Page 12

ROLLO

T he bell above Millie Grace’s shop door gave its usual squeaky chirp as Rollo stepped inside, boots trailing the scent of pine and damp earth.

The shelves of Moonlit Mercantile were lined with all the things a person might need to keep a magical household running—charms to keep sour milk sweet, enchanted broom oil, and of course, a whole aisle of salves and warded bandages.

“Back again, Bear Boy?” Millie called from behind the counter, her silver hair pulled into a bun that looked more spell than style. She wore an apron embroidered with stitched crescent moons and the tiniest reading glasses perched on her nose.

“Need to restock,” Rollo said, lifting a hand in greeting. “The bunyip pup chewed through a bandage again. Thinks the gauze is a chew toy.”

Millie snorted. “Maybe it’s cursed. That pup has more teeth than sense.”

Rollo moved through the aisles, grabbing what he needed: burn balm, healing poultices, gauze infused with calming runes. His shoulders ached from the weight of the week. From Garrick. From Delilah.

Especially Delilah.

Every time he saw her lately, something inside him cracked a little more open—like a shell that had never healed right. She was sunlight and salt, firm hands and flinty eyes, and being near her made the world feel a little less sharp.

He paid, tucked the supplies into his satchel, and stepped back outside into the cool morning air.

That’s when he heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong.

Not quite a growl, not quite wind—but alive . Heavy. Wet with power.

Rollo turned toward the park near the edge of the town square where Miss Pepper’s class of eight-year-olds were gathered with clipboards and pocket wands, all lined up to sketch the saplings along the perimeter.

A few fae-born kids were chasing butterflies that shimmered blue, their laughter soft and high-pitched under the hush of the morning.

Then the wind snapped.

Not a breeze. A crack—like fabric tearing in the sky.

The trees groaned deep, like something inside them had twisted wrong. And the air—normally cool and pine-sweet near the woods—turned sour, like spoiled cider left too long in a copper pot.

Then came the shift.

That thick, humming pulse of wrongness that hit Rollo straight in the gut like a warning bell. Magic—yes—but not natural. Not of the woods. Twisted. Fed-on. Angry.

He dropped his satchel without a second thought.

“Shelter,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder—roaring like thunder across the green—“Back! Everyone get back!”

Miss Pepper turned mid-lecture, startled, her glasses slipping down her nose. She didn’t even get a full word out before the first root exploded from the earth.

Thick and gnarled like a centipede made of bark, it curled out of the dirt and snapped, flinging soil into the air. More followed. A whole knot of them erupted from beneath the saplings the children had been sketching, tearing through the garden like angry veins.

A shimmer—dark as oil and flickering violet—rippled beneath the grass, cutting straight toward the children.

One little girl tripped, her wand clattering from her hand as she fell.

Another screamed when a root cracked the pavement just feet from her boots.

Rollo didn’t think.

He ran.

Fast. Hard. Everything inside him going hot, his bear roaring awake like it had waited for this.

He reached them in seconds, skidding into a full stop in front of the children, spreading his arms wide like a wall of flesh and bone and fury.

The roots came fast.

He threw up his hands and growled—not a human sound, but something older, something guttural and full of alpha heat. His palms sparked, and the protective glyphs tattooed on his forearms glowed gold. A shield shimmered to life just in time to deflect the first root.

It slammed into the barrier and recoiled with a shriek like splitting wood.

Miss Pepper was already grabbing children by the collar, shouting, “Inside! Go, go, go!”

The shimmer in the ground followed her words, surging again—slithering toward another child who’d frozen in panic.

Rollo scooped him up with one arm. “Hold on, kiddo.”

The boy clutched his shirt with tiny fingers, shaking.

Behind them, the woods wailed again, a chorus of snapping bark and moaning wind.

It wasn’t just a surge.

It was a message.

Rollo’s jaw clenched.

This wasn’t wild magic acting up.

This was Garrick.

He could feel it now. The thread of corrupted magic that ran under the earth like a rootworm. Slick. Slippery. It pulsed like something feeding.

That wasn’t just wild energy back there.

That was guided .

Rollo stood slowly, breathing heavy.

Garrick’s magic had sunk into the sacred earth. Into the pulse of the woods. And it was spreading.

He turned and headed toward the apothecary, urgency in his every step.

When he pushed open the door, the soft scent of lemon balm and rosemary greeted him. Wren was in her rocker, drowsing. Thistle opened one eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.

Delilah stood behind the counter, organizing bottles with quiet focus. She looked up, and her smile faltered the moment she saw his face.

“What happened?”

“There was a surge. Forest pushed toward the school field.” His voice was low, steady, but his hands trembled slightly. “Kids are fine. Got them inside. But... it’s getting worse.”

Delilah rounded the counter, reaching for him without hesitation. “You okay?”

He nodded. “I think so. But the energy—it felt targeted. Not like the normal woodland shift.”

She studied him. “What do you think caused it?”

Rollo hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.

Then he said, “I don’t know yet. But it wasn’t random. The surge had direction. It was like something reached through the earth and twisted it on purpose.”

Delilah stepped back just enough to give him space but didn’t pull away. “You felt it that strongly?”

He nodded, voice quieter now. “The roots weren’t just reacting. They were responding . And the energy… it was cold. Sharp. Like it didn’t belong to the woods at all.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do you think it’s some kind of magical sickness?”

“Maybe,” he lied. “But until we know more, I want to fortify the area. Ward it. At least protect the school line.”

Delilah didn’t hesitate. “What do you need from me?”

He looked at her, the firelight catching in her hazel eyes.

“I need your magic,” he said softly. “I need you . Your connection to the land—your pulse. You’re tuned to this place in a way I never was.”

She blinked, lips parting slightly at the honesty in his voice.

Then she nodded. “Alright.”

No resistance. No hesitation.

She turned and pulled her travel kit from the back shelf, her movements confident and precise.

“I’ll prep the grounding spells,” she said. “You’ll handle the perimeter wards?”

“Yeah.”

They worked side-by-side for the next hour, candles flickering around them, the windows catching the amber edge of late afternoon light.

The world outside was spinning faster, darker. The woods were turning in on themselves. Whatever was coming—it was coming soon. But in that golden hour inside the apothecary, with herbs spread across the table and their magic weaving quiet threads through the air, Rollo allowed himself a breath.

One breath of peace.

He stole a glance at her—how the furrow in her brow smoothed when she focused, how her lips curled slightly when the incantation clicked just right.

He swallowed hard.

You can’t protect what’s already broken, Garrick had said.

Rollo’s jaw tensed.

No.

He’d find out what Garrick was doing—what he wanted—before it touched Delilah.

She didn’t need to carry that weight.

Not yet.

He’d protect her this time. Even if it meant keeping some things hidden.