Page 6 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

“What in the Spirits was that all about?” she asked, brow raised. “Who was screaming?”

Wren didn’t meet her mother’s gaze when she mumbled, “Only some kids playing.”

Marrowen pulled her into a firm embrace without another word. Wren sank into it, breathing in the grounding scent of herbs and earth, and let herself be held a little longer than usual—long enough to stop pretending she didn’t need it.

“Meyra, again?” Her mother murmured into her hair.

Wren nodded, still not ready to let go.

“Come,” Marrowen kissed the top of her head and gave one final squeeze. “There’s work to do, and I suspect you’ve got words to spill.”

Down in the narrow street, an unnatural figure stepped from the shadows. Cloaked in dark fabric, it moved with the careful glide of someone who practiced secrecy. Birds scattered in a rush of wings at their presence. Human enough to pass unseen, but not to convince the Spirit Weaver. Not yet.

The sun hung above the distant northern mountains. Before the ritual, it lived near those slopes in a village by the forest. That was long ago. But those memories would be useful now. She needed to trust. Or at the very least, to be unafraid.

Voices drifted from the house—the mother, the Weaver.

So close. But not yet.

Stronger than she looked. It would need more than faded memories to shape her faith. Its stolen boots crunched as it stepped into the road.

Dead men don’t need boots, it thought ruefully.

Another soul offered to the Father. Each life it took was a benefaction. Each death a holy dirge.

The Father had remade the creature: bark for bones, sap for blood, flesh pliant to memory. It could change. Become anything. Anyone. Every break—every scream—during the metamorphosis was devotion. Each form it wore was a sacrifice.

It knelt, doughy flesh without true shape folding and reforming beneath the cloak. Pressing its hand to the circle she’d scrubbed away with her hoof sent a thrill up its jagged spine.

The dirt still held her warmth, her sorrow.

It drank it in like a blessing.

The memory unfolded as if it were its own:

The Weaver—young, feared.

A human boy with light-colored hair.

His once peaceful face pinched in pain.

Something distorted behind his eyes.

A life stitched together with thread not his own.

Forced to live past his time in the name of healing.

That same rhyme twisting from their mouths.

From his. A whisper: You did this, Wren.

The pain she’d once carried echoed. Pure delight. Useful. A face she trusted. Cared for. A face she might trust again. Yes. This was the face it needed.

Altered enough to pass, raw enough to wound.

It rose, splinters shifting under its skin where bark and bone had not yet settled. Through the window, her horns caught the light. Even in fear, she shone. Stubborn. Strong enough to withstand the breaking, as it had.

She was chosen. She would see it.