Page 85 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

A low buzz zipped past. A crossbow bolt split its skull.

Another slammed into its chest. A third followed it.

The Witherborn toppled at her feet and did not rise.

She turned. A man stood behind her, reloading with calm precision. She only caught the edge of his gloamguise as he tugged it off and tucked it away—a flash of green and gold. Then he pulled back his hood, and the sight of blonde hair triggered the memory—Silas, the ranger she’d briefly met at Pell’s shop.

He offered a hand, crossbow angled low but ready. She took it, allowing him to help her step around the Witherborn’s corpse. Cool skin met the heat pulsing from her mark.

“Not how I thought we’d meet again,” he said, a half-hearted smirk on his lips that never reached his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I’m trying to get to the gate. To find my family.”

He nodded toward the other side of the stage. “Thought I saw your big friend up that way. The one with the sword?”

“Orzen?” Her heart quickened, eyes darting through the knots of figures in the dark. “Where?”

He motioned to the front of the stage where the fighting was the fiercest. She followed him along the back of the burning stage, darting through tents to avoid being seen. Smoke thickened; more screams tore through the din, not all human. Silver leaves shimmered on the tree she’d grown, its crown standing out above the flames—untouched, while the world blazed around it.

Across the Glen, steel clashed with bone and bark. Smoke scorched her lungs, clawed at her eyes. She dropped low, following Silas through quiet pockets within the violence, his pale hair catching the firelight like a beacon. Her heart hammered as she searched for something—anything—familiar in the frenzy.

She found them fighting in the field beyond the stage. Zehvana blazed at the heart of the battle, a living flame in red-gold armor. Fire bloomed from her hands, arcing wide, engulfing a knot of Witherborn. Their vine-wrapped limbs went up like kindling. She didn’t retreat—not a step.

Dust and magic rolled through the Glen like shockwaves. Stone erupted from the ground across the field—Garin’s doing. His staff rose, and another wall slammed into a cluster of skeletal forms with a thunderous crack.

Far away at the gateway, Marrowen directed survivors with quick, determined gestures.

“Mother!” Wren cried, but her voice drowned in the roar. Her mother never saw her. When the last of them was safely through, her mother turned and vanished through the opening.

“We can make it out that way,” Silas said in a rush.

He caught Wren’s arm and nodded toward the fence encircling the Glen. A section near the back hung broken, open to the street beyond. Others were slipping through, hoping for safety on the other side. A row of houses faded in and out of view as smoke curled through the twisted bars.

“Come on.” Silas ran for it. He didn’t look back, slipping through the bars. Her legs trembled. She took two steps toward freedom—

The world tilted. Not a blow—a shockwave inside her skull. Her knees buckled. She crumpled, clutching her horns. Nails of pain drove through her bones. Her mark flared, searing white-hot. She screamed. The sound died in the chaos.

Images crashed in: her father’s body, her mother weeping, the Binding Bough bleeding sap, the stench of rot. Voices whispered, wrong and endless, spiking through her like knives. Spirit magic. Twisted. Corrupted. Familiar enough to recognize. Wrong enough to make her sick.

She forced herself upright. The pain dulled enough to see the Witherborn ahead—gaunt, almost human. Moss clung to its hair; fungus bloomed across its shoulders. Two wolves flanked it, teeth bared, muzzles slick with blood. Their flanks hung open, torn and twitching, but something kept them alive.

Wren reached toward the space between them, searching for the thread binding them to their master—and twisted. The air cracked. She shoved the connection back through them—betrayal, fear, rage. Aimed it at the one who controlled them.

They froze, turned, lunged, and tore into their master’s throat. His screams cut off in a wet gargle as they dragged him down. The Spirit tether snapped, and she dug her hooves into the dirt, pressing herself back into motion.

A patrol of Fist rushed in front of her, slamming into a wave of Witherborn stumbling near the fence. Steel met claw, and she staggered back. She tried to dart around them, but there were too many. The path to the broken fence was clogged with fighting now.

She spun, searching for another way out.

The gate at the front was the only other exit.

She ran for it, ducking behind a line of upturned carts to get her bearings. Across the field, she caught a flash of Tavrin and Brunna, fighting back-to-back—too far to reach. Tavrin swung a fallen Fist’s sword, too heavy for him. His movements were raw and desperate but full of purpose. Brunna wielded a broken beam like a war hammer, splinters jutting from the end, fury blazing across her soot-streaked face.

She wouldn’t make it. There was too much fighting between them. Her only hope was to get out and find them when the danger passed. Wren dragged air into her lungs and peeked around the edge of the cart.

There—A glint of silver in the firelight.

Orzen moved like the sword was part of him—no wasted steps, every strike precise. Her father’s cloak streamed behind him, his blade flashing as he drove it through one Witherborn’s throat, spun, and split another clean through the chest. She almost called his name, but she bit it back. He wouldn’t hear her in the roar.