Page 5 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

With hope,

—Leora

Tucked behind the letter was another slightly wrinkled parchment. The ink was uneven, the lines shaky, but clear enough to read as a map. At the bottom corner, a crooked box marked Thistlehold—her home reduced to a single square. From there, a dotted line wound northeast within the forest toward a dark curve of ink labeled “Pools,” where a waterfall spilled into a wide basin.

The trail split after that. One branch strayed east to a tiny circle marked Stillglen, with a note beneath: good place to rest. The other carried on, climbing toward a blot of shaded marshland called the Whispering Hollow. Beside it, Leora had scrawled in heavier ink: Stay on the path. Be careful of the Matriarch.

At the map’s farthest edge, in the top right corner, three standing stones leaned together, marked with hurried strokes of lichen. Above them: Velhya’s Glade.

Wren read the letter three times before the words settled. The whole thing looked rushed, clumsy even. But it seemed real. She couldn’t imagine Watcher letting a stranger tie a note to him. For one breath, she imagined it: a place where Spirit Weavers weren’t feared. Where people like her weren’t forced to hide or comply to be worthy.

Maybe that’s how Leora disappeared, too—lured into entering the forest for a life less painful than the one they’d always had here. She’d mentioned Witherborn, but they hadn’t been seen in over a hundred cycles—monsters of myth, stories told to keep children in their beds. Though if the rumors could be believed, they’d been spotted lingering near the edges of the forest. Her skin prickled even thinking about it.

If the letter were real, it meant stepping into the same forest that had taken her father, and maybe Leora herself. It meant abandoning everything familiar for a chance at something different without knowing if it would be worth the risk.

A quiet part of her wanted to leave right then and not look back. But that part was small for a reason. She shook her head. Not today. Not when the honor meal loomed closer, and Tavrin was returning. The Cycle would have to wait at least one more day.

She tucked the letter into her pocket next to the squirrel. Watcher nipped at her hoof, and she tossed a large bit of the cheese. He grabbed the whole thing and flew away, toward the dense tree line of the Virewood.

She ate the rest of her food in silence, an oppressive weight settling across her shoulders—not grief, not fear, but something deeper. Something that she didn’t have words for. Something she couldn’t shake.

The river’s gentle murmur faded behind her as she shouldered her pack and climbed the winding path toward the road, hooves pressing softly against the dry soil. As she climbed the rise toward her home, she spotted a group of children—mostly boys, human, halfling, and faun—gathered around a large circle they’d drawn in the dust. Their voices rang out in rhythmic unison, as they chanted:

Meyra, Meyra, eyes shine bright,

Glowing with her Spirit light.

Calls you closer, draws you near.

Listen closely, you might hear,

Meyra’s footsteps at the gate.

Whispering a future fate.

Wren slowed her steps, watching from a short distance as the chant continued. She knew the rhyme. Everyone in Thistlehold did. So that’s what she was now. A warning. Not a person—a rhyme sung to mock, to shame. Surely Meyra wasn’t so different from herself. Feared. Flattened into a chant to be repeated, not understood.

Not today. Today, they were going to learn. Being quiet hadn’t spared her. Maybe it was time to be loud.

But her words come at a cost.

Don’t come close,

Or you’ll be lost.

Meyra simply has one goal,

To draw you in—

“And steal your soul!” Wren bellowed in a theatrical growl, lunging forward with wild eyes. The children froze mid-line. Wren burst into laughter, clutching her sides. Then the screaming started—some laughing, some not—and they scattered like startled mice, kicking up dust as they bolted for safety.

Wren straightened, still chuckling, until she caught sight of one boy wiping away tears as he ran. The laughter faded from her lips. Her grin unraveled like thread from a seam. Maybe that was too much.

But then one of them, younger than the rest—tiny horns barely poking through a nest of curls—slowed and glanced back. Wren caught his gaze, dipped into an exaggerated curtsy, and offered him a wide, toothy grin.

He blinked—then broke into a delighted laugh and waved before bolting to catch up with the others. Breath slipped from her at last, quiet and uneven. She scrubbed the dusty circle away with her hoof and unlatched the gate.

The front door creaked open. Marrowen stood in the doorway, concern written in the lines of her face. She spotted Wren and wiped floured hands on her apron.