I hate myself for not answering it.
By the time the land begins to slope downward toward Yellowstone, my nerves are stretched thin enough to hum. The presence presses closer now, testing, retreating, never committing. I feel it circle like a patient predator, waiting for something.
For him to be alone. For me to make a mistake.
I don’t.
When the wards finally come into view, relief hits me so hard my knees nearly give out.
I slow our pace deliberately, forcing myself to breathe and to take in the familiar weight of old magic threaded through the earth. The wards around Yellowstone aren’t walls in the human sense. They’re agreements—ancient, layered, alive. They hum with recognition and intent, a boundary drawn by beings who understood the cost of safeguarding what mattered most.
I glance at Elias, taking in his open expression, the way wonder already brightens his eyes. He doesn’t know yet how safe this place is. How absolute.
Soon,I promise myself.
Soon I’ll let him breathe without my shadow over his shoulder.
Soon I’ll breathe too.
But even as we approach the threshold, that wrongness lingers at the edges of my awareness, pacing, waiting.
As we near the wards, I’m forced to confront a truth I never wanted to name: If the creature wants Elias, the road has never been the danger. The danger will come from whatever follows us through the world and waits for the moment the wards no longer stand between us and it.
And I will burn the land down before I let that moment come.
The wards announce themselves before they can be seen. Thank the stars.
The air thickens. It’s not heavier exactly, but more deliberate—like the world has paused to decide whether you belong. Sound shifts first. The wind dulls. The insects quiet. Even Elias notices, his steps slowing as he looks around with wide, curious eyes.
“What’s happening?” he asks, voice hushed without him meaning it to be.
“We’re close,” I tell him.
I step forward without hesitation, crossing the invisible threshold. The wards recognize me immediately. The hum that answers my presence is deep and familiar, a low resonance that settles into my bones like a remembered song. Power slides past me without resistance, acknowledging and accepting in the same breath.
Behind me, Elias inhales sharply.
I turn just in time to see the rune at his chest flare to life.
It doesn’t blaze or spark. Itwarms, glowing softly through the fabric of his shirt, the symbols shifting as if they’re stretching awake. The air around him ripples, a subtle distortion that makes my skin prickle. The wards hesitate—just for a heartbeat—then part.
Elias gasps, stumbling half a step as the pressure releases all at once.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—wow.”
I’m at his side instantly, one hand at his elbow, steadying him. “Are you all right?”
He nods, eyes shining, awe rolling off him in waves. “It felt like… being noticed. Not judged. Just… recognized.” His brow scrunches. “That sounds absolutely ridiculous.”
“No,” I reassure him, more than aware that his big scientific brain may still be struggling with this new world he’s found himself in. “That’s exactly what it is,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
Once inside, the difference is immediate.
The land feelsheld.
Energy coils through Yellowstone like a living thing, contained but vibrant, threaded through geysers and hot springs and ancient stone. It’s only the second week of June, days before the Solstice proper, but the park is already waking up to what’s coming.
Creatures arrive in ones and twos, then clusters. Some I sense before I see. Others make no effort at subtlety.
