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Then he said, “I don’t know yet. But it wasn’t random. The surge had direction. It was like something reached through the earth and twisted it on purpose.”

Delilah stepped back just enough to give him space but didn’t pull away. “You felt it that strongly?”

He nodded, voice quieter now. “The roots weren’t just reacting. They wereresponding. And the energy… it was cold. Sharp. Like it didn’t belong to the woods at all.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do you think it’s some kind of magical sickness?”

“Maybe,” he lied. “But until we know more, I want to fortify the area. Ward it. At least protect the school line.”

Delilah didn’t hesitate. “What do you need from me?”

He looked at her, the firelight catching in her hazel eyes.

“I need your magic,” he said softly. “I needyou. Your connection to the land—your pulse. You’re tuned to this place in a way I never was.”

She blinked, lips parting slightly at the honesty in his voice.

Then she nodded. “Alright.”

No resistance. No hesitation.

She turned and pulled her travel kit from the back shelf, her movements confident and precise.

“I’ll prep the grounding spells,” she said. “You’ll handle the perimeter wards?”

“Yeah.”

They worked side-by-side for the next hour, candles flickering around them, the windows catching the amber edge of late afternoon light.

The world outside was spinning faster, darker. The woods were turning in on themselves. Whatever was coming—it was coming soon. But in that golden hour inside the apothecary,with herbs spread across the table and their magic weaving quiet threads through the air, Rollo allowed himself a breath.

One breath of peace.

He stole a glance at her—how the furrow in her brow smoothed when she focused, how her lips curled slightly when the incantation clicked just right.

He swallowed hard.

You can’t protect what’s already broken,Garrick had said.

Rollo’s jaw tensed.

No.

He’d find out what Garrick was doing—what he wanted—before it touched Delilah.

She didn’t need to carry that weight.

Not yet.

He’d protect her this time. Even if it meant keeping some things hidden.

13

DELILAH

The smell of butter and garlic clung to Delilah’s sleeves as she organized the shelf of glass vials, each one labeled in Wren’s shaky but elegant script. The apothecary was quieter than usual—no potions bubbling, no spirit candles whispering from the corner altar.

Which made her suspicious.