Maren stood slowly, drawing herself to her full height. She'd been questioned like this before. Knew how it ended.
"My shadows didn't burn anything at the lake," she said. "They don't work like that."
"How do they work?"
"Not like fire. Not like heat." Her hands clenched at her sides. "They're defensive. Protective. They don't scorch."
Tristan studied her intently. Sage chose that moment to toddle forward again, shadows still playing around her fingers.
"Pretty darkness," Sage said to Tristan, holding up her hand like a prize.
Something shifted in Tristan's expression quickly. He crouched down to Sage's level, which put him closer to Maren's shadows than anyone besides Freya had been in months.
The shadows didn't retreat. Didn't lash out.
They simply waited.
"Pretty," Tristan agreed quietly. He straightened, gaze returning to Maren. "Thank you for your time, Miss Pitch. If you notice anything unusual, report it to the Council."
"Of course."
He left as efficiently as he'd arrived, door chiming softly behind him.
Maren exhaled shakily and sank back onto the stool. Her shadows finally loosened, moving across the floor in familiar patterns.
"That could've gone worse," Freya offered.
"Give it time," Maren said. "It always does."
3
TRISTAN
The Council Glade sat buried in snow, lanterns strung between skeletal branches casting yellow light across the clearing. Tristan arrived just after sundown, boots crunching through powder that had already started to freeze over. The temperature had dropped hard since morning, turning breath to fog and making every exposed surface slick with ice.
Five figures stood in a loose circle near the center stone. Emmett Hollowell commanded attention without trying, broad-shouldered and steady, gray-blue eyes reflecting firelight. Beside him stood Miriam Caldwell, silver hair gleaming under her half-moon spectacles, sharp and assessing as always. Elder Bram, immaculate in dark robes despite the weather, kept his arms crossed over his chest. Two other Council members Tristan recognized but didn't know well completed the circle.
"Ash." Emmett's voice carried clear across the clearing. "Good. We can start."
Tristan closed the distance, cataloguing positions and body language out of habit. Miriam looked calm. Bram looked irritated. The others seemed tense, though whether from cold or concern was hard to say.
"You saw the scorch marks," Emmett said. Not a question.
"Mills photographed them before the snow covered everything." Tristan pulled a folded report from his coat pocket. "Magic signature's wrong. Not fire-based. Not anything in our database."
"Shadow work?" Bram's voice cut sharp through the cold air.
"Don't know yet."
"But you questioned the Pitch woman." Bram's pale eyes narrowed. "Why her specifically?"
Tristan kept his expression neutral. "She's the only witch in Hollow Oak. Standard procedure to ask questions."
"And what did she say?"
"That her magic doesn't work like that. Shadows don't scorch."
"How convenient," Bram said.
