Page 86 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

They’d find each other.

The gate was still open. She sprinted for it. Smoke clawed her lungs as she ducked beneath shattered carts and vaulted splintered beams. Screams knifed through the din. Fires raged on every side, the air thick with ash. She stumbled more than once, catching her hooves on the bodies of those who’d fallen.

A group of Fist stormed through the gate; blades slick with black slime. Wren crouched low, waited for them to pass—then darted through the gap into the smoke-wrapped streets beyond.

People ran—not from anything she could see, simply scattering, trying to find safety where none existed. Darkness swallowed the town. The Veilmoon hung above like a black eye.

She forced a breath and kept moving.

“Wren—wait.” The whisper stopped her cold.

A faun stumbled from the shadows, clutching her side, blood soaking her sleeve.

“Nesta,” Wren breathed, reaching for her hand. “Come on. We’re almost safe.”

The dressmaker’s eyes were wide and glazed in the dark. She caught Wren’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Together they ran, hooves slipping on broken cobbles.

“I’m so glad I found you,” Nesta panted, her nails digging into the skin of Wren’s arm.

Screams still echoed in the Glen behind them—distant now, like a nightmare already fading. They crossed the Forest Road where lanterns lay shattered, carts sat overturned; glass and metal scattered like bones. Smoke curled toward the stars, unforgiving in their brightness. The bells had stopped. The silence was worse.

Wren’s thoughts spun. Garin’s home was the closest. Surely the Witherborn wouldn’t search a dark cabin—not when there were so many easier targets here in the village. Her stomach roiled. She hated herself for thinking that way, but she’d let herself feel guilty once they were safe.

A shadow slipped across their path. Nesta’s steps stumbled. She tugged Wren’s arm. “Wait there’s—”

Wren barely had time to register it before the Witherborn struck from the dark. Its claw punched through Nesta’s chest, lifting her clean off the ground.

Nesta’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened—soundless.

“NO!” The word tore from Wren’s lips.

She didn’t think. Her hand shot out, catching the rot-twisted threads of the creature’s spirit. They writhed beneath her magic—hollow and broken. She tore them free with a single, furious pull. The light in the monster’s eyes sputtered out. Relief surged through her. Satisfaction—sharp and immediate. Her mark pulsed hot beneath her sleeve.

The Witherborn’s corpse collapsed with a thud, dragging Nesta with it, her nails scraping Wren’s arm where they still clung. Wren eased Nesta from the claws and dropped to her knees beside the seamstress. Spirit flared from her palms, searching, but there was nothing left. No thread to mend. Only silence.

Wren pressed her hand to her mouth, swallowing the scream clawing its way up her throat. One heartbeat. That’s all she allowed herself before standing, turning away. She hated leaving Nesta there, but she had to move. Don’t think. Don’t stop.

Wren crept along the outer wall, keeping to the shadows, every nerve pulled taut. She slipped the whisperstone from her pocket and concentrated. It pulsed faintly in her palm. A silver thread darted toward the forest.

Orzen had gotten ahead of her somehow. She didn’t understand it, but the magic proved it was true. She broke into a run, hooves crunching on the stones. Trees, black against the firelit sky. Silver tendrils from the whisperstone darted toward them.

The silence was deafening, broken only by distant shouts of fighting still raging behind her. The cries grew closer, solidified into a voice she recognized. Tavrin?

“WREN!”

She spun on her hooves, heart flooding with relief. He charged down the road, his borrowed sword raised, cloak streaked with blood and ash. He called again, voice cracking, his free hand waving frantically—Not in greeting. In warning.

“RUN!”

Something slammed into her from the side.

The ground vanished. An arm of spongy bark clamped around her waist, hauling her from her hooves. She landed hard against the Witherborn’s shoulder. The stench hit her at once—rot and fungus, the sweet, cloying reek of decay. Mushrooms jutted from its arms and spine. Moss slicked its skin like wet carpet.

She twisted in its grasp, flailing for control. Spirit threads sparked from her fingertips. She shoved an image into its mind—its own body burning. The Witherborn faltered for half a second, but it didn’t drop her.

It lumbered forward, slow and steady.

Spirit trickled out like a faucet run dry. “No, not now, please.” She kicked, thrashing against the grasp. “Let me go!”