Page 5

He poured himself a cup of pine nettle tea—earthy and bitter, just how he liked it. Sat in his old rocking chair. Let the mug warm his palms.

But Delilah’s face was still burned behind his eyes. The way her jaw clenched. The way she wouldn’t even say his name again.

He deserved that.

Hell, he deserved worse.

Later that evening, he busied himself stacking firewood and checking on the rest of the sanctuary’s rescues: a wounded water sprite curled into a mossy basin, a mischievous bunyip pup chewing on enchanted rope, and three orphaned owlets that blinked in unison from their perch.

His hands knew the work.

His mind kept drifting.

He didn’t expect her to forgive him. He’d ghosted her. Walked out when she needed him. Because he hadn’t trusted himself—hadn’t trusted the bear inside him not to hurt her when the bond flared too bright.

But now?

He knew himself better.

And seeing her again didn’t spark panic. It sparked something warmer. Something like… hope. The kind that bloomed slow.

He finished his rounds, the stars bleeding into the sky above like silver brushstrokes. The town was quieter now, the Spellbound Sip likely closed, and the streets bathed in that familiar lavender twilight that only Celestial Pines could pull off.

He stepped onto the porch and leaned against the railing, cup in hand.

Out beyond the sanctuary, the Whispering Woods pulsed like a sleeping thing. Restless.

Wrong.

The trees weren’t just whispering—they werewhining, keening low and long like something was festering inside them.

A cold wind cut through his shirt, and his bear stirred.

Trouble.

Rollo took a long sip of his tea and stared out at the line of trees.

Delilah’s magic could help. She was an Earth element after all, just like her grandmother.

But would she? And more importantly… would she ever let him get close enough to ask?

3

DELILAH

Delilah had only been back in Celestial Pines for a day and a half, and already her heart ached like she’d walked barefoot through broken memories.

The town looked the same on the outside—cobblestone paths lined with ivy-wrapped lanterns, shop signs hand-painted with whimsical flair, and that ever-present mist curling through the air like the breath of some ancient sleeping creature. But magic didn’t shimmer here like it used to. It wobbled. Fizzled. Like someone had put a wet blanket over a hearthfire.

And Wren? Her grandmother looked more like a fading portrait than the force of nature she once was. By the time she had gotten there the day before, her grandmother had fallen asleep, so Delilah had left her there to rest while she settled in. Now, they needed to talk about what was happening. To her, the Whispering Woods, everything.

Delilah pushed open the warped wooden door ofMoonshadow Apothecary, the brass bell above the entrance letting out a warble rather than a chime. She frowned. The enchantment was off.

Inside, the scent hit her first: lavender, sage, and something sharper beneath—rot. A note of decay hidden under the usual bouquet of drying herbs.

“Wren?” Delilah called, stepping across the crooked floorboards. They creaked like they recognized her and weren’t quite sure if they forgave her yet.

“I’m in the back, sugar plum,” came the answer, thin and papery.