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He’d broken something.

Maybe it was repairable. Maybe it wasn’t.

But if Ezra was really sniffing around with intent—and the town was on the edge of disruption—then he didn’t just owe it to the Pact to protect Celestial Pines.

He owed it toher.

Even if she hated him for it.

Jace felt something tug at the wards. Harder than before. A disruption. Something angry pulling at the thread and getting through. Then, through his unwanted bond, the same feeling before.

Lyra was somewhere too close to it.

19

LYRA

The basket dangled from Lyra’s elbow, the dried lavender bunches inside bobbing gently with each step. The further she got from the edge of town, the quieter it became—too quiet. Even the wind held its breath.

The festival prep had every shop in Celestial Pines buzzing, and Calla had been juggling orders like a potion-wielding octopus. So when she asked Lyra to retrieve moon thistle and whisperroot from the herb grove just off the old path by theWhispering Woods, Lyra didn’t hesitate.

She needed the air.

She needed the distance.

Mostly, she needed something to do that didn’t involve thinking about Jace Montgomery and the mess of feelings still lodged like a spell shard in her chest.

Milo padded silently beside her, his black fur bristling more with each passing yard.

“You’re twitchy,” Lyra said without looking at him.

“I’mintuitive,” Milo replied, voice flat. “There’s a difference.”

Lyra smirked, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “It’s just the woods.”

“It’snotjust the woods. It’s theWhispering Woods, which literally earned that name because spirits murmur warnings through the trees. And you’re ignoring them.”

“I can’t hear anything.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s the problem. This place is never silent. And it’s never still.”

Lyra paused, letting her magic hum lightly through her fingers. The air was… wrong. Heavy. Like the charge before a storm or the pause before something big and bad decided to stretch its claws.

“I don’t like it,” Milo whispered. “Let’s go back. Calla can get her own herbs.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “She’s elbow-deep in a batch of shimmerwine jam and you know it. We’re five minutes from the grove.”

Milo’s tail flicked, annoyed. “This is exactly how horror stories start.”

“And yet,” she said, “here I am, still main character material.”

“I’m going on record now. If something eats you, Itoldyou so.”

She laughed and kept walking.

The path narrowed, shifting from worn cobblestone to moss-covered dirt. Branches hung lower, shadows longer. The whisperroot always bloomed just before the treeline thickened, on the edge where the Veil flickered.

She crouched to snip a cluster of silvery stalks, stuffing them into her pouch. “See? Easy peasy.”