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DORIAN

D orian had seen storms roll off the mountains in the dead of night, how they crept in on a hush, then broke all at once, lightning snapping across the sky like it was tearing the world in half.

That’s how the night felt.

Tense. Breathless.

On the outside, the inn looked still. Quiet. Not a whisper of wind through the trees. But inside Briar Hollow’s parlor, where sigils glowed faintly across the floor and salt lines glimmered like star paths, the air was thick with something ancient.

Something watching. The house knew what was coming.

He stood just outside the circle, watching Autumn as she lit the last of the ward candles.

Her hands were steady, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw flexed when she thought no one was looking.

She wore the moonstone necklace he’d made her, the pendant catching the candlelight and throwing it back in soft pulses.

She looked like a spell in motion—quiet, powerful, full of intention.

He didn’t breathe until she met his eyes.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They’d talked it through. Every step. Every symbol. Every breath that would need to be shared. But rituals had a way of ignoring instructions when the emotions behind them ran this deep.

Dorian couldn’t stop the protective instinct that surged up. He didn’t try to. He just stepped closer, hand brushing hers.

“I’ll be right here,” he said. “No matter what.”

Autumn nodded, then stepped into the circle.

The temperature dropped immediately. Not a gust. Not a breeze. But a presence . Like the room was now breathing with them. Or without them.

She knelt at the center, palms flat against the sigil-marked rug, her voice soft as she began the invocation.

The words were old, sacred, older than either of them had ever dared to speak aloud and they unfurled from her lips like smoke, curling through the air and catching fire in the symbols around her.

Dorian didn’t know how long he stood there, watching her command something so much bigger than either of them with such calm resolve. It scared him.

And it awed him.

The room shuddered.

The candles flickered violently. The wind began to push in through the shutters, though none had opened. The walls groaned. Then the cold hit him in the chest like a punch. Autumn gasped.

She clutched her ribs, eyes wide. The chalk lines began to glow brighter, humming low and sharp.

Dorian took a step forward, hand out. “Autumn?—”

“Don’t break the circle,” she hissed.

He stopped himself mid-step, growling low under his breath. His bear stirred beneath his skin, pushing upward like it could sense what was coming.

Then the shadows moved. They coalesced in the corner, where the light didn’t reach. Slowly taking shape. Tall. Slender. And heart-wrenchingly sad.

Hollis.

The Hollow Man.

But this wasn’t like the flickers they’d seen before, this was full form. Eyes dark and hollow, grief etched into every shadowed line of his face. His mouth opened, and the air dropped again.

“You cannot keep what is not yours,” he said. Not shouted. Not growled. Just… stated. Like it was law.

Autumn shuddered but didn’t break eye contact. “No one’s trying to take anything. But you don’t have to haunt this anymore.”

Hollis stepped forward, and the circle flared bright in warning.

That’s when Dorian’s body shifted. No conscious thought. No permission.

The bear pushed forward hard, shoulders splitting wider, breath ragged as fur rippled down his arms and his spine curved into something feral and full of fire. He roared once, deep and furious, and moved near the lines etched for the circle, placing his massive body between Hollis and Autumn.

He didn’t step inside. Didn’t break the ritual. But he dared the spirit to try.

Hollis faltered just slightly.

His gaze fell to Dorian’s bear eyes, and something ancient flickered in them…recognition, maybe.

“You would give yourself for her?” the spirit asked, tilting his head.

The bear didn’t answer. But Dorian did.

“Yes.”

Hollis looked at Autumn again. “Then speak it.”

Autumn reached forward, her hand brushing just over the inside edge of the chalk line, toward Dorian’s massive paw. She didn’t touch—but she was close.

“I love him,” she said. “I love him. And I’m not leaving. Not because I’m not afraid, but because I want this. I want him. And I’m not going to run from peace anymore.”

Hollis stilled.

The air held, thick and tense.

He stepped back and smiled. But it wasn’t peace.

Not entirely.

It was soft, yes. Sad. But there was something else underneath it. A curl at the edge of his mouth that didn't quite reach his hollowed eyes. Something off .

Then he vanished. Just like that.

The circle pulsed bright, blinding white and then collapsed inward. The sigils dulled to soot. The candles flickered out in perfect unison.

The room breathed again. And for a moment, so did Dorian.

He staggered slightly as his bear form melted back into his body, breath ragged, shoulders sore, skin tingling with the remnants of something otherworldly. Autumn moved toward him immediately, her hands sliding up to cup his face.

She kissed him.

It wasn’t frantic. It was truth. Raw, unhidden.

Her lips pressed to his like she’d meant to do it for years, and now that she had, she never wanted to stop.

Her fingers curled in his hair. Her body, warm and trembling, leaned into his. He wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her closer, felt her pulse race beneath her skin.

She didn’t let go.

Not at first.

But behind her, in the darkest corner of the parlor—where the candlelight hadn’t touched—something shifted.

A shadow moved. A whisper coiled through the air, too low to be heard, but cold enough to raise the hair on Dorian’s arms again. And the moonstone around Autumn’s neck flickered.

Just once.

Faint.

Like breath on a mirror.