Page 62 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She groaned and pulled the mask closer, forcing her thoughts back to the work. Her father taught her how to polish wood without cutting too deeply.

Be gentle, he’d told her once. It’s about softening the lines—not erasing them completely.

Her hand moved in careful strokes, easing away the flaking paint. The roughness faded beneath her fingers, the past giving way to something smoother. When it was clean, she set the bundle aside and reached for the pigments.

The old swirls her father carved curved across the surface gracefully, like smoke caught in still air. She followed their rhythm with the brush, not to erase her childish boldness, but to temper it. She was still that girl, only steadier now. Along each curl, she painted tiny white buds—some closed tight, others beginning to bloom. Barely visible unless you looked closely.

Then she worked on the top of the mask. In midnight blue across the crown, she painted the moons. Three moon phases. Waning, new, and waxing. Thornsmile. Veilmoon. Seedsliver.

She sat back and let the firelight move across the surface. It wasn’t the mask her father had helped her paint all those years ago, but it was still hers. Her thumb found the carved squirrel in her pouch. For a heartbeat she could almost feel him beside her.

She hadn’t noticed her mother come in until the faint, comforting scent of soil and herbs slid over her. Her mother stood for a moment, watching, then smiled and brushed a hand through Wren’s hair.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“You think so?”

Wren warmed at the compliment. She looked at the moons, ran a finger over the crescent mark at her forearm, and a thrill of joy and panic fluttered in her chest. Wearing it would mean claiming her Spirit weaving in a way she never had before. She wanted to display her magic as herself, even if it scared her. Her mother must’ve seen the discomfort, because she settled beside her and cupped her face between warm hands.

“Sproutling…you have this gift for a reason.”

Wren laughed bitterly, tears springing to her eyes so quickly it frustrated her. “Not sure it’s quite a gift.”

Her mother brushed the tear from her cheek. “Listen to me. What happened to Auren—” She swallowed hard and made Wren look at her, brown eyes stern but full of love. “It wasn’t your fault.”

The words hit like a stone dropped in still water.

Wren struggled not to drop her mother’s gaze. The memory flashed before she could stop it. The tree they’d climbed, his cry as the branch broke, the way his skin paled as he lay there struggling to breathe. She’d tried to fix him, pulled him back together so tightly that something inside him broke as his bones mended.

“I made it worse,” Wren said, her voice rough. “He hated me afterward.”

Her mother shook her head. “You were children. You were scared and you did what you thought was right. That’s what you always did. It’s what you need to let yourself do now.”

Wren pressed her hands to her belly, where a knot was tightening. Auren had changed—quick to anger, in constant pain that no healer could mend—and he’d never forgiven her. She’d saved his life but doomed him to a fate worse than death. Auren’s family left soon after and the town still remembered—still whispered that she’d taken his soul, changed him on purpose.

Marrowen’s gaze drifted, her hands dropping to hold Wren’s. “We should’ve done more to protect you, to find someone to teach you…but then Pa died and…”

Wren fiddled with the ties of the mask in her lap. She’d been the only Spirit Weaver born in Thistlehold in decades. They’d passed through, like Hennah was now, but no one they could depend on to guide her. They’d done the best they could without help.

“Maybe,” Wren said, “it’s my turn to try to figure out what I’m supposed to do with this power.” She nodded toward her mark. “All I know for sure is it can help people. Like when I helped Marda see Ferlan again. That felt good.”

She’d discovered it nearly two seasons ago on a quiet afternoon while she and Ma were talking about Pa. The images had floated between them—a link to memories she’d never intended to create, but one they’d both cherished. Wren had practiced since then, and Marda was the first outside of her family willing to let her try. She’d gently reached into Marda’s memories and relived one alongside her. It’d been heartbreaking and beautiful, and it felt like what she was meant to do.

“Marda still talks about it,” Ma said with a smile. “You’ve carried more than you were meant to for too long. And you’ve spent all your time making sure I’m taken care of. I love you for it, but I’m afraid it hasn’t allowed you to figure out what you want for yourself.”

The air closed in around her. She’d never resented staying with her mother, helping her with deliveries, but a lonely part of her had always wondered what else there might be. It’d been too selfish to think about with her mother alone here.

“Someone needed to make sure you were okay,” Wren said quietly. “Tav was gone all the time, and Pa…I couldn’t leave you.”

“Not then,” her mother brushed her thumb against her palm. “But now…you have a chance to choose. And I want you to know it’s okay that you do.”

Leora’s letter felt heavier in her belt, like it was reminding her there was more out there—a world she’d wanted to see but never thought she could.

“Leave Thistlehold?”

The words were strange in her mouth, like they belonged to someone braver. The house creaked around them, sounds so familiar they were comforting. The thought alone was thrilling and terrifying all at once

“If that’s what you choose, then yes.” She folded her hands on the apron across her knees. “I raised you to be kind and loving, but somehow, you’ve forgotten to include yourself in that. You deserve to have a life you choose, even if it means you’re far away.”