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“Good. Make him earn it.”

Delilah smiled.

That, she could do.

12

ROLLO

The bell above Millie Grace’s shop door gave its usual squeaky chirp as Rollo stepped inside, boots trailing the scent of pine and damp earth. The shelves ofMoonlit Mercantilewere lined with all the things a person might need to keep a magical household running—charms to keep sour milk sweet, enchanted broom oil, and of course, a whole aisle of salves and warded bandages.

“Back again, Bear Boy?” Millie called from behind the counter, her silver hair pulled into a bun that looked more spell than style. She wore an apron embroidered with stitched crescent moons and the tiniest reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Need to restock,” Rollo said, lifting a hand in greeting. “The bunyip pup chewed through a bandage again. Thinks the gauze is a chew toy.”

Millie snorted. “Maybe it’s cursed. That pup has more teeth than sense.”

Rollo moved through the aisles, grabbing what he needed: burn balm, healing poultices, gauze infused with calming runes.His shoulders ached from the weight of the week. From Garrick. From Delilah.

Especially Delilah.

Every time he saw her lately, something inside him cracked a little more open—like a shell that had never healed right. She was sunlight and salt, firm hands and flinty eyes, and being near her made the world feel a little less sharp.

He paid, tucked the supplies into his satchel, and stepped back outside into the cool morning air.

That’s when he heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong.

Not quite a growl, not quite wind—butalive. Heavy. Wet with power.

Rollo turned toward the park near the edge of the town square where Miss Pepper’s class of eight-year-olds were gathered with clipboards and pocket wands, all lined up to sketch the saplings along the perimeter. A few fae-born kids were chasing butterflies that shimmered blue, their laughter soft and high-pitched under the hush of the morning.

Then the wind snapped.

Not a breeze. A crack—like fabric tearing in the sky.

The trees groaned deep, like something inside them had twisted wrong. And the air—normally cool and pine-sweet near the woods—turned sour, like spoiled cider left too long in a copper pot.

Then came the shift.

That thick, humming pulse of wrongness that hit Rollo straight in the gut like a warning bell. Magic—yes—but not natural. Not of the woods. Twisted. Fed-on. Angry.

He dropped his satchel without a second thought.

“Shelter,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder—roaring like thunder across the green—“Back! Everyone get back!”

Miss Pepper turned mid-lecture, startled, her glasses slipping down her nose. She didn’t even get a full word out before the first root exploded from the earth.

Thick and gnarled like a centipede made of bark, it curled out of the dirt and snapped, flinging soil into the air. More followed. A whole knot of them erupted from beneath the saplings the children had been sketching, tearing through the garden like angry veins.

A shimmer—dark as oil and flickering violet—rippled beneath the grass, cutting straight toward the children.

One little girl tripped, her wand clattering from her hand as she fell.

Another screamed when a root cracked the pavement just feet from her boots.

Rollo didn’t think.