The air goes tense.
“You don’t get to make the rules,” Roderik says. “Not in this chamber. Not in this case.”
I nod once, slow. “Understood.”
Vess narrows her eyes. “We’ll let it go. For now. But you go near him again, and it won’t just be a warning.”
I don’t thank them. I don’t apologize. I just walk out.
I’ve got more important things to do.
I spendthat night in the trees.
No fire. No light. Just me and the woods and a soft, silent promise curling low in my chest.
They can warn me all they want. They can speak about law and balance and neutrality. But I’ve lived in this place longer than most of them have been breathing. I know what’s sacred. I know what deserves protection.
Krista’s laugh when she reads aloud to Mari from those crinkled library books she loves. The way Mari curls into her side like she’s still small enough to fit in her pocket. The way Krista sings when she doesn’t think anyone’s listening, soft and shy and not quite in tune but realer than any song I’ve ever heard.
They’re mine.
Not in the way that means ownership. In the way that meanschosen.
And if he tries to take that from me…
No court can stop what I do next.
CHAPTER 25
KRISTA
There’s a particular kind of silence that settles in when the world knows you’re preparing for something. It isn’t peaceful, and it’s not empty. It’s full of the weight of waiting. A held breath stretched long. Even the Hollow feels it, and the air curls tighter around the cottage like it wants to help, like it wants to lean in and ask what I need from it.
I don’t know where the idea comes from exactly—just that I wake with it. Like it grew roots in my dreams and split the surface of my mind sometime before dawn. It isn’t a scream or a flash of panic or the old familiar ache of trying to outrun a man who never learned how to let go.
It’s just one word: Shield.
Not a wall. Not a weapon. A shield. Something you hold up when you’ve finally decided not to run anymore.
By sunrise, I’m already at the worktable in the sunroom, which hums with energy. My grimoire lies open, and the pages smell like ink and candle smoke and dried thyme. The edges are dog-eared from the nights I stayed up tracing circles with my fingertip, whispering over the spells like lullabies.
Mari is still asleep, and I hope she stays that way a little longer.
I start by cleaning the table, wiping it down with a cloth soaked in rosemary and witch hazel. Every motion feels deliberate. My hands don’t shake this time. I don’t flinch at the shadows in the corners. I light a beeswax candle and breathe deep when the flame catches.
This spell is old. Not dramatic. Not flashy. But it’s the kind that sinks into the bones of a place and says: this space is mine.
I draw the first rune in salt and ash, my finger pressing into the powder like I’m etching it into my own skin.
Protection of the spirit.
Protection of the body.
Protection of the child.
Each line comes from memory now. I don’t need to look down. My lips move like the words were sewn into them years ago and only now remembered how to slip free.
By the time the charm is sealed, my fingertips are black and gritty, and my throat feels raw. But I feel it. The shift. The ripple of energy moving through the house like a heartbeat synced with mine.
