His pale green-blue eyes, unfocused but piercing in their own way, shift toward me. “But they don’t attack witches. Or warlocks.” A beat. “They don’t attackanyone. They serve. They wander. They answer old magic, not, violence.”
“I’m aware,” I say quietly.
“It would take…” Trevor shakes his head slowly, mouth tightening. “It would take a significant pact to turn them toward a carriage. Aforbiddenone. And to do so near school grounds, near protected territory, someone would have to be either very reckless or very determined.”
My pulse beats harder at his words, though I try to keep my face unreadable.
“That’s why Locke moved so quickly,” I explain, voice low. “He didn’t want to risk another… incident.”
Trevor’s brow knits further. “Another? Do you mean-”
“No,” I interrupt gently. “Not another Windigo. Another danger. Another mistake. Another moment where we should have died.”
For the first time since meeting him, Trevor looks genuinely unsettled.
“And after that,” I continue, “Locke insisted we come to Vireldan. He said we’d outstayed our welcome among humans. That magic has a way of rejecting those who try to bury it for too long.”
Trevor absorbs that slowly.
“You lived among non-magical folk?” he asks.
“For years,” I say. “Longer than we should have. We kept our heads down. Liam adjusted better than I did. I-” I swallow. “I was beginning to feel wrong there. Like my skin didn’t quite fit.”
Trevor’s expression shifts, softening, warming, the faintest thread of empathy weaving through his voice.
“So Locke became a guardian of sorts?”
“Yes,” I answer. “He found us. Helped us. Protected us. Then he urged us to return to our kind.” I gesture around us, to the rune-glowing lanterns, the crackle of magic, the spell-weavers arguing over potion stocks. “To this world.”
Trevor lets out a slow breath, almost reverent.
“That must have been difficult,” he says. “Severing ties with one life and stepping blindly into another.”
“It wasn’t a choice,” I say quietly. “Not after the attack.”
He considers that silently, each detail arranging itself behind his carefully composed demeanor.
“In that case,” Trevor finally says, voice measured but sincere, “coming here this morning… seeking a wand… it isn’t just about fitting in.”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s about surviving.”
We continue down the bustling street, weaving through early-rising vendors and spellwrights who unload crates of glowing components onto their storefronts. Trevor walks at my side, his hands still clasped behind him, his expression serene on the surface but taut underneath. I can sense the weight of what I’ve told him settling over him like a heavy cloak.
Windigo. An attack that should not have happened.
He is still mulling it over when Liam and Theo slow just enough for Liam to glance back at us, casually at first, then sharply.
Liam’s gaze flicks from Trevor’s troubled face to mine, and in an instant he knows. He recognizes the subtle stiffness in my shoulders, the lingering tension around my jaw. His eyes narrow in warning even before he steps back toward us, leaving Theo a few strides ahead.
He doesn’t say a word until he is close enough that only the three of us can hear him.
“What exactly,” Liam murmurs, voice low, “are we discussing back here?”
Trevor straightens a fraction, polite but unflinching. “Only what Harper mentioned.” His tone remains steady, respectful, but refusing to pretend ignorance. “About the Windigo. And the attack.”
Liam exhales sharply through his nose, a sound I’ve heard only a handful of times, usually when danger brushes too close or when I’ve strayed nearer to the truth than is safe to speak aloud.
He steps even closer, his cloak brushing mine, the warmth of him radiating like a shield.
