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Delilah bit down the anger, buried it under reason. But it still simmered—because sheshould’veknown. Because itmattered.

“He and Garrick were thick as moss on bark,” Nerissa said. “Closer than brothers, and that exile? It shook something loosein Rollo. He got real quiet. Nervous. Like he was afraid whatever Garrick had… might be buried inside him, too.”

“He thought he’d turn into him,” she whispered.

Nerissa nodded. “And instead of letting that fear hollow him out, he took over the sanctuary. Poured every ounce of himself into protection, control, care. That man didn’t just rebuild the animal wards—he rebuilthimselfright alongside them.”

Delilah looked away, blinking back the sudden sting behind her eyes.

She wasn’t angry anymore. Not really.

She washeartbrokenfor him.

He’d been carrying that weight in silence. All this time. Afraid she might see the worst in him when all she ever wanted was to hold the best.

“I should’ve seen it,” she murmured.

Nerissa shook her head. “He never let you. You were the light he didn’t think he deserved. He’s just now learning to stop hiding from it.”

Delilah ran a hand through her hair, touching the moonblossoms Hazel had woven into it the day before.

“I need to talk to him,” she said, standing.

Nerissa smiled, warm and certain. “Good. Remind him he’s not Garrick. That he’s never been.”

Delilah took one last sip of lemon mist—flavored now with clarity—and turned for the door.

And as she stepped back into the sunlight, she didn’t feel hollowed by the gossip anymore.

She felt filled with purpose, and love, and the knowledge that Rollo had clawed his way out of shadow.

And now, it was her turn to show him he never had to do it alone.

“Thank you,” she said again, but this time it wasn’t just for the tea.

Nerissa patted her hand. “Anytime. And remember—just because the woods whisper doesn’t mean they speak the truth. You dobelonghere. Some of us never stopped waiting for you.”

22

ROLLO

The forest was holding its breath. Rollo felt it in his bones.

He stood at the southern edge of the sanctuary grounds, a hand pressed to the protective ward stone buried just beneath the twisted roots of the elder maple. It should’ve hummed warm beneath his skin. Steady. Quiet.

Instead, the pulse was erratic—like a heartbeat knocked out of rhythm. Something was interfering with the protective barrier.

His jaw tightened. He could smell it—barely there, but wrong. Sour. Twisted.

Garrick’s magic.

It coiled through the air like smoke from greenwood fire—sharp, sickly, and far too familiar. The glyph hidden in the bramble hadn’t been etched by a student or a curious traveler. It was carved with purpose. Rot etched into protection.

He crouched, pushing aside a curtain of thistle and brush.

In the dirt—half-concealed by moss—was a sigil. Old. Twisted. Marked in blood that had dried to a rusted smear and ash from a burned offering.

Rollo’s stomach turned.