I cannot answer. Not yet. Not when the golden eyes still burn in the back of my mind like an ember refusing to die.
I straighten, just barely, and my fingers tighten around the wand with a resolve that surprises even me. The aftermath of the vision still clings to my skin, but beneath the fear is something else: a certainty that whatever this wand showed me, however horrifying or incomprehensible, it was not a mistake.
This wand chose me.
“I’ll take it,” I say.
My voice is rough, unsteady, scraped raw by what I just endured, but the words come with a strange, stubborn clarity.
Liam looks startled, but I do not give him room to argue. I step forward, pull a handful of coins from my pocket, and place them on the counter, far more than necessary, but I cannot bring myself to care. Neither Merrow nor Welt attempts to stop me, nor do they count the payment. They simply watch, silent and wide-eyed, as though uncertain whether they should bow or run.
I do not wait for them to decide.
Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk out of the shop. The bell above the door gives a soft, startled jingle that feels absurdly out of place after the storm that just tore through the room.
The morning air outside is cold and crisp, but it hits me like a slap. I suck in a breath that tastes of frost and woodsmoke, grounding myself in the ordinary smells ofAnvaris. The wand pulses once in my grip, a faint throb, subtle as a whispered reminder.
Liam calls after me softly, “Harper, wait-”
But I keep walking, needing distance, needing quiet, needing anything that is not the memory of burning children or golden eyes staring through smoke.
And yet, no matter how far I step from the wand shop’s door, the vision clings to me, heavy, unshakable, and terrifyingly vivid.
8
HARPER
The Willow Wisp is already alive despite the early hour, its windows glowing with a warm amber light that spills onto the cobblestones like molten honey. The moment I step inside, the air hits me, thick with the smell of spiced ale, toasted bread, and something faintly floral that must be the fae-brewed drink Trevor mentioned. The pub feels different from the bustling streets outside: dimmer, more intimate, lit by floating orbs of pale golden light that drift lazily near the ceiling beams. Enchanted ivy curls along the rafters, shifting in a breeze that doesn’t exist, and small glass jars filled with glowing herbs line every shelf.
I take a seat at a wooden table tucked against the far wall, hoping its shadowed corner will shield me from the lingering tremors rattling beneath my ribs. The wand rests in my cloak pocket, heavy in a way that feels more psychological than physical. My hands are still unsteady. The vision, fire, smoke, the children’s cries, those impossible golden eyes, keeps replaying in fractured flashes every time my heart beats too hard.
Within moments, the boys step inside behind me. Liam and Theo move with the familiarity of people who have been here before; Trevor follows them, though his posture is a touch more careful, his head oriented toward every soft sound in the room. Liam orders four mugs of fae ale with a voice that tries for casual but lands halfway between strained and forcedly light. Theo, sensing the shift in Liam’s tone,simply adds, “And whatever food is ready this early,” before taking a seat.
Trevor, however, does not join them immediately. He slides into the bench beside me with a quiet, deliberate movement, as though giving me space but refusing to ignore the cloud of shock still clinging to me.
For a long moment, he says nothing. He studies me with those pale eyes that never fully settle yet see everything. The silence between us feels suspended, heavy, but not unkind. Then he leans forward just slightly, his voice pitched low enough that it belongs only to me.
“What happened in there?”
His question is gentle, but not soft. It carries the weight of someone who noticed every tremor in my hands the moment I fled the shop, every uneven breath during the walk to the pub, every subtle shift in my posture now as I try to hold myself upright. There is no prying in his tone, but there is unmistakable concern, threaded with something sharper: curiosity, suspicion, maybe even fear.
I open my mouth.
I don’t get a chance to answer.
Liam cuts across the moment with the force of a blade thrown cleanly across a table.
“Nothing.”
He says it without looking at me or Trevor. His voice is tight, clipped, the false casualness replaced by a protective tension that thrums in the air between us. He sits beside Theo with a solid thud, his eyes fixed on the newly arrived mugs as though they hold the only truth he’s willing to acknowledge.
The fae waitress, a tall woman with lilac-tinted hair and pointed ears adorned with silver rings, sets the drinks in front of us with a small nod, her movements graceful, fluid.The ale glimmers faintly, iridescent in the dim light, sending curls of steam upward like delicate ribbons.
Theo accepts his mug carefully, turning his head toward the sound of the waitress’s footsteps, offering her a polite “thank you” that earns a gentle smile. Liam pulls his drink closer but doesn’t take a sip yet. He keeps glancing my way, not overtly, but enough that his protective anxiety radiates like a second heat in the room.
Trevor’s gaze flickers toward Liam, then back to me.
“It didn’t look like nothing,” he says quietly.
