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“I’m not who I was,” Rollo said, breath thick with restraint.

“No,” Garrick said, voice low and uncoiling like a serpent. “But maybe you should be.”

Rollo blinked, the words hitting harder than they should have.

Garrick leaned in, the gleam in his eyes like moonlight on a blade. “Back then, before all this peace-talk and sanctuary fluff—you knew how to fight. How to lead. You didn’t second-guess your instincts, and you didn’t tuck your claws in for people who didn’t understand what we are.”

“I grew up,” Rollo snapped.

“You got soft,” Garrick countered, voice sharp as bark peeling from rot. “You traded your spine for safety and called it growth. Look around, Rollo. That sanctuary? That witch? They’ve made you forget what it means to survive when the woods turn against us.”

Rollo clenched his jaw, fists trembling at his sides.

“I’m protecting what matters.”

“Then you better hope you still remember how to be the man who could.” Garrick gave a final crooked smile. “Because the forest doesn’t care about peace pacts or second chances. And when it calls for blood, soft won’t cut it.”

He turned and disappeared into the shadows, melting into the trees like he was part of them.

Rollo stood rooted to the spot, anger pounding within him.

Maybe you should be.

The words echoed long after the wind swallowed them.

He’d clawed his way out of that version of himself—the hot-tempered, iron-fisted boy who thought strength was loud and love was weakness. That Rollo had let Delilah slip through his fingers because he couldn’t bear the idea of being vulnerable.

And now? Garrick wanted to drag that version back into the light.

He had to tell someone. Hazel, maybe. Or the Council.

But not Delilah.

Not yet.

It wasn’t her concern anyway.

…Was it?

He shoved the thought down.

Turned back toward the sanctuary, boots heavier now, like the forest was clinging to him, trying to keep him in its dark.

When he got there, the scent of rosemary and morning bread greeted him. The cabin’s hearth was lit, casting golden light against the fog still curling outside.

Delilah was already there.

She knelt beside the phoenix pup’s enclosure, murmuring softly as she rearranged the warmed stones. Her hair was loose today, curling down her back, and she wore one of Wren’s old aprons, pockets stuffed with herbs and gloves.

She looked like she belonged.

Like she’d never left.

Rollo stood in the doorway for a moment longer than he meant to.

Delilah glanced up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, masking the catch in his voice.