Page 65 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

The Towers Fist broke what they were told to break, and the people had learned to call it devotion.

She turned away, clutching the bundle. The streets were dressed for the festival—wreaths hung from lantern posts, streamers swayed in the breeze, and the lanes hummed with more people than she’d seen in weeks.

It should have been cheerful. But to Wren, it was as hollow as laughter echoing through an empty house. She scanned the crowd, hoping—foolishly—that she might spot Orzen among the travelers. The ache in her chest deepened, anger rising to fill the space it left. She had no idea how to find out what had happened to him. The not knowing twisted behind her ribs.

He could be anywhere. If he wasn’t already—

She caught herself, shaking her head hard to drive the thought away. Frinna was right. Orzen was strong. He’d survived worse. He couldn’t simply vanish, not like this. Not in a town that barely knew him. Not thinking she didn’t want him around anymore.

A loud crack against stone made her jump. Another followed. Steady. Rhythmic. Relief crashed through her like a tide. She’d known the sound too long to be scared of it now.

Garin emerged at the far end of the street, tapping his staff more frequently than usual, head tilting to listen through the noise. People drew aside, uneasy—casting wary glances, as if his staff might strike sparks. Most of them had never seen this kind of magic before.

He raised his chin, found her, and nodded once. “Hope I didn’t startle you,” he said as he approached. His gravelly voice settled over her like an old, familiar blanket—tender and grounding.

“Garin,” she breathed, rushing to him and throwing her arms around his shoulders; the cloth bundle squished awkwardly between them. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear your voice right now,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

“I know a little more than you think.” He tilted his head toward the sounds rising from the Glen. “Got a friend at my place. Patched him up best I could.”

For a heartbeat, everything inside her went still. Then her breath caught and her hand gripped his arm before she realized she’d moved. His hand came down on her shoulder, firm and grounding.

“Told him he needed a healer, but he refused. Wouldn’t say more unless I got you. Asked for you by name.”

“Orzen?” she whispered.

Garin only nodded. He started to say something else, but she was already moving—half-running, half-stumbling into the street, her pulse roaring in her ears. Garin wouldn’t expect her to wait. She already knew the way. Faces blurred. Voices fell away. She pushed through the crowd, muttering apologies that no one heard.

The Forest Gate loomed ahead. Then gravel. Then mud. The bog’s scent thickened—peat, rot, wet earth—and still she ran. The trees opened, and Garin’s cabin appeared, half-sunken into the bend of the road, moss clinging to its beams, smoke curling thinly from the chimney. She didn’t slow. Hooves struck the steps, the door slammed open—

And there he was. He looked awful.

Orzen lay beside the hearth, armor piled nearby as if ripped off in haste. His undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blood. One eye swollen shut. Nose bent, bruised almost beyond recognition. Garin had tried to wipe some of the blood off, but it still coated his skin. His knuckles were split and bruised. Even now, eyes closed in sleep, his face pinched in pain.

But he was alive.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed. She knelt beside him, tossing the bundle aside, and grabbing his hand. His good eye flickered open and tried to focus on her. “They could’ve killed you.”

His mouth twitched into a smile that split his lip, a bead of blood forming there. “Takes more to kill me.”

She squeezed his hand, a breath that might have been a laugh breaking through. “Stop talking,” she said, gently brushing the blood from his lip. “You’re making it worse. And you’re not going to feel the same way when I start healing these wounds.”

His breath hitched, but he nodded and closed his eye.

He was breathing, and it meant this wasn’t over.

Chapter 17

Breath Between Blows

Awareness came with an acrid scent in his nose—scorched metal and hot oil. His father’s forge. The heat of the coals in his chest was so intense it was almost painful. Da’s voice—far off, but steady. Get up, son. Time to start moving. Orzen tried. Gods, he tried. He needed to open his eyes. To see him again—weathered, solid, safe. Proud.

Then memory struck like a hammer. Da was dead.

Had been for decades. Because of him.

The warmth spiked—no longer the dull heat of his father’s forge, but a sharp pain arcing through his chest. He knew that smell now. Blood. Bitter and iron-rich. His whole body ached like he’d gone ten rounds in the Pits. But that was years ago.

This pain was fresher. Wilder.