“All right, each of you stand in the corners like the last time we did this.” None of us argue with Hazel’s order.
The magic is building, a pressure now, and I can’t tell if it’s coming from inside of me or has something to do with the way that that storm is looming on the horizon.
Maybe both.
Hazel lifts her hands, voice steady in a way I’ve never heard before.
“We call the corners,” she says. “We call the circle. We stand as we once did, and we stand again.”
The air seems to still around us, the wind off the water pausing like it’s listening.
“Take your places,” Hazel says.
We don’t argue. We don’t question. We move.
I step into my place, the others falling into theirs, the shape of it familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten.
Hazel turns slightly, eyes bright, glowing with unspent power.
“North,” she calls.
I read off the script Hazel gave me, the words tight and sprawling and somehow moving on the paper.
“North, hold us steady. Root us deep. Let nothing that means us harm pass this line.”
A low hum settles into the ground beneath our feet.
“East,” Hazel says.
Posey exhales, her voice softer but no less certain.
“East, carry our breath. Let our words be heard. Let our magic move as it should.”
The wind stirs, curling around us, tugging at our clothes and hair.
“West,” Hazel says.
Rose nods. “West, give us strength. Let our will burn bright. Let us stand and not break.”
Warmth flickers through the circle, a pulse of heat that licks at my skin.
“South,” Hazel finishes.
She closes her eyes for a moment before speaking again, voice low and resonant.
“South, bind the tide. Hold the water. Let the circle stand against what comes.”
The sound of the ocean seems to deepen, waves crashing harder against the jetty.
Hazel lowers her hands slowly, looking at each of us in turn.
“The corners are called,” she says.
I feel it then — real and undeniable — the press of something building, tightening, waiting.
I lift my chin, heart pounding.
“The circle is closed,” I say. “Let the ward hold.”
