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CALLUM

M oonmirror Lake had been restless all damn week.

Callum Cross leaned on the weather-scarred railing of the ranger lookout, breath ghosting in the chilled spring air.

The water below usually lay smooth as polished glass, but tonight ripples chased one another from shore to shore like some unseen hand kept flicking stones.

A pulse, deep and rhythmic, throbbed through the Veil that wrapped Hollow Oak.

He felt it on the back of his tongue, metallic, wrong.

“Something spooked you,” he muttered to the lake. “Show me what.”

The forest answered with a shiver. A stand of beeches bowed in unison, leaves whispering his name in a language only shifters and the very old trees knew. Callum’s lion stirred, hackles lifting beneath the man-skin. Not fear, not yet. Territory. Instinct.

He dropped from the lookout, boots crunching on pine needles. Gold-and-midnight fur threatened to burst through his arms, but he kept the shift at bay, jogging along the trail instead. Patrol always calmed the beast. Tonight it barely dented the unease.

Halfway to the lake, the Veil bucked again. Magic scraped across his senses, wild and floral, like lilacs after lightning. Callum skidded to a halt. That scent had no business inside Hollow Oak. It was fresh, potent, alive.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled at the dark.

The only reply was the distant hoot of an owl—a night guard’s warning that something crossed the border.

He broke into a run, branches clawing his shirt sleeves.

Vines writhed in the underbrush, rooting and unrooting in frantic pulses.

The forest never behaved like this unless provoked, and nobody in town was foolish enough to provoke it. Which meant outsider.

He cleared the last ridge and saw her.

A young woman lay crumpled at the lakeshore, half-lit by moonlight and the ghostly glow of the Veil.

Pale hair splayed across moss like spilled starlight.

Her clothes were road-dust plain with leggings torn at the knee, faded jacket, traveling boots but magic clung to her skin in a bright aura even his human eyes could read.

Roots curled protectively around her ankles, easing back as he approached.

The forest was guarding her. That alone raised every alarm in his head.

“Well, sweetheart,” Callum said under his breath, “you’ve stirred up a mess.”

He knelt, careful not to touch her yet. Brambles had sliced her palms; dried blood freckled slender fingers. He caught the faintest scent of fear threaded through lilac and cedar. Not bleeding out, at least. He touched two fingers to her throat. Pulse strong, steady.

“Unconscious but stable.”

The lion bristled. Very few mages could knock themselves out without shattering bone.

Whoever she was, power squatted in her bones like a sleeping dragon.

When she woke, she might blast the first thing she saw.

For safety’s sake he should bind her wrists, march her straight to the Council Glade for questioning.

Instead he brushed a leaf from her cheek. The skin beneath was soft, cool. Moonlight silvered freckles across her nose.

“Damn it,” he muttered, and scooped her into his arms.

The moment he lifted her, the Veil that concealed the town shuddered again, but the tremor eased seconds later, as if the forest recognized its newest carrier.

Callum adjusted his grip, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her back.

She weighed little more than a bundle of herbs, yet heat pooled in his chest where she rested.

The scent of lilacs deepened, edged by a note of burning.

He set off toward town at a fast walk. The path, usually winding, rearranged itself, straightening beneath his feet. Hollow Oak wanted her inside the borders. Callum muttered a soft thanks to the trees anyway.

As the rooftops came into view with cozy dormers, chimney smoke curling above lantern-lit windows, he caught a flicker of movement. Twyla Honeytree stood under the Griddle the sound echoed like memories.

He remembered bringing wounded shifters here during the Briar Pack skirmishes years ago. Miriam had never lost a patient.

Room three held a quilt‐draped bed, a washstand, and a window overlooking town square. Callum laid the woman down. Miriam bustled in with a basin and cloths.

“Fetch the tonic from the shelf in the hall,” she ordered.

Callum retrieved the glass bottle, uncorked it, and handed it over. It smelled of willow bark and honey. Miriam dabbed tonic on the girl’s cut palms, then her knee.

“You reckon she’s fae?” Miriam asked.

“Smells like it. Power’s off the charts. Veil’s reacting.” Callum crossed thick arms over his chest, unable to stop staring at the girl’s serene face. Moonlight through the window glazed her hair more silver than blonde.

“Pretty little thing,” Miriam said, tone gentle but probing. “You look rattled.”

“Forest moved on its own. Roots, vines, the whole damn path rearranged to bring her in.”

“That hasn’t happened since the Veil was first woven.” Miriam straightened. “This girl might be more than a simple traveler.”

Callum’s jaw tightened. “Council needs to sort it before word spreads.”

A soft sound pulled his attention. The girl stirred, fingers flexing. Her lashes fluttered, revealing eyes the shade of storm-tossed sea glass. They focused on him, hazy, curious, vulnerable. Something shifted in his chest with a click, like a lock finding its key.

He scowled reflexively. “Stay still. You’re safe.”

“Where—” Her voice cracked; she swallowed. “Where am I?”

“Hollow Oak. Hearth & Hollow Inn.” He kept his tone level. “I’m Callum Cross, town ranger.”

“Callum,” she echoed, tasting the name. Her gaze dropped to his forearm, where tawny hairs hinted at the beast beneath. “You’re a shifter.”

“Lion,” he confirmed. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, then whispered, “Cora.”

Cora. Lilac and lightning. The name suited her.

Miriam pressed a clay mug into Cora’s hands. “Sip. Willow bark for pain, honey for strength.”

Cora obeyed, though the mug trembled. Callum could smell her exhaustion, the bruise of overtaxed magic. He fought the urge to brush hair from her cheek.

“How’d you cross the Veil?” he asked.

“I—I cast a protection spell. It, um, misfired.” Her cheeks pinked. “I didn’t mean to break anything.”

Callum grunted. “Veil’s cracked, not broken. Still want answers. Council meets at dawn. You’ll come.”

“Not like I’m going anywhere,” she murmured, gaze dropping to her bandaged knee.

A pang of guilt tugged at him, unexpected. He gentled his voice. “Healing first, questions second.”

She looked up, eyes bright with wary gratitude. “Thank you.”

An awkward beat lingered. Miriam, sensing it, clapped her hands. “All right, you two. Ranger, out. Let the girl rest. She can barely keep those peepers open.”

Callum nodded. At the door he paused, glanced back. Cora lay against pillows, mug cupped in both hands, hair spilling in pale waves. Her magic danced around her like distant fireflies, dim but pulsing to some hidden rhythm.

He turned into the hall and nearly collided with Twyla. The fae woman leaned against the railing, smirk already in place.

“You look like a tomcat who smelled fresh cream.”

“Spare me,” Callum growled.

“Council’s assembling. Varric wants your statement.”

“I know my job, Twyla.”

She patted his bicep. “So do I. That girl’s trouble wrapped in sunshine, and you’re already circling.”

“Someone has to protect this town.”

“Sure,” she said, eyes glittering. “Just remember to protect yourself while you’re at it.”

Callum couldn’t find a retort, so he pushed past. Downstairs, he paused at the inn’s threshold, taking in Hollow Oak. Lanterns bobbed along cottage porches, casting puddles of gold on cobbles. Crickets chirred. Somewhere a baby cried then settled. Peaceful. Home.

He clenched his fists. Whatever ripple Cora had brought, he would contain it. The town depended on him. The lion inside settled at that promise, though its amber gaze pointed back up the stairwell toward the girl with lilac magic.

Duty first. Always.

He stepped into the night, heading for Council Glade, the scent of lilacs still clinging stubbornly to the collar of his shirt.