Page 20

ROLLO

T he sun dipped low over the treetops, painting the sanctuary in shades of honey and rust. The greenhouse still smelled faintly of blooming moonvine—his and Delilah’s magic lingering like a secret whispered into the soil.

Rollo stood just outside the barn, a hammer in one hand and a loose board under his boot. The day had been quiet. The kind of quiet that made his skin itch.

That’s when he heard the familiar crunch of gravel. He looked up, already halfway bracing for a wild fox or one of the crows from the northern pines—until he saw him.

Dax Tarrow.

Another bear shifter. One of the few left in town who still wore their animal like a second skin rather than a weapon. His beard had grown out, silver streaks threading through the black like old roots, and his shirt looked like he’d slept in it—and probably had.

Rollo straightened, squinting. “Didn’t expect to see you around here.”

Dax grinned, crooked and tired. “Didn’t expect to come. But… I had a feeling.”

Rollo motioned him toward the porch and set the hammer down. “You here for a visit, or did something bite you on the way in?”

Dax settled onto the bench with a grunt, pulling a flask from his jacket and offering it. “Both.”

Rollo took a swig. Strong. Smoky. Burned in all the right ways. Like chewing embers.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Dax said, side-eying him with a crooked grin. “Less haunted.”

Rollo let out a short, dry laugh. “Don’t let the flannel fool you. Still haunted. Just better at hiding it.”

Dax tipped his chin, skeptical. “Nah, this ain’t just better stitching on the same scars. You’re lighter. You’re walking different.”

Rollo didn’t answer at first, but his gaze flicked to the greenhouse, where faint blossoms still glowed from last night.

“Delilah’s back.”

That made Dax’s eyebrows lift. “ Huh. Now that explains it. I’d heard whispers she was in town again, but I didn’t think you two would be?—”

“Back at it?” Rollo finished, voice dry but not bitter.

“Well,” Dax shrugged, “last I knew, y’all were on opposite sides of a silent war.”

“We were,” Rollo admitted, running a hand down his face. “But... things shifted. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Dax gave a low whistle. “Damn. You really are different.”

Rollo glanced back at him. “That what brought you here? Personal check-in?”

Dax’s smile faded. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “No. I came to tell you something. Something’s been chewing at me.”

Rollo straightened, his gut already tightening. “I’m listening.”

“I was out near Hollow’s Pass last week,” Dax began, “tracking a rumor about a stag gone feral. Thought maybe it was just noise—but I swear on my mother’s roots, I saw him.”

Rollo didn’t move. “Garrick?”

Dax nodded grimly. “Didn’t get close. But the gait? The scent? That was him. Same twitch in his left leg, same crooked shoulder from the time he took that blow near the old temple ridge. Ain’t no mistaking him.”

Rollo’s stomach turned. “He was near town?”

“Too near,” Dax said. “But that’s not what spooked me most.”

He glanced around, cautious. Then lowered his voice.

“When I got back, I dropped it in casual conversation. No names. Just testing the waters, see if anyone else’d seen or heard him.”

Rollo raised a brow. “And?”

“One of the younger wardens—again, I don’t know who exactly, just heard it through a buddy at the tavern—starts talking like Garrick was misunderstood. Like exile was too harsh. Said maybe the Council rushed it, maybe he had a point, maybe—just maybe—he’s not as far gone as folks think.”

Rollo sat up straighter, jaw hardening. “Someone’s defending him?”

Dax nodded grimly. “More than defending. Pleading his case. Like he’s some fallen hero just waiting for a second chance.”

Rollo’s bear bristled under his skin.

“He chose his path,” Rollo muttered, voice clipped. “Started testing forbidden spells, talked like the Moonlit Pact was shackles instead of salvation. When he crossed into cursed grounds and came back wrong, we didn’t exile him. He walked out.”

“I remember,” Dax said. “But not everyone does. Some of the new blood don’t know what went down. They just hear pieces. And sympathy’s dangerous when it ain’t earned.”

Rollo stood, pacing the porch. His fists clenched, the wood creaking under his boots.

“The wardens are supposed to uphold the Pact. If he’s got even one voice among them…”

“We’ve got a rot starting,” Dax finished. “And you know how it works. Quiet. Creepin’. Dressed in good intentions until it’s too deep to pull out.”

Rollo nodded, jaw set. “I need to find out who. I need names. Evidence.”

“That’s just it,” Dax said, exhaling. “I don’t have names. My buddy—he said he overheard the sympathizing talk, didn’t get a clear look. Could’ve been anyone. Just some Moonlit Ward member over in the supply shed, talking like Garrick was done dirty. But if it was a warden…”

Rollo turned, eyes dark. “Then we’ve already got a crack in the wall.”

“And if Garrick’s got someone feeding him intel?” Dax added. “Hell, he might not need to knock. Someone might already be opening the door.”

Silence stretched.

Rollo’s mind turned to Delilah, to the healing glow in the greenhouse, to the kiss that tasted like coming home and danger all at once.

He couldn’t let this touch her.

“You gonna tell the Council?” Dax asked.

Rollo hesitated. Then shook his head. “Not yet.”

Dax grunted. “Didn’t think so.”

“I can’t bring this half-baked. Not with tensions already high. I need proof. I need to know. And I need Delilah out of the blast zone.”

Dax stood, clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, you always did play the long game. But be careful. Sympathizers ain’t always obvious. Sometimes they look like allies.”

Rollo nodded, gaze hardening toward the tree line.

He didn’t know who to trust.

But he knew what he had to protect.

When Dax left, Rollo watched him disappear into the trees.

And then he turned back to the sanctuary, jaw tight, bear pacing in his blood.

Something was wrong inside the town.

And he’d find it, before it found her.