Page 24

ROLLO

T he wind was sharp up near the old clan site—too sharp for spring.

Rollo stalked through the trees, fists clenched, each step loud with purpose.

The air stank of burnt cedar and iron—magic twisted in a way that soured the back of his throat.

Shadows clung tighter here, stretching long beneath the skeletal trees that had once stood proud as the bear shifter heart of Celestial Pines.

Now the old camp was nothing but broken rings of stone, moss-covered timber, and memories that tasted like ash.

He hadn’t been back in years. Not since the exile. Not since Garrick spat his last words and vanished into the whispering woods like a curse.

But today? Today he wasn’t waiting.

Garrick had left his mark—literally. The sigils weren’t warnings anymore. They were challenges. Taunts. Lines drawn in blood and soil just outside the sanctuary's reach. And Rollo was done letting him scratch at the edges.

The wind shifted. And Rollo knew, before he heard a sound, before the temperature dropped—that he wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped out from behind one of the old totems, tall and lean as ever, eyes like hollowed-out coals.

“Didn't think you'd come crawling,” Garrick drawled.

Rollo’s bear surged beneath his skin, rising like a storm. “Wasn’t crawling. I came to end this.”

Garrick grinned, slow and venomous. His hair was longer now, tangled with twigs and bone beads. Magic clung to him like a second skin—feral, corrupted, wild.

“Funny,” he said. “That’s what I told myself when I left this cursed place.”

Rollo moved closer, eyes locked on the other man’s twisted shape, the heat of his own magic starting to burn under his skin. “Why come back then? Why poison the land? What do you want?”

Garrick tilted his head, hair matted and shadowed eyes gleaming. His smile was thin, ugly.

“What was always mine,” he hissed. “Respect. Fear. And her.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Something in Rollo cracked—low and hard in his chest.

“You don’t say her name.”

Garrick chuckled, slow and deliberate, like a wolf savoring the kill. “Didn’t need to. You brought her up all by yourself.”

Rollo’s fists clenched.

Garrick’s voice dropped to a mocking purr. “You think this is about you? About your little sanctuary and your oaths? No, no, Rollo. This started when she came back. Her magic always sang louder than yours. Always felt like something real. Something wild.”

He stepped closer, and the ground beneath them hissed like it disagreed with his very presence.

“She was wasted here. Then she left, and I thought... fine. The forest’ll forget her.” His jaw ticked. “But it didn’t. I didn’t.”

Rollo’s stomach turned. “You poisoned the land to bring her back.”

“I made the land scream,” Garrick said, his voice almost reverent. “Because if anything could lure her back, it’d be pain. She’s a healer, Rollo. Pain’s her beacon.”

Rollo’s rage deepened into something colder.

“You used this place. You hurt Wren. Hurt the people who trusted you—just to what? Steal her back?”

Garrick’s grin twisted further. “I never had her, not really. You did. But she looked at me once, you know. Back then. At the equinox fire. I caught her staring, just a little too long. She liked power. And I am power.”

“You’re rot,” Rollo growled.

“She was never bad on the eyes,” Garrick said, ignoring the insult. “But it’s not just that. She’s the key . Her blood, her magic—it could cleanse or corrupt. She belongs in the wild. Not caged in that dusty apothecary like a parlor trick.”

“And you thought she’d choose you ?” Rollo spat.

Garrick’s smile fell. “I thought she’d see I was willing to burn down the world for her.”

“Then you’re more gone than I thought.”

Rollo shifted mid-step—bones snapping, coat bursting through skin, his massive frame landing with a growl that rattled the trees.

Garrick was already moving, his own shift not clean—not smooth like it once had been. The corruption had changed him. His bear was thinner, gaunt around the ribs, eyes too bright with something feral.

They collided in a crash of fur and claws, tumbling through old stones and dead leaves.

Rollo hit first, driving Garrick into a fallen log with enough force to crack bark. But Garrick writhed like smoke, his claws dragging through Rollo’s shoulder, tearing through muscle and fur alike.

Pain bloomed, white-hot. But Rollo barely registered it.

He threatened Delilah.

That thought drove him harder, snarling, snapping. His claws caught Garrick’s flank, and blood sprayed, dark and foul-smelling.

They broke apart and circled, panting.

“You always were a coward,” Garrick spat, shifting back to half-form, blood dripping from his chest. “Always hiding behind rules. Behind women.”

“You left us,” Rollo growled, voice rough, chest heaving. “You chose exile.”

“I chose freedom! ” Garrick barked. “And I offered it to you! But you were too scared. You let that pathetic council leash you—and now you’re their lapdog.”

Rollo lunged again, slamming Garrick against the stones of the old fire pit.

“You corrupted the woods,” he snarled. “You’re killing the land. You’re killing Wren .”

For a moment—just a flicker—Garrick faltered.

Then he laughed, wheezing. “And you still don’t get it.”

He surged forward, using the last of his strength to sink claws deep into Rollo’s side. Rollo roared, collapsing to one knee as blood soaked his ribs.

Garrick leaned in close, breath rancid.

“She’ll never be yours,” he hissed.

Rollo’s vision blurred. But his voice was iron. “She was never yours to name.”

With the last of his strength, he slammed a fist into Garrick’s jaw. Bone crunched. Garrick fell back with a snarl.

When Rollo looked up again, the clearing was empty.

Garrick had vanished—dragged himself into the woods with a trail of blood and something darker behind him.

Rollo slumped back, gasping, pain singing through every nerve.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was the old totem stone—split down the center, like a warning carved into fate.