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Delilah’s throat tightened.

Wren Moonstone wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

She found her grandmother seated in her favorite rocking chair near the back hearth, a fox curled asleep in her lap. Thistle’s flame-colored ears flicked at Delilah’s approach but didn’t stir.

“Sweet roots, you came,” Wren said, smiling up at her.

Delilah tried to smile back but couldn’t stop the sting in her eyes. “I told you if you summoned me with a binding charm again, I’d put nettles in your bathwater.”

Wren chuckled, but the sound turned into a cough that rattled in her chest.

Delilah dropped to her knees beside her and took one of the older woman’s hands in hers. The skin was cool and dry—too dry—and the pulse beneath her fingers thready.

“You look like hell,” she whispered.

“And you’ve still got the bedside manner of a snapping turtle.” Wren gave her hand a weak squeeze. “Welcome home, baby girl.”

Delilah bit her lip and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her grandmother’s frail frame. Wren’s bones felt like bundled twigs wrapped in a floral shawl.

“I missed you,” Delilah said, softer now.

Wren patted her back. “You came back. That’s what matters.”

The hearth popped behind them, sending a puff of smoke into the air. Thistle lifted his head, eyes glowing faintly as he stared at something invisible to Delilah.

“You’ve been slipping,” Delilah said, pulling back. “Tell me everything.”

Wren sighed. “It started subtle. My herbs stopped listening first—couldn’t grow them past a crescent moon. Then the tinctures began turning cloudy even before I sealed them. My connection to the earth… it’s like a door’s been shut, and I’m knockin’, but no one’s home.”

Delilah's brow furrowed. “The Whispering Woods?”

“Mm-hmm,” Wren murmured. “Something foul is soaking into the roots. And the spirits? Restless. They murmur all night. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Delilah nodded slowly. “In the café… and walking through town. The air’s wrong.”

Wren gestured weakly toward the workbench. “Take a look at the moonvine batch. It bloomed during the wrong phase last week. That ain't never happened.”

Delilah stood and crossed the room, her shoes echoing in the quiet. The jars on the shelves shimmered faintly—some more than others. A few were completely dim.

She paused at the moonvine jar. The petals inside were soft gray, not the deep silver they should’ve been under this moon.

She touched the glass. Cold. Too cold.

“Holy roots…” she muttered.

“Now you see it,” Wren called. “Magic’s limping, not dancing.”

Delilah spun slowly, taking it all in—the drying racks that sagged, the chalk runes on the floor that had blurred, the candle beside the altar that sputtered even without wind. Something was draining the shop… and Wren.

“We need to get you re-rooted. Something’s corrupted your tether to the land.”

“I’ve tried,” Wren said gently. “But my magic’s tangled in this. It ain't personal—it’s systemic. You can feel it outside too, can’t you? The trees… they grieve.”

Delilah swallowed hard. “This isn’t just sickness. It’s spiritual. Elemental.”

Wren nodded once. “I need your help, sugar. You’ve got a stronger pull now than I do. You’re fresh. Unbroken.”

Delilah wanted to protest—wanted to scream that shewasbroken—but the words caught in her throat.