It was here. This room. This bed.
Before the fire. Before the running. Before I turned myself into a ghost.
I close my eyes.
Sleep doesn’t come for a long time.
Chapter 10
Merric
“Absolutely not,” Brenna says, her tone thunderous.
“The wards need walking,” Greta says, unmoved. “You need someone on watch while you work. He knows the ground.”
“I can take Willow.”
“Willow is organizing the watch rotation with Rook. Your big friend is rebuilding the south fence after yesterday’s mess. And the scout is tracking the retreat path of those purist wolves. Merric’s the only one available.”
Brenna looks at me like she’s been told to carry a dead animal.
“I’ll keep up,” I say. “Try not to enjoy it.”
Greta hands Brenna a canteen and gives me a look over her shoulder that says,“Behave yourself.”Then she walks back toward the house, leaving us standing at the yard’s edge with about as much enthusiasm as two wolves headed for a bath.
We start along the northern boundary. Brenna walks a half step ahead, which could be about setting a brisk pace or could beabout not wanting me beside her. She keeps one hand extended toward the ground, palm down, fingers spread. The ward lines respond, faint threads in the soil that I couldn’t see before, now flickering into visibility as her magic passes over them. Like running a blacklight over invisible ink.
I watch the borders. That’s my job. Eyes open, senses extended, covering the angles while she works.
Neither of us speaks for the first quarter mile.
The wards are worse than I expected. Even I can feel it: thin spots where the energy flickers, dead zones where the lines have gone dark entirely. Brenna stops at each one, crouching, pressing both palms to the earth. The white fire traces her fingers and sinks into the soil. Feeding. Mending. The ward brightens, holds, and she stands and moves to the next weak point.
It’s slow work. Draining, from the look of it. By the fifth repair, there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her breathing has changed.
“You need water,” I say.
“I need to finish this section.”
“You need water first. You’re burning through energy, and you’ve got three more miles of boundary.”
She straightens up and looks at me, clearly calculating whether the advice is worth taking purely because it came from me.
“Fine.” She takes the canteen. Drinks. Doesn’t thank me.
We walk.
The eastern boundary follows the ridge line through heavy timber. The ground is uneven, thick with root tangles, and loose shale. Brenna navigates it without slowing. She grew up here; these hills are imprinted in her muscles. I keep pace, but it costs me. The leg wound is stiff, the butterfly strips pulling with every step.
“You’re limping,” she says without turning around.
“I’m walking.”
“You’re limping and pretending you’re not. Typical.”
“I’ll take medical advice from someone who’s eaten a full meal in the last forty-eight hours.”
She stops. Turns. The look she gives me could strip paint. “Excuse me?”
