Page 84 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

The ground shuddered; a low, distant rumble left lanterns swaying in its wake. It was the sound of something older giving way, far beyond the Glen’s gates. People spun toward the sound.

Wren braced herself on shaking hooves. Her heart lurched as her gaze snapped to Theordrin. He didn’t speak, but his eyes blazed. A flick of his fingers and the Fist began to move, surrounding the stage. Their golden armor caught the firelight as a circle of them closed around her family.

Orzen was already pushing forward, eyes locking with hers. She tried to reach him, but a Fist seized her arm, dragging her back.

A distant scream split the night.

It echoed from beyond the Glen, followed by another, and another. Smoke curled above the rooftops, faint at first, then thickening into black coils that swallowed the stars.

A man burst through the gates.

“They’ve breached the walls! They’re coming this way!”

His words were swallowed by the clamor of rising fear. Bells rang out—not the gentle chime of closing day, but the heavy clang from the guard towers. Theordrin’s head snapped toward the sound, like even he was surprised by it.

Her mark flared hot. The wind shifted, and her nose filled with the sickening stench of rot. Figures moved through the gathering smoke, their shapes wrong; movements jerking and stiff. Theordrin cursed, calling for the Fist to hold formation even as he fled, but it was too late. Panic swept through the Glen like fire through dry grass.

The Fist shoved Wren toward the stairs.

Orzen vaulted onto the stage as more of them surged to block him. He drove toward her. His sword flashed. A clang of steel against steel reverberated in her ears as the Fist charged to meet him. Wren shouted his name, but her voice was drowned in screams. The crowd scattered like ants from a broken nest.

Shadowed figures solidified into towering, nightmarish beings of root and bone—skin stretched thin over bark, mouths lined with needle-sharp thorns.

Myth made flesh.

Witherborn within Thistlehold’s walls.

The weave itself tore open, and the Glen erupted in chaos.

Chapter 22

Split in Sorrow

Everything was too loud. The air was a wall of noise and fire. People fled. Fought. Fell. The Fist dragged her from the stage, clinging to Theordrin’s last order like it could save him.

“Let me go!” Wren shouted, shoving against him, but he was solid as stone. She stumbled beside him down the stairs. The grass was slick underfoot.

“Gettin’ you out!” he roared over the screams.

Shapes collided too fast to tell mortal from monster. Smoke clawed down her throat, bitter and thick. Her mark burned beneath her sleeve. The veil snagged on something and jerked her head back. She tore it free, gasping. The Fist didn’t stop, dragging her toward the far side of the stage.

“Registry’s gonna be safer—just have to—”

Blood sprayed across her cheek, hot and slick.

The Fist let out a wet choke and slumped forward, eyes wide and empty. A jagged arm—half bone, half branch—protruded from his chestplate. The Witherborn dropped the dead Fist as if he weighed nothing. Coal black eyes set on her.

Wren slipped on the fallen veil, landing hard on her back. The monster’s mouth split wide, jagged spines of teeth looming from a mouth like a hole in a dying tree. She scrambled away on her hands, hooves struggling to find purchase on the wet grass.

Curls slipped free from the loosened updo and fell into her eyes. Her hand caught in the tangles, touching cold metal. Frinna’s pin. She ripped it free. The embossed clover glinted in the firelight.

The Witherborn grabbed her shoulder.

She drove the pin into its throat. It pierced deep. The Witherborn staggered, gurgling as black sap dribbled from the hole. The sound that came out was wrong—a cracking of old boards that was almost laughter. It took another step.

Wren reached for her magic, forced herself to touch the cold bark of its limb. She pushed Spirit into the creature, felt the muscles coiled for movement, and willed the threads within to slow. The creature faltered, but only for a heartbeat.

Black eyes found hers again and it screeched—a high-pitched sound that pierced through her skull. Wren covered her ears and scrambled back toward the stage. The Witherborn was faster than she expected. It lunged, claws snagging the front of her dress.