Page 87 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

It lifted her like a doll, one gnarled hand clamped over her mouth. Bitter liquid spilled between her teeth. She gagged, coughed, tried to spit it out, but some still slid down her throat like oil. Her tongue grew heavy. Her jaw slackened. Her limbs began to shake with effort.

Tavrin was still coming. He rounded the bend, running faster than she’d ever seen him move. “Wren! Fight!”

The creature trudged toward the trees. Her vision blurred.

He’s going to reach me. Tav’s going to—

Then Hennah’s words struck: He’ll die protecting you.

No. No! Panic surged through her.

They were in the forest now, too dark to see. But she could hear Tavrin coming down the path behind her, crashing through the underbrush like a storm.

She clawed at the Witherborn’s arms, kicked at its chest, fought to push away, but her limbs were leaden. The sedative drowned her from the inside out. He was close enough to see the whites of his eyes in the moonlight, charging toward them, sword flashing.

She tried to scream, to warn him. Only breath escaped. A sob swallowed in silence. Her mask finally slipped free in the struggle. It struck a stone and landed in the grass behind them, cracked open like a shell staring up at the stars.

The Witherborn lurched and dropped her. She slammed into the ground, pain arcing up her spine. Every ragged breath brought dirt into her mouth. Her body refused to move at all now.

Above her, Tavrin was on the creature. His sword drove hilt-deep into its shoulder; his face twisted with a fury she’d never seen before. The Witherborn roared, claws raking for him, but he tore the blade free. With a ragged cry, he swung again—wild and desperate. Black ichor hissed in the leaves where it struck the earth, and the sharp scent of acid stung her nose.

Branch-thick claws closed around Tavrin’s throat before he could escape. It dragged him closer, inhaling with a rattling breath. Spores poured from its maw with its exhale, filling the air with an acrid mist. Tavrin turned his head, but it was too late.

Wren tried to look away. Her eyes wouldn’t close. The cloud struck him full in the face. His skin burned where spores dug in. A scream tore out of him. It stabbed through Wren, echoing through her body, begging for escape.

The sword slipped from his hands as the spores bloomed. Mushrooms burst like fan-shaped flowers from Tavrin’s cheeks, his jaw, tearing through skin. They spread in a gruesome bouquet. They forced their way through his open mouth.

His body sagged, withering beneath the weight of decay, disappearing into the dirt like he’d never been there at all. His pain was finally silenced, but she’d never stop hearing it.

For a heartbeat, the forest forgot to breathe.

The scream clawed at her throat, burning behind her teeth, aching to be released. Nothing answered but the creaking of wood as the Witherborn staggered toward her, black ooze spilling from its wounds.

A sharp thwack cut through the air. Then another.

The creature roared. It crumpled beside her, thudding onto the dirt. Two crossbow bolts jutted from the back of the Witherborn’s skull, its eyes staring blankly at her as acid poured from its wounds.

Its massive body blocked her view of Tavrin—but not his sword. Not his mask. Not the truth she couldn’t escape.

Leaves crunched nearby. Footsteps approached. Her vision tunneled as a figure knelt beside her. Eyes in the dark, full of concern. A hand brushed her face, cool as river stone. The chill was almost kind.

As the world went dark, he whispered to her in a voice she almost recognized. “It’s okay now. I’ve got you.”

Then, nothing.

Part Two

Beneath The Rotfather’s Gaze

Then came battles. Then came blood.

And the roots of balance severed.

Chapter 23

Gloom and Bone

Brunna left the Glen burning. She had bigger priorities. Both Tavrin and Wren were somewhere outside the village. She’d seen him break from the fighting and sprint out the gate toward the Forest Road, calling for Wren. She followed, hooves moving before she realized.