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The spirit guardians slowly turned to Rollo, their light dimming with somber gravity. One laid a hand—a great, gnarled limb of vine and bark—upon the cracked stone at the center of the clearing. Moss bloomed instantly around its fingers.

Their message, without words, echoed in his chest like a second heartbeat:

Protect the bloom. Or the rot will spread.

And then they, too, vanished into the trees, as if they had never been there at all.

Rollo stood alone, the clearing breathing slow again.

But his chest heaved.

Blood dripped from his fists, cooling on his skin.

And he didn’t know what scared him more?—

That Garrick might be right.

Or that he might not be strong enough to prove him wrong.

33

DELILAH

The forest had always been her sanctuary.

Long before she’d left Celestial Pines, before Salem and circles of stone and endless books on botanical rites and alchemical bindings, the woods had been her first teacher. Her quiet refuge. It was where she learned to feel the difference between roots and rot.

And now it was where she went to run—not away, but inward.

Because if she stayed near Rollo any longer, she’d fall apart.

She moved through the trees in silence, skirts brushing moss, her boots damp with morning dew. Her hands were clenched into fists, tucked tight against her ribs. Not from anger. Not even fear.

But grief.

The kind that built quiet and slow, like ivy up a wall.

She didn’t need Hazel’s riddles or the spirits’ whispers to know something had shifted. She’d seen the way Rollo returned from the grove—shoulders bowed under weight he didn’t speak. His eyes darker. Not just tired, but fractured.

And he hadn’t told her what happened. Just a muttered, “He’s still out there,” and a kiss to her forehead like it might be the last time.

That’s when she knew.

He had confronted Garrick again. Alone. Because ofher.

Because of the bond they shared now—deep and tangled and bright as fire—but double-edged. The more she poured into him, the more she tethered herself to this land, the more he saw her as something fragile. Something sacred, maybe. But not safe. Not for him.

And gods help her, he might’ve been right.

Her collapse at the market had sent a ripple through town. She’d heard Missy whispering to Junie. How magic like that didn’t belong in one girl’s chest. How maybe the bond wasn’t just saving her—it was draining her.

And Rollo?

He’d carried her out of that crowd like she was made of petals, not muscle. Held her too carefully, like if he squeezed too hard, she’d turn to dust.

But she wasn’t afraid forherself.

She was afraidofherself.