Page 56 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He’d lived with it every day of his life. He’d left Dravek and the Crimson Brand to escape this very thing—the slow rot of becoming what he hated, of following orders until there was nothing left of him but obedience and blood. And yet here he was again, serving another man who twisted loyalty into a weapon.

He wanted to explain—to tell her about Theordrin’s threat, about Dravek and the Brand, about the fear that kept him tethered—but the words stuck. It hadn’t only been fear driving him. He’d taken coin. He kept going when he could’ve stopped.

Survival wasn’t an excuse. Certainly not one she’d accept.

“That’s why I’m done,” he said, forcing the words out before they choked him. “I was an idiot. I wanted to make it better. I even used his coin for Marda’s house.”

“Of course you did.” Her voice trembled, upset enough to make his chest ache. “Like that changes anything.”

Her expression never softened. It was clear that nothing he said would make any difference now. She stopped at the gate of a small house, its fence half-covered in vines from a sprawling garden. One hand rested on the latch, but she didn’t open it.

“Wren—” He stepped toward her, but she was already turning, the lantern swinging in her hand.

“You could’ve told me sooner,” she whispered. The dark curl of her horns hid her face, but the hurt in her voice said enough. “Before I started to think you were different.” She took a shaky breath and pressed her lips together like she wanted to stop there, but the words kept spilling out. “I get it. You didn’t know me when he hired you.”

She hesitated, opened the gate, and turned back to meet his gaze. “I guess I should be thankful you never got the chance.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Her eyes didn’t quite meet his, but he could see the pain even from here—a heavy, inevitable weight like she’d been hurt this way before. Then she slipped through the gate and entered the house, closing the door behind her with a final snap.

He stared at the house for a long time. His fingers curled around the old wood of her fence. The sliver of moon disappeared behind the clouds, and still, he didn’t move.

No anger. No surprise. Only the dull ache of recognition.

He’d earned this.

Chapter 15

Flame in a Closed Fist

Thistlehold slept, but not peacefully. Orzen shared the same bruise: a restless, low ache that wouldn’t let him relax.

Something shifted in the town, a darkness that didn’t have to be named to be felt. Lanterns winked in and out along the wet cobbles. The air carried the scent of turned soil and iron. Shadows pooled at the mouths of alleyways.

Or maybe it was the film of his own shame clouding his vision—the inescapable pattern he couldn’t tear apart. Join ranks. Strike first. Flee afterward. Swear the next time would be different.

It never was.

Fighting in the Pits, killing for the Brand, spying for Theordrin—all different edges of the same blade. If he’d stayed in the Brand, at least he would’ve been honest with himself about what he was. A sword for hire. A fist to be used against others. Maybe it was time to stop pretending he could be better.

He could run again. He could leave with empty hands like before. The inn was near. It would be simple. Grab his things and go. The thought curdled in his chest. Leaving meant abandoning this town to Theordrin’s whims. He couldn’t get away clean. Not this time. Didn’t matter if Orzen never held the knife himself—the blood spilled would haunt him just the same.

The fountain gurgled, cheerful in a way that made his jaw ache. A cloaked figure sat at its edge, a silhouette in the darkness. They were small, and it was far too late for a child. Maybe a halfling.

“Soldier,” the figure hissed.

He slowed, tensed, scanning the square. Only the regular gate-guards, their armor worn, no gleaming Fist pins in sight. Still, he reached for the sword at his back by instinct.

“Pell?” he whispered hopefully.

“Not that fussy old fool.” A short, derisive snort followed. “Put that away before you draw their attention.” The figure drew back the hood barely enough to catch a slice of lantern light, revealing a wrinkled face and shrewd eyes.

Frinna, Theordrin’s maid. “Come here,” she murmured, quick as an arrow. “Before you get yourself killed.”

Orzen didn’t ease, but he followed her around the building into an alley behind the Root. The air stank of spilled ale and rot. Breathing through his mouth only made it worse—bitter on the tongue, like metal and mold. When the shadows swallowed them both, she stopped and pointed at a barrel, folding her arms until he leaned against it.

“The Fist is looking for you,” she said. “You should leave now, while you still can.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”