Page 58 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“What? No!” Frinna’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t tell you this so you could go off and get yourself killed, you absolute buffoon!”

He didn’t look at her. He was already striding toward the alley’s mouth, deadly intent in his steps.

Something thudded hard against the back of his skull with a dull, ugly thwack. Pain flared, and he spun toward her. Frinna stood shoeless, one boot still in her hand, arm arched back as if she might hurl it like its missing pair. The other lay at his feet, scuffed and small. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and an odd, fierce relief that it had stopped him.

“You big, brainless fool,” she hissed. “Sit down before you do something stupid.” Whatever cog the boot rattled loose, it worked—he did exactly as she ordered.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, scooping up the boot like a peace offering and sinking onto a short crate at the alley’s end.

“Look, I want him dead as much as you,” Frinna said, piercing his pride like a pinprick. “But his death won’t end this.”

She snatched the boot from his hand and shoved it on, then jabbed her finger at his forehead for emphasis. He rubbed the sore spot and listened.

“Theordrin’s heavily guarded. Even if you get to him, that won’t stop what’s coming. You’re more useful alive than buried in the dirt.” Her eyes narrowed with intense focus. “Don’t. Do. Anything. Stupid.” Each word landed with a smack to his knee—a small palm with unreasonable strength.

“Okay, okay—gods, woman!” He slid back, hands up in surrender.

“Theordrin is incredibly suspicious,” she went on, pointing at him, then at her ears as if to remind him to actually hear her. “When they come for you—and they will—don’t be an idiot. Play nice. Walk out. Stay alive. That’s your job. Nothing more.”

He dragged a hand through his hair and groaned.

Orzen didn’t want to play Theordrin’s game. He didn’t know if he could sit across from the elder and not turn him into a smug pile of silver-boned ash.

Frinna looked at him like her life depended on his patience. Maybe it did. One wrong word and she was finished. He’d do his best to keep her safe, too.

“Thanks for clocking me with that boot. I needed it,” he said.

“Yes, you did.” Her grin was sharp as flint, but it eased back into worry. “I don’t know when they’ll come. Be ready. Get some rest. And don’t you dare say a word about me.”

Dawn slipped ever closer, and still Orzen couldn’t sleep—more on guard than at rest. Not that he hadn’t tried. His armor and boots lay within reach, his sword propped against the wall like a promise. Without a doubt, they’d make him leave the weapon behind. If it came to a fight, he could hold his own barehanded.

He rose and buckled the dark leather breastplate over his padded undershirt. No hint of the Tower’s Fist yet, but he might as well be ready. They sure did enjoy taking their time.

Downstairs, Tallis’s voice called out—taut as a plucked bowstring, a warning muffled by distance. Heavy boots followed, treading up the stairs.

He was pulling on his second boot when three hard knocks rattled the door. The kind of knock that meant authority.

“Tower’s Fist,” a deep voice boomed. “Orzen of Kettle Row, come out, and don’t bother puttin’ up a fight.”

Orzen took his time standing. He was already doomed. No harm in making them wait. He strapped his belt around his waist, eyes catching once more on the scabbard he was leaving behind, and pulled the door open.

Two Fist stood in the hall—men broad and cruel enough that he might have once called them comrades in the Brand. One was burly, lip split from some old fight, eyes dull as clubs. The other was leaner, but his muscles coiled, ready to strike at a breath.

Orzen’s mouth curled. “Morning, boys. Bit early for a social call, isn’t it?”

Neither of them answered. The burly one jerked his chin toward the stairs. They didn’t touch him. Didn’t have to. It was clear what was happening—no point in fighting it. Not yet.

He followed, boots thudding slowly on the worn steps as heads poked out from behind other doors. Rare for the Fist to come this early. Rarer still for someone to go willingly.

Tallis waited at the bottom, sleeves rolled tight to the elbows, drying a mug that didn’t need it. His eyes met Orzen’s. Former fighter to current—a man who’d walked away from it, looking at another who never could. The Fist brushed past him like he was furniture, but Tallis’s rag stilled on the mug.

“Heading to the Registry?”

The thin Fist grunted, “The Elder’s duties never sleep.”

Tallis’s gaze flicked back to Orzen. “If you’re not back by the midday bell,” he said quietly, “I’ll see your tab’s cleared. Tell Frinna she owes me a round.” It sounded harmless enough. But Orzen caught the message in it—this wasn’t going unseen.

Outside, their breaths fogged in the chill air. Thornsmile was gone; the stars fading as the sky blushed pink. Morning approached like a spark waiting to be struck. Fire waited beneath it, but he wasn’t sure if it would consume him or come to his aid.