She laughs once, bitter and low. “By disappearing for two days and then showing up to tell me I was a mistake?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Then say it.”
I do.
“If I stay close to you, the Hollow may unravel. The protections may fall. You and Mari… you could be targeted by more than just Korrak. The council said it’s already begun.”
She turns away. Her shoulders are tight, voice strained.
“I don’t care what the council said. I care what you feel.”
I don’t respond.
“I opened my heart to you,” she says, softer now. “And you?—”
“I don’t get to have a heart anymore.”
She turns then, steps close enough that I feel her heat again, the way her presence tugs at something I’ve buried too deep to name.
“You’re not cursed,” she whispers. “You’re just scared.”
I don’t answer.
She nods slowly. “Alright, then. Get out.”
I stand there for a long moment. Then I leave.
But I don’t go far.
I circle her house that night from the woods, watching the light in her window flicker out just past midnight. I hear her sobs through the stone walls.
And I keep watching, even as my chest burns with the choice I made.
Because if being away from her keeps her safe, then I’ll stand in every shadow, night after night, and never let her know just how much it kills me.
CHAPTER 15
KRISTA
The Hollow glows gold tonight.
Lanterns swing from every eave and crooked post, bobbing like fireflies caught in some ancient spell. Paper stars trail from string-draped fences, their points curling in the late-autumn breeze that carries the scent of applewood smoke and cloves, and just beneath it, that faint, ever-present trace of the Hollow itself—old earth and rain-soaked stone, layered history whispered beneath boots that crunch leaves into the mud.
I’ve never seen the town like this. Every cottage dressed up like a dream, every path marked with soft light and charm-bound symbols that glimmer faintly whenever I pass them. Children laugh from somewhere behind the baker’s stand, their voices high and clear, chasing one another between flickering jack-o’-lanterns with faces too clever to be entirely handmade.
Mari holds my hand tight. She’s wearing the scarf Elodie knitted her last week, the one with the mossy green yarn and the tiny stitched acorns along the edge. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, but her eyes are wide, alight with that kind of joy kids are born knowing and most adults spend their whole lives trying to remember.
“Can I make my lantern now?” she asks, bouncing slightly as we near the main square, where a long table has been set up with sheets of parchment and jars of glowing ink, attended by a wiry old man whose mustache curls into two perfect spirals. His name’s Orin, I think. He smells like juniper and has a laugh like dry leaves.
“Of course,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “But be careful with the ink. That’s not Crayola.”
She giggles and runs off, shouting a hello to someone I don’t see, probably another of the Hollow’s odd children. They’ve taken to Mari like she’s always been part of the forest, and sometimes I wonder if she has. There’s something about how this place fits her that I still don’t entirely understand, but feel in my bones.
I watch her for a long moment, then exhale and step toward the cider stall, needing something warm in my hands. The chill bites deeper tonight, and though the sky is clear, the wind smells like it might turn before morning. Change is always carried in the breeze here—sometimes sweet, sometimes sharp.
Elodie appears beside me, wrapped in a velvet shawl and carrying a lantern of her own, one shaped like a moth with thin silver wings that catch the light every time she shifts.
