Page 79 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Wren grinned. “Takes skill to wander that far off course.”

The laughter followed them back down the path, blending into the distant music of the square. By the time they’d returned, the festival had swelled—humming with song and the golden light of the sun beginning its descent.

Other than a few Fist drifting through the crowd, the streets were mostly clear. The town guard still roamed, settling minor disputes and keeping the peace. It stiffened something in her spine. The Fist hadn’t simply disappeared, and wondering where they’d been sent off to was a worrying thought.

The sun was still blazing above Thistlehold’s walls, so Wren pushed the concern aside. Maybe eating something solid would settle her nerves. She found a small, quieter corner of the courtyard and tasked Orzen with watching their things.

“I’m only getting us something to eat,” she said. “If someone tries to grab me, I’ll distract them with pie.”

He gave her a narrow look, but accepted her choice with a nod.

A nearby stall drew her in with the scent of yeasty loaves and salty cheese. She bought a wedge of it and a small tangy-smelling rye round wrapped in paper, still warm from the oven. By the time she turned back, the crowd between them had thickened. Gloamguises spun through the square—masks painted with sun-blushed fruit, mist-swirled rivers, and petals edged in gold.

There were more Witherborn masks than she expected. Some were almost too lifelike—molded close to the wearers’ faces, as if they weren’t masks at all. The air carried a faint, rotting sweetness that turned her stomach. She adjusted her own mask and tried to ignore it. Her nerves were definitely getting to her now that the performance loomed so close.

That’s when she noticed the stillness.

A figure stood motionless among the dancers—wearing a mask of ivy leaves, painted deep green streaked with gold, and a black cloak that obscured their features.

For a moment, they simply watched her.

Wren’s steps faltered. The mark burned—a warning beneath her skin. When she blinked, the figure was gone, replaced by crowds, laughter, and the churn of painted faces. She was wound too tight, worry coiled like a spring—simply too much weight for one pair of shoulders. She forced herself back into motion, slipping into the current of the square, balancing their meal in her arms as the mark quieted once more.

Orzen’s gaze was combing the crowd when she reached him. His shoulders dropped the moment he saw her.

“You survived,” he said, aiming for lightness, but with a note of relief beneath. “And managed to spare our lunch, too.”

Wren held out the parcel of bread and cheese. “Can’t let you protect me on an empty stomach.”

He tore the loaf in half while she broke the cheese into small, uneven chunks for them to share. They didn’t need to talk. There was enough competing chatter and joy flowing around them. They could sink into it and let the sounds fill the silence.

When they finished, they strolled through the square like there weren’t shadows rolling closer with every passing minute. Villagers and visitors alike danced around the statue of Elaren—some graceful, others laughing as they tripped over their own hooves or boots—but even the clumsiest of them looked joyful.

Wren paused at the edge. Something she couldn’t name curled behind her ribs. Regret, maybe, for all the festivals she’d missed. Or hope, fragile and flickering, like sunrise through clouded glass. Hope that maybe the world wasn’t really as dark as she’d started to believe. Masks and cloaks in a riot of colors spun across the cobblestones. She spotted faces she half-recognized, many she wouldn’t know even unmasked—and then her chest warmed.

Brunna and Tavrin were unmistakable. She wore a soft red linen dress with a square neckline embroidered in gold thread that made the copper tone of her skin shine. Her mask was shaped like Furnie, her emberkit, complete with painted ears and twine whiskers that danced as she moved.

Tavrin’s was plain—simple leather with a faint embossed pattern. His linen shirt and rootweave pants were nice enough, but beside Brunna, he was almost unpolished. And yet, the way his eyes followed her, utterly taken and proud, made it clear he knew she outshone him—and loved her all the more for it.

“This is the happiest I’ve ever seen her,” Wren murmured, watching Brunna spin Tavrin as if she were leading him. She probably was. He laughed, horns thrown back, and she pulled him close again. Wren’s chest ached with joy for them—real joy. She’d always wanted this, always hoped they’d stop circling long enough to land in the same place.

They twirled closer, and Brunna spotted her—dropping Tavrin’s hand and barreling straight into Wren. The hug knocked the wind out of her, but her heart was too full to mind.

“Acorn! You’re brighter than all the stars tonight,” Brunna cried, then her eyes narrowed at Orzen. “Heard you were working for Theordrin. Still standin’, I see.”

“Barely,” he muttered.

“Ah, you’ve learned somethin’, then?” she asked, eyes sharp beneath her mask.

He stretched, grimacing like he’d pulled against one of the bruises. “Not a mistake I want to make twice.”

Tavrin reached them then, weaving awkwardly through the crowd. “Lady Acorn,” he said, bowing enthusiastically. “You’ll shine up there no matter what you do.” He nodded to Orzen, then looked longingly back toward the dancers and slid his hand around Brunna’s waist.

“Life’s short,” he said, eyes fixed on Orzen. “Ask her to dance.”

Tavrin grinned—like he hadn’t kicked a hornet’s nest between them—and Brunna squeezed Wren’s hand before shooting Orzen a glare that promised consequences if he got this wrong. Then she let Tavrin spin her away.

Wren clenched the strap of her pack. Typical Tavrin. He simply couldn’t help himself. Orzen shifted beside her, boots scraping the cobblestones but making no sound. Her cheeks burned and she pressed her lips together, letting the music linger awkwardly between them.