Page 9 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Accepting it was like stepping into her father’s shadow. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to carry things the way he had—with quiet strength and grace. But she wanted to be.

“Then I will too,” she said simply.

Garin’s nod was like the soil settling—soft and slow. He lifted one of the cups, and Wren mirrored him, her fingers clasping around the cold metal.

In a voice deep as the earth, he intoned, “We drink the flame.”

Then he threw the liquor back in a single, practiced motion.

She repeated the words softly, then tipped the liquor into her mouth. It burned more than she expected. Heat spread like a brushfire down her throat, and she barely swallowed without choking. Vapor clung to her tongue, tickling the back of her throat, but she forced herself to breathe through it.

Garin was already pouring another measure. She set her cup down with care. The liquid’s soft bubbling echoed in the tin as he refilled it. Then he stood and made his way to the hearth. She stepped beside him, the weight of the moment clinging to her like a thick fog. The air around them cooled, as if even the fire held its breath.

Garin leaned a little closer, his deep voice rumbling as he spoke. “In fire, we release.”

They tilted their cups together, the liquid splashing onto the low-burning logs. The flames flared bright blue, then orange, before settling back into their usual, steady golden glow.

A burst of slightly sweet air, like a blown-out candle, filled the space around them. Beside her, Garin’s voice dropped into a deep, gravelly tone:

“Korah zul. Korah inah. Zul’ahn.” His hand settled on her arm, the warm weight a comfort. In a softer, more careful voice, he translated, “We carry and let go, so we may carry again.”

The house fell into a weighty silence, the fire crackling softly, Garin’s presence steady beside her. Wren leaned a little closer, slipping an arm around his broad shoulders. He reached up, his rough hand finding hers, and gave it a gentle, grounding pat.

Tavrin finally broke the quiet in an unusually soft voice. “That was actually kind of beautiful.”

“It always is,” Marrowen said, her voice thin and a little unsteady. Her eyes met Wren’s for a brief, aching moment before they both turned away, retreating to their seats.

“Does it get easier?”

Her voice came out a little hoarse. The afterburn of the liquor still lingered in Wren’s throat, the sweetness of fermented fruit clinging faintly to her tongue.

“At first, it hurts. The more you do it, the less it does.” He hesitated, firelight carving deep shadows across his face. “But it never really stops hurting. It only hurts less.”

With a slow, steady breath, her mother rose, her skirts rustling softly as she crossed to the small altar. She lingered for a heartbeat, her eyes finding the painted likeness of her late husband. Her hand hovered above the frame—an unspoken acknowledgement—before she lifted the wooden tray they used each year.

A few items clinked softly as they shifted on her way back to the table. Wren watched them settle—small relics of a life once full, held together now by memories and stubborn love. Her mother set the tray gently in the center, the firelight glinting off one of the older offerings—a thin ring of silver, her father’s wedding band, offered the first year by her mother.

Ma’s voice was quiet when she said, “I think that was a lovely way to start the offerings this year.” She smiled fondly at Garin, a small, private gesture. “You were right. This was a good year for it.”

“We offer these items as tokens of remembrance.”

Her voice came low, each word carefully chosen. She dripped a pool of wax onto the table with a thin candle, then pressed the base into it, steadying the flame.

“Tavrin, would you go first?”

“Right. Sure.” Tavrin tapped his knuckles against the table, then cleared his throat. “I choose to remember Uncle Pavric this year,” he said, voice a touch too formal, “with this stone.”

He set the smooth river rock down where it wobbled and settled. “We were out in the Virewood together, one of those muggy Suncrest days when your shirt sticks no matter how much shade you find. I was mouthing off too much. Uncle stayed calm—until we crossed a stream. Then he nudges me straight off the log. I go tumbling in. He’s laughing as he hauls me back up, saying, ‘Thought you could use some cooling off.’”

He shook his head, his voice growing thicker. “Taught me to find joy even in the heat.” His fingers brushed the stone gently, as if grounding himself. “Sometimes it’s where you find the most joy.”

Wren caught his eye. His smile in that moment reminded her of her father—full of truth, pain, and humor all wrapped into one. And she knew, without words, that they were both thinking of Brunna—the only other person who could draw that same smile from him.

He carefully set the smooth gray stone into the tray among the other offerings with a soft tap. Marrowen nodded, her eyes fixed on the stone—no tears, only solid, painful love, as if her husband himself had placed it there.

Garin cleared his throat. “I’ll go next.” From his pouch, he drew a shriveled clump of moss, brittle pieces falling onto the table. “Reminded me of when I first met Pavric. Rough day. Almost made it my last.”

His thumb brushed over the jagged runestone at his neck. “He didn’t say much. Simply found me by the bog and sat with me. Knew what I needed without me asking. Eventually, he said, ‘Sometimes gathering moss makes the pain worse.’ Then he stood, asked if I wanted tea. I told him I had something stronger in mind.“