“You think he’ll go to Innsbrook court?”
“He’ll try,” I say. “But they’ve got the records now. The report from the council. Your testimony. Mine. That’s more than most people get.”
Krista’s eyes flick to mine. “You’re not most people.”
I meet her gaze, steady. “Neither are you.”
She smiles, but it’s small and tired. I can see the weight of the day on her shoulders.
“I just want her to be safe.”
“She is.”
“For how long?”
I don’t have an answer that’ll ease the knot in her chest, because the truth is, safety isn’t a permanent thing. It’s not a door you lock once. It’s something you keep rebuilding, every damn day.
But I can be part of that.
I can stand watch.
I can make sure this place stays strong.
“She’s got you,” I say. “That means something.”
Krista leans into me, rests her head against my shoulder, and we sit like that while the wind moves through the trees like a song that doesn’t need words.
We both know this isn’t the end.
But for tonight, we’ve earned this quiet.
CHAPTER 27
KRISTA
It starts like any other morning, which feels like the worst part.
Mari’s chewing a chunk of honeyed apple, her feet swinging off the side of the bench, one sock half off, and her braid crooked from sleep. She’s grinning at some joke she made to herself, mumbling to her breakfast like the apple has a good sense of humor. The stove is warm. The tea kettle’s humming. The ward-glass on the windowsill glows faint gold, calm and clear.
And then it flickers red.
Once. Twice.
Then it shatters.
The glass doesn’t fall. It folds in on itself, like it’s being pulled inward by something sharp and hateful. The charm stitched into the lintel above the door buzzes against my skin like a hive shaken too hard. I’m up before I realize I’ve moved, hand out, the grimoire already flying open on the table behind me. The air bends around us. Tenses.
Mari stops chewing.
“Mama,” she whispers.
“Stay right there,” I tell her. “Do not move.”
I open the door and he’s already halfway to the house.
Michael.
He looks worse than he did in the council chambers. Not broken, not quite, but worn down. The sleekness stripped away. His tie’s gone, jacket slung over one shoulder, and there’s something wild in the whites of his eyes. Like he’s not here to talk this time.
