm pot. The sound jolted the room.

Furnie sprang up, fur sparking red-gold as embers flared along her raised hackles. A low, hot growl rolled out of her like a memory of fire, eyes fixed on Brunna. Wren froze. She’d seen Brunna angry before, but never like this—solid, terrible, the kind that made the light in the room seem to flash brighter.

“He didn’t say it straight out,” Wren whispered. “He only needed to suggest it. Said he knew my cousin was back. That it’s rare to keep what you love. I—” She swallowed hard. “I had to agree or—” The words were too painful to speak aloud. “Please don’t confront Theordrin. He’s more dangerous than he looks.”