At last, Korrak stumbles. My axe crashes into his blade, shattering it down the center. He staggers, breath heaving, the glow in his chest flickering. For a heartbeat, he looks at me—not as a brother, not even as an enemy, but as a man who knows he’s lost.
And then he’s gone. Shadows tear him apart, his power unraveling into smoke.
The battlefield falls silent.
The creatures crumble. The fire gutters. The Hollow breathes again.
For a long while, no one speaks. We just listen to the quiet settle over us, thick and heavy, as if the forest itself is exhaling.
Krista drops to her knees, her hands still trembling with the remnants of power. I’m at her side in two strides, pulling her up, steadying her even as she leans into me. Her face is streaked with soot, her hair tangled, her palms raw and red. She looks at me with eyes full of exhaustion and something else I can’t name.
“We won,” she whispers.
I look past her, to where Mari stands on the porch, glowing still, untouched. The wards around her never cracked, never faltered. She is whole.
“Yes,” I say. “We won.”
The Hollow is scarred, but it stands. Houses still smolder, the square is littered with ash and broken glass, but the people are alive. Sariah is limping but upright, Roderik is already scribbling furiously into his black tome even as blood drips from his temple, Therrin’s skin still smolders faintly as he douses embers with a sweep of his arm.
It’s not peace. Not yet. But it’s safety. For tonight, it’s enough.
Later, when the fires are out and the wounded are tended, Krista and Mari curl together by the hearth. Mari falls asleep against her, small hand clutching at Krista’s sleeve. Krista strokes her hair, her lips pressed to the crown of her head, her eyes fixed on the flames like she’s daring them to burn brighter.
I sit at the door, axe still in my lap, watching the night beyond the porch. The Hollow is quiet now, but I know what silence means. Silence is just waiting.
We’ve won tonight.
But embers always linger.
And some embers don’t die easily.
CHAPTER 29
HARDIN
The house settles around us like a living thing, breathing slow and deep. The scent of pine and hearth-smoke hangs in the air, a clean smell that scrubs away the memory of blood and burning. I’ve reset the outer wards twice, my knuckles raw from carving the runes into the doorframe. The magic hums now, a low, steady thrum that feels like a second heartbeat in the walls.
Krista watches me from the hearth rug, her legs tucked under her, a half-finished mug of tea cooling between her palms. Her hair is a wild dark cloud around her face, her eyes shadowed but clear.
“You can stop guarding the door, you know. The house is sealed tighter than one of Roderik’s poetry books.”
“It needs to hold.”
“It will.” She sets the mug down. “Come here.”
I don’t move. My shoulders are a knot of old tension, the kind that sets in after a fight and lingers for days. The axe is a familiar weight against the wall, but my hands feel empty without it.
She unfolds herself from the rug and crosses the room. Her steps are quiet on the floorboards. She doesn’t touch me, not yet. She just stands there, looking up, her gaze tracing the lines of myface like she’s reading a map of a country she’s decided to call home.
“You’re still out there,” she says softly. “In the smoke. I can see it in your eyes. Come back inside.”
I let out a breath. “He’s gone. For now.”
“For now is enough. Tonight is enough.” Her fingers brush against mine, a light, steadying pressure. “We’re here. We’re whole. Mari is sleeping. That’s the only future I’m interested in tonight.”
Her hand slips into mine, and she leads me away from the door, away from the night. She doesn’t pull me toward the bedroom, just to the large, worn armchair by the fire. She sits first, then tugs me down beside her until I’m half-sprawled, my back against the cushions, her curled against my side. Her head finds the hollow of my shoulder like it was made to fit there.
Her warmth seeps into my skin, a slow, persistent thaw. I can feel the fine tremor in her hands finally still.
