Page 67 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Garin grunted in agreement, or maybe only with the effort of keeping him standing. “Tallis’s on it. How I knew to look for you.”

Good man. Probably the only reason he was still alive. Orzen sagged against Garin, half-dragged, half-led. They paused once to shift weight, then moved again.

A cabin emerged between the trees, half-swallowed by shadow and moss. He hadn’t realized how close they were. Maybe he’d blacked out again. Maybe the pain had eaten the distance whole. Garin braced him against the doorframe, hauled the door open, and guided him inside.

Orzen staggered through, barely aware of the walls closing around him. He made it as far as the hearth before his legs gave out. Garin caught him, lowering him to the floor. He lay there, gasping, every muscle trembling.

With thick, clumsy fingers, Garin urgently unstrapped the buckles of his armor. Orzen tried to help but only managed half a buckle before pain roared over him again. He flinched as a damp rag brushed his face. It stung like hell, but the stickiness faded.

“You need a healer,” Garin said, voice low and blunt as a hammer. “You’ve got bruises I can’t fix with potions.”

“No—” Orzen’s voice was cracked, thin. Sweat beaded along his brow. “No healer. Get Wren.”

Garin’s hands stilled. The butt of his staff tapped once against the floor, sending a soft pulse of a breeze across Orzen’s face, as if the air itself was trying to read his expression.

“There a reason you want her specifically?” Garin’s tone didn’t change, but his mouth pressed in a thin line.

“She can help,” he rasped. Orzen blew a shaky breath through cracked lips. Fire clawed along his ribs again. “Gotta warn her. Theordrin…” The rest scattered before it reached his lips. Even breathing was a losing fight.

Garin pushed upright, leaning on his staff. He stood there for a long moment, then nodded once. “I’ll find her. Cup of water’s beside you.” He turned, halfway to the door. “Try not to die while I’m gone.”

Heat from the hearth sank into Orzen—heavy, leaden, almost suffocating. The crackle of flame blurred into a steady rhythm, and sleep tugged in uneven waves. Images drifted behind his lids—half-memory, half-dream. Theordrin’s grim smile. His father at the forge, hammer ringing against steel. Wren’s face, haloed in lanternlight. A boot arching back, driving into his ribs.

The memories tangled, rewound, collapsed. Then—a creak of wood echoed in the cabin. A clatter of footsteps drew near. A thump as someone knelt beside him. A hand, small and sincere, slipped into his own.

Her voice. She’d come. She apologized. No. Not her fault. He tried to shake his head, forcing his good eye open.

She was there, dark hair tumbling over her horns, falling into her face. Her brown eyes weren’t angry.

They were soft. Concerned. Relieved.

Not angry.

Wren searched Garin’s cupboards, gathering what she could. There was yarrow root, too, thank Elaren. She paused, considering a half-empty bottle of liquor on the table, then she grabbed it. He’d need it if the rest of his body was as damaged as his face. From her pack came a few small bottles of oil and her mother’s tin of salve. She carried everything back to Orzen’s side.

He watched her with his good eye—quiet but tracking every movement—the weight of his gaze making her hands clumsy.

“You’re breathing hard,” she said, biting her lip as she knelt beside him. “Your ribs are probably bruised, if they aren’t broken completely.”

He gave a shallow nod and grimaced. She looked over the mess of supplies, then at him again. Salves would help, but only weaving would ease what was injured underneath. She wasn’t a healer, not really, but she’d try her best.

“You’re going to want this.” She poured a measure of liquor into a cup. It always hurt worse during the mending, and she wanted to soften it as much as possible. “If this works, you’ll breathe easier. Hopefully hurt less, too.”

“Not sure I should drink this,” he wheezed, mouth half-quirked into a pained smile. “That’s how Theordrin got me.”

It was a joke—barely—the kind that hid too much truth underneath. She swallowed the ache building in her throat.

“The Fist really did this?”

“Weakened me first.” He breathed out hard through his nose. “Theordrin wasn’t interested in a fair fight.”

Her fingers squeezed the neck of the bottle until they blanched. He drained the cup and settled back with a quiet groan. He was alive—and she’d make sure he stayed that way—but doubt lingered like a splinter she couldn’t reach.

“If you’d told me the truth sooner…” She folded her legs beneath her, hooves crossing at the ankles, watching him.

He deserved her anger, had earned the suffering his choices brought, but the resolve drained out of her the longer she sat beside him. She hated how pale his skin was, the pain that pinched between his brows when he looked up at her. He wasn’t in a state to talk, but the words spilled out anyway.

“You should have run when you had the chance.” She shook her head, watching the stained fabric of his padded shirt rise and fall with every breath. “What you did was stupid…reckless. Theordrin could’ve killed you.”