He stops just in front of me. Close enough I can smell the rot beneath the blood, the old curses carved into his skin. He looks like a corpse that never remembered how to stay dead.
“Come home, Hardin,” he says, quiet now. “The clan wants you. Needs you. At my side. Where you belong.”
“There is no home left for me,” I say, voice low.
“There could be. We’ve reclaimed the stone. The blood rites are deeper now, truer. We have strength. Numbers. The kind of power that doesn’t hide behind council chambers or enchantments.”
“And what price did you pay for it?”
His smile falters for a moment.
Then he sneers. “Cowardice doesn’t suit you.”
“I chose peace.”
“No. You chose exile. And you wrapped it in stories about safety and duty and pretending you weren’t made for more than this.”
I step forward, inches from him now, the heat between us crackling like the air before a storm.
“I won’t let you near them.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Them?”
“You know who I mean.”
His mouth twitches with something like amusement. “You’re attached. That’s a shame. Because if you won’t come back willingly, I’ll just have to make you.”
“I’ll kill you before I let you near them.”
“You’ll try.”
Then he’s gone, moving with the speed and silence that only the old blood can give. The trees shiver in his wake, the roots humming like they’re remembering pain.
I don’t breathe until I’m sure he’s left the Hollow.
I go straightto the council.
The forest feels smaller as I walk. Not safer, more like the trees are leaning in, listening. Watching. Judging.
The council waits beneath the roots of the elder grove, seated in their hollowed thrones of bark and bone. Brekka’s already there, pale as birch, her eyes sharp and ancient. Yorran, older than any of us know, stares down from his high seat, lips pressed thin.
I don’t waste time.
“He’s here,” I say.
They stiffen, but none look surprised.
“Korrak,” Brekka murmurs, voice brittle. “We suspected as much.”
“He found a way past the outer protections. I don’t know how long he’s been watching.”
Yorran’s fingers tighten on the carved arms of his seat. “What does he want?”
“He wants me back. And if I don’t go with him, he’ll come for Krista. And Mari.”
The name hangs heavy.
They exchange glances. Quiet murmurs. Old magic bristling beneath their skins.
