Page 72 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Marrowen’s mouth twitched, ready to reply, but Garin spoke first. “Gave it to him for a reason,” he told Wren. He moved to her side and reached for her hand. “Pavric would’ve wanted to see you today. You’ll need him there. Now he will be.”

She hugged him, and Garin froze before returning it—like affection, even from the ones he loved most, was hard to accept.

“Thank you,” Wren whispered. When she stepped back, her eyes were shining. Then she looked at Orzen. The weight of the emotion in them tightened his throat. The cloak grew heavier. He wasn’t simply wearing it, but carrying the weight of her father’s memory as well.

“I’m not concerned with what you’re wearing.” Marrowen’s voice cut through the quiet. “I want to know why you’re the reason she didn’t come home last night.” Her voice was a rod of iron—thin, steady, and unbending.

He swallowed and almost took a step back before he caught himself. Her gaze pinned him in place like a nail through wood. He’d been trained for fists and blades, not the pointed edge of a mother’s wrath.

“I…needed healing,” he stuttered. “It got late.”

“Lenora’s a fine healer,” Marrowen said evenly. “Yet you insisted on my daughter. Why?”

“Mother,” Wren hissed behind her.

Marrowen ignored her, eyes steadily piercing through him as she waited for his answer.

“I trust her,” he said at last. “Knew she’d help.”

Marrowen’s mouth thinned as she looked him over.

“Broken things always seem to find her.”

It hit like a blow to his chest. She’d barely met him and somehow, she read him like he was as transparent as wet parchment. Was that why leaving had become so difficult? Around Wren, he didn’t feel broken. Change didn’t seem so impossible. That was the most dangerous thing about her. Hope came as easily to her as breathing. Hope had never worked out that well for him.

Wren’s cheeks flushed and she dipped her head, silently turning toward the kitchen, as if distance might dull her mother’s words. Marrowen filled the space she’d left. She was shorter than him, but she might as well have been a giant for how small he felt beneath her gaze.

“She trusts you too—for whatever reason,” Marrowen said. “But I don’t. You’re a stranger carrying a sword. She’s in enough danger without your help. So, give me one reason why I shouldn’t drag you out of here by the scruff of your collar.”

He didn’t doubt she could. Or would. The calm, lethal certainty in her tone hurt worse than any bruise he carried.

“You’re right,” he said, voice tight. “She’s in danger. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I’d make it worse. I want to protect her.”

“She doesn’t need saving.” Marrowen folded her arms, measuring him. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

He glanced toward the kitchen, where Wren was making tea, her back toward them, shoulders hunched like she was pretending she couldn’t hear every word in the small cabin.

“I know she is,” he said quietly. “But she shouldn’t have to be.”

Marrowen set her hands on her hips. For a moment, the fight went out of her. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it wasn’t fury either.

“Finish your coffee outside,” she said. “She needs to get ready.”

Orzen nodded imperceptibly, keeping his eyes on Marrowen as he backed toward the door. She hadn’t thrown him out. That had to count for something. He stepped into the damp air and leaned against the railing. The cloak’s pin caught a glint of gray light, shining like a relic—both practical and sacred—a keepsake masquerading as a piece of clothing.

His brand burned—a reminder of decisions that had never really been choices at all. The skin around it was always warmer—faintly alive beneath the cloth. Magic clung to it: old, stubborn, and impossible to heal. He’d tried, but it never faded. Wren had seen it—touched it before he could stop her—and hadn’t flinched. There’d been no pity in her eyes, only curiosity.

He hadn’t spoken about it in years. There’d never been a reason to. Everyone else who bore the brand lived the cost themselves. And those were the only people he’d had left.

Until now. Now he’d stayed too long in a place where people asked too many questions. But Wren hadn’t meant to pry; she’d wanted to understand. And for the first time, he’d wanted to tell someone...tell her. That was new. Dangerous. Especially when he was still pretending that he could walk away when this was over.

He was still planning to. Sure you are…

He groaned and drained the last of his coffee.

There was a part of him that wanted to fight for this town alongside the people who still believed it was worth saving. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t know what he’d choose. That was the most unsettling thought of all.

Through the cracked door, their voices drifted out—love, faith, and trust woven into a rhythm that didn’t splinter beneath fear. He wasn’t sure what it was like to stop long enough to be part of something that didn’t fracture beneath the slightest strain.