The girl—Mari—she’s already asleep, curled up on the little sofa like she belongs to the bones of the place. She didn’t flinch at the cold, or the creak of the floor, or the way the cottage let out a groan when the door closed behind them. Most kids would’ve cried. Most adults would’ve turned around.
But this one, this woman, just looked around with those tired eyes like she’d walked into something familiar. Like whateverwas behind her was worse than whatever might be waiting in here. That’s the part that gets under my skin.
The Hollow doesn’t let people in by mistake.
I step back into the woods, disappearing from sight as easily as breath in cold air. The moss gives under my boots but makes no sound. I know these trees, every root and bend. They know me too, in the way old things remember their own. The path splits ahead, one trail toward the eastern wards, the other curling around to the council ring. I take the second, moving fast.
Vess is waiting when I get there, already leaning against the twisted white pillar that marks the central stone. She’s always waiting. Elves are like that—too calm by half, too knowing by more. Her hair glows faint silver in the moonlight, braided with things that probably meant something to someone a century ago. Her robes never touch the dirt, and she never breaks a silence unless it suits her.
“She’s arrived,” I say, no need to soften it.
Vess nods once, her gaze steady. “I felt the wards shift. The Hollow knows.”
“She brought a child.”
Another nod. No surprise. No fear. Just quiet calculation, the kind that makes most people nervous. Vess isn’t cruel, but she doesn’t hold softness where law is concerned.
“And?” she asks, folding her hands.
“She’s not aware of it yet, but she’s carrying something old in her blood. It clung to her when she touched the gate. The magic woke.”
Now she frowns. Not deeply. Just a slight downturn of the mouth, like a pebble dropped into a still pond.
“Awakened without ritual,” she murmurs. “That hasn’t happened since...”
“Johanna,” I finish. “Maybe longer.”
Vess tilts her head, studying the trees. “Does she feel like her?”
“She doesn’t feel like anyone I’ve known,” I admit, and I hate how that sounds. “But the magic’s raw. Not dangerous. Not yet.”
She hums, thinking.
“Keep eyes on her,” she says finally. “See what stirs. The Hollow hasn’t chosen someone in years, and I won’t risk destabilizing the balance because an old witch left her estate to blood.”
“I didn’t volunteer for babysitting.”
“No,” she agrees, and this time her eyes find mine, hard and bright as quartz. “You’re not volunteering. You’re responsible. This is your border. Your duty.”
I grunt. She’s not wrong. It still irritates me.
By the time I get back to the ridge above the cottage, the fog has thickened again, curling low and lazy around the chimney. Her light is still on, but dim now. I catch the scent of lavender and old paper on the wind. Maybe she found the grimoire. Maybe not yet.
Doesn’t matter. I’m watching.
In the morning,the Hollow wakes slowly.
The mists hang low over the moss fields and the river sounds quieter somehow, as if even the water knows something new has stepped into the rhythm here. I chop wood at the edge of my cabin yard, the scent of pine sharp in the back of my throat. There’s no one to talk to, which is how I prefer it, but today, the quiet carries an itch.
A few hours after sunrise, I hear soft footsteps on the trail. Not heavy, not trained. Hesitant. Human.
I don’t look up until I see her shadow pass the edge of my porch.
“Morning,” she says, voice careful but not afraid.
I split one more log before I answer. “You need something?”
She shrugs, hands stuffed into the pockets of a rust-colored sweater too big for her frame. There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek and a curl of hair stuck to her lip that she doesn’t seem to notice.
