KRISTA
Iwake with my heart pounding, the kind of pulse that feels like two fists beating in my chest. The room is pale dawn light, the curtains threaded with frost, and I feel something wrong before my eyes open fully. On the pillow beside Mari’s little doll, a scrap of parchment folded too neatly. I reach for it, fingers trembling, and see the familiar scrawl of Hardin’s hand.
“He’s here. It’s not safe. I’m gone. Protect her.”
Just that. No flourish. No explanation. All weight.
I curl the note into my palm, pressing it against my heart as though it can still hold him. Mari stirs in the next room, her shallow breaths remind me I can’t fall apart. She’s small, innocent, a breathing promise. I slip on a robe and shuffle through creaking boards toward the kitchen, candlelight flickering against cold windows, tea kettle half-full, leftover muffin crumbs on the counter. Everything smells like morning and homesickness all mixed.
I heat water and pour tea, steeping with rosemary and honey thick enough to stick to my lips when I speak. The steam curls and I think of Hardin’s scent, of flannel and smoke and something fiercely protective. I swallow the bitterness ofabsence, reminding myself I have to move forward, that she—Mari—needs me to.
I spendthe rest of the morning gathering what I’ve already got: the grimoire, loose scrolls Johanna left behind, the old vellum maps of ley lines, the sigil-charts in the back where her handwriting wobbles because her hand was tired, but strong.
I brush dust off rune stones, test the shimmer on protective tiles above doorframes, check on wards I laid weeks ago. The little ones around the windows, the boundary lines in the soil. Some feel dull now, like magic that’s been walked over too often, others still hum faintly if I press my hand to them.
When Mari comes down, rubbing sleep from her eyes, I kneel beside her, cup of tea in hand, and pull her close. She asks about Hardin. She doesn’t demand. She just says, “Mama, is he coming back?” Her voice is soft, hopeful.
I brush her hair. “I believe he meant to protect us.” I don’t say everything I feel—that I’m terrified she’ll grow without him; that I’m angry he didn’t trust me to help. I swallow that. Say instead, “I’m working on magic strong enough to keep us safe.”
She nods and her little heart in her chest makes mine ache in good and bad ways. She accepts my words like they’re promises. I want them to be.
That afternoon,I find Delphina at her shop, bent over jars of dried petals and herbs, cutting sprigs of lavender, tying them with string dyed with crimson roots. I tell her about Hardin’s note. I watch Delphina’s face make small fissures: bewilderment, pity, worry.
She says quietly, “You must build legacy wards.” Legacy wards aren’t just boundary charms or fire-wards. They’re old magic, built from Johanna’s lineage, from your own blood, thesoil of this Hollow, the bones of this land. They are protective magic meant to last beyond a single life.
Delphina leads me through the dusty back room filled with morning light filtered through stained glass windows, pulls down old rolls of parchment, and teaches me.
First you gather your materials: ironwood charcoal, crushed rowan bark, silver dust, lunar water, blessed salt. Then you trace a sigil: not just any symbol, but one that Johanna used, one that binds the heart of the ward to purpose.
Intention must be sharp: “to protect the child, to shield the blood, to hold back the night.” Must be named. Must be spoken with your whole soul. Then you anchor the ward: place the stones at thresholds, carve them into beams, embed them in the earth under the porch, so magic flows like roots.
I follow Delphina’s instructions until my hands burn, until the charcoal smudges under my nails, until ash falls from my sleeves. I taste grit in my mouth, sweat on my brow. It feels more than spellwork. It feels like reclaiming something lost.
In the evening,as shadows crawl across the cottage walls, I kneel by the back door with Mari asleep inside. I lay out the stones: four stones carved with Johanna’s sigil for protection, then smaller wards etched with my own shaky script, blending protection for Mari, binding for the windows, listening wards for the forest edge. I mix lunar water in a bowl, salt and rowan bark, whisper the intention. My voice cracks in one place, but I push through. The wards glow faintly; soft gold edges, breathing lightly in the dusk.
When I finish, I press my palm to the old grimoire, open to that prophecy:“When the child of wild magic awakens... the blood shall call the bones home.”I trace the words withtrembling fingers. I believe it’s Mari. I believe I’m meant to protect that prophecy’s fulfillment, not fear it.
Later,under lanternlight in the kitchen, I work by candle flame, twisting the silver dust into tiny charms to hang above windows. Orin the lantern maker came earlier with ribbon dyed wine and gold, offered small frames for the charms. We worked side by side, his hands steady, talk quiet. We didn’t talk about Hardin until I asked.
“I saw the flame in his eyes when I left,” I said, voice so soft I almost thought I’d imagined the moment. “Like regret. Like guilt.”
Orin nodded. “He loves you, Krista.” He paused, pulling linen ribbon tight. “But love doesn’t always conquer old ghosts.”
I nodded. Orin wrapped the charm in ribbon and tied it with a knot of intention. “Let me help you,” he said.
I looked up at him, at the dark shape of lanterns outside the window, at Mari asleep upstairs, and said, “Yes.”
Night settleswith cold teeth and quiet windows. I stand at the porch threshold holding the first of the legacy charms, ribboned, silvered. The wind rustles leaves. I press the charm above the door, nails sinking into wood softened by frost, whisper the incantation hard:“By blood and bone, by flesh and flame, protect this heart from all that came.”
The wood pulses under my touch. For a blink, I swear I feel Hardin’s presence behind me. A warmth. Then nothing but the wispy fog creeping inward, soft around the edges of the garden, watching.
I close the door, lock it, draw wards in charcoal along window frames, and embed salt lines under thresholds. I feel each wardlike a promise: to myself, to Mari, to Hardin’s memory of us. I will not be dependent. I will not be shattered.
In the midnight hush,I stand at Mari’s door. She sleeps curled small, breathing slow, safe under blankets. I trail my fingers down the grimoire page open on the nightstand, prophecy words glowing faintly in candlelight, and I whisper, “You are the wild magic, child. I swear I’ll guard you with every breath left in me.”
I feel the magic pulse, quiet and sure, as though it hears me. As though it’s waking.
And I think, finally, trust me. Because I believe I can hold this. Even if love broke me once, hope has a shape now. A shield, made of words, blood, lanternlight.
