Page 63 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

She waved her hand at the door and smiled. “Besides, Tav’s going to be coming over every sevenday to steal food from my pantry now that he’s home.”

Laughter bubbled out of Wren like a new wellspring. Her mother wasn’t wrong there. Wren didn’t know what she might want, but her mother’s words felt permission—permission to think about it, permission to try.

Then a spark of mischief lit her mother’s eyes. “I’ve had an idea for your performance.”

She folded her hooves beneath her and pulled a handful of gauzy fluff from her apron pocket. With careful fingers, she teased it apart and dropped a few tiny seeds into Wren’s palm. The black specks still clung stubbornly to the gossamer tendrils.

“Willowvine?” Wren asked, surprised. The seeds were laughably light, almost imperceptible. Her horns tilted as she peered at them.

“They look fragile,” she said, voice firm but tender, “but they grow into towering trees. Use them. Make them see Spirit the way you do.”

Her hand settled on Wren’s shoulder—steady, reassuring, and as solid as the branches that would someday rise from those tiny seeds. “You’re stronger than whatever schemes Theordrin’s hiding behind,” she said. “Roots reach farther than he’ll ever understand. He’ll learn he can’t tear yours away so easily.”

Wren met Frinna at the gate to the Glen. She refused to call it Havelle Promenade, no matter how proudly the metal letters now arching above the entry tried to proclaim the change.

“Are you all right?” Wren asked quietly.

Frinna’s eyes kept flicking toward the Tower’s Fist tent, fear evident on her face. She slowed, her expression softening.

“I should be asking you the same thing.” Then she reached for Wren’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “The outfit’s lovely. You’re going to look stunning when it’s done.” With a breath to calm herself, she added, “Lots of people will be watching out for you tomorrow. Try not to be nervous.”

“Don’t you mean they’ll be watching me?”

Frinna gave her a pointed look. Wren understood. It wasn’t only her mother and Brunna. Others would be there too, watching with quiet eyes, protecting her with unseen hands. The thought warmed her chest as she ducked into the tent.

Inside, the space was simple: a few benches, unlit lanterns swaying gently from the poles. At the center stood a frame—and on it, the finished tunic. Wren wasn’t sure how anyone could finish such fine work in so few days.

The faun seamstress, who introduced herself as Nesta, knelt by the hem, eyes bleary with sleeplessness. She rose with a slow theatrical flourish, face brightening like she’d saved her last spark for this.

It was beautiful. The dress shimmered in twilight blue—the color of the sky when stars first began to bloom. Delicate spirals, stitched in silver thread, twined across the linen. The same embroidery flowed over the cloak’s heavier folds. The pattern reminded her of the vines in her garden—tender things that grew stronger the deeper they rooted.

The cut was simpler than she expected. The bodice laced up the front from the waist to the squared neckline. Loose sleeves gathered at the elbows. Fitted at the waist, flaring out and ending near her calves. She’d been worried it would be showier than she liked, but this was almost what she would’ve chosen for herself, if far fancier than she’d ever wear.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Nesta dipped her head, beaming at the praise. “Thank you, miss. I’m glad to serve. Anything to grow the light.”

Wren undressed quietly. Between the three of them, they eased the fabric over her head. Tomorrow, all eyes would be on her—eyes that usually watched her with suspicion. And this—this dress, this calling forth of her magic—it wasn’t only performance. It was truth. It was who she was, laid bare for all to see.

The tent flap opened, and a gust of cold air swept through. The chill never left when Theordrin entered. His expression was serene, almost gracious, as though the sight before him confirmed some divine order.

“Marvelous,” he said softly. “The Cycle blesses those who play their part.” His gaze swept over Wren—not leering, measuring—assessing a sacred artifact. “It’s a rare thing to see faith made visible.”

Nesta’s hands faltered for a breath, then continued her work. Frinna busied herself with a dark veil laid across the bench. Deep blue, matching the dress. The sort of hollow mysticism often used to dress Spirit Weavers for ceremony.

“You’ll wear it,” Theordrin said. “Let them see the light through you, not from you. Play the part the Cycle set for you.”

Wren swallowed hard but said nothing.

“You look tired.” His tone was mild, almost paternal, but his eyes glinted. “Was it a long night? You should be more careful who lingers on your doorstep.”

Her breath caught, but she focused on keeping it even. Theordrin always knew more than he should. Maybe he was watching her more closely than she’d realized—or maybe this was another test, the same twisting knife he’d used to get her to perform in the first place. Every possible response was the wrong one. Silence seemed safest.

When she didn’t meet his gaze, his hand snapped out. Cold fingers caught her chin and forced her to look at him.

“I’d appreciate your attention,” he said, voice low but charged. “What you do tomorrow is not for you. It is for the greater good.” He released her. She resisted the urge to rub her jaw. “Do not mistake this privilege for freedom.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of cracking now, though the mention of Orzen lingering at her house drew fear tight in her belly. Her nails dug into her palms, urging her to focus.