“No one here cares,” Therrin says, still leaning in the back, arms folded like he’s been waiting all week to say that.
Michael stands too fast, chair screeching on stone. “This isn’t over. You ingrates have no jurisdiction. I’ll take it to the Innsbrook circuit. You’ll be lucky if this entire council isn’t disbanded under malpractice by the end of the year.”
Vess doesn’t blink. “You’re welcome to try. But as of this ruling, you are not permitted to set foot on Hollow land without council escort, and any further attempt to contact the childwithout legal sanction will be considered a breach of magical guardianship.”
He looks at Krista then.
Not me. Not the council. Her.
And it’s like watching a snake bare its fangs at something it knows it can’t eat. Still tries. Still shows teeth.
“I gave you everything,” he spits. “You lived off me for ten years.”
Krista doesn’t flinch. “And I paid for it every single day.”
He turns toward me next, eyes hard, lip curling just enough to betray what’s really under that expensive shell.
“And you. What are you supposed to be? The monster she crawled to in the woods? What do you think’s going to happen when this fantasy falls apart?”
I take one step forward.
That’s all it takes. Just one.
I don’t need to say anything. He sees what I’m made of. What I’ll do to protect what’s mine.
He opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.
I hear Vess dismiss the hearing, but I’m not listening to words anymore. I’m watching Michael walk away, small now. Shrinking. Not defeated, no. That kind never stops. Just set back. Just boiling under the surface, waiting for the next angle.
And I know it isn’t the last we’ll see of him.
But it’ll be the last time he ever walks into the Hollow thinking he owns a damn thing here.
That night,the cottage smells like roasted squash and firewood and a hint of pine from the charm Krista tied above the hearth. Mari’s curled on the couch with a book almost too big for her lap, and her legs are tucked up under the blanket like she’s anchoring herself to this moment.
Krista moves through the kitchen like she’s remembering how to breathe.
She sets down a dish of honeyed root vegetables, eyes flicking to me with that look I’ve come to know. The one that’s half gratitude and half disbelief, like she’s still waiting to wake up and find out none of this was real.
I help set the plates.
We don’t speak much. We don’t need to. The quiet feels good. Earned.
Mari hums a little tune while she eats, and I pretend not to notice how she keeps looking between us, checking that we’re still here, still close. Still solid.
After dinner, Krista tucks Mari into bed. I sit outside on the porch, letting the night air settle over me, cool and damp and clean. The stars are sharp, the way they only get when the fog’s pulled back just enough to let the sky breathe.
She joins me after a while, barefoot and wrapped in one of my shirts again, like she does when she thinks I won’t notice.
She sits beside me, doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then:
“I don’t think he’s finished.”
I nod once.
“No,” I say. “He isn’t.”
She exhales slow. Like she already knew that, but needed it spoken out loud to make it real.
