Page 22

CALLUM

C allum felt the wrongness before sunrise.

The Veil usually greeted him like an old friend when he left the cabin, a steady hum under his boots and pine on his tongue.

This morning it buzzed like a hive poked with a stick.

Vines along the trail twitched, jittery.

Crows launched from the trees in a ragged flock, calling sharp warnings he could not translate.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the unease, then followed routine anyway. He checked ward stones, listened for cracks in the hush, let lion senses scan for threats, yet the feeling clung, a burr under his skin.

By mid-morning he turned toward town, telling himself hot coffee at the Griddle & Grind would clear his head. The square bustled, witches haggling over herbs, shifter kids racing around the fountain, but the air still felt off.

Twyla’s bell jingled the moment he pushed through the door. The sweet smell of cardamom scones wrapped around him. He lifted a hand in greeting, but Twyla barely glanced his way as she hustled Miriam Caldwell toward the back room.

“Stay calm and think,” Twyla whispered, voice urgent.

“I told her to breathe, child,” Miriam answered, worry making the words brittle.

Door clicked shut. Curiosity spiked hard. Twyla never shut him out, and Miriam only sounded brittle when someone she loved was hurting.

He moved to the counter, planted his palms. No one waited for service, so he leaned in and listened. Voices seeped through the thin wall.

“…blood on the parchment,” Miriam murmured.

Twyla answered. “A raven in daylight, wings blacker than moonshadow. That’s old magic, nasty and personal.”

Callum’s gut went tight. Parchment, blood, raven. Cora.

He pushed through the back door before second thoughts could bite. Twyla whirled around, teapot halfway to the shelf. Miriam stood by a cluttered worktable, kettle steaming beside a scone tin. Both women stiffened at his sudden appearance.

“Who sent a raven?” His voice came out low, not quite a growl but close enough that Twyla’s brows shot up.

Miriam set the kettle down, wiping her hands on her apron. “Callum?—”

“Don’t soften it,” he cut in. “Talk straight.”

Twyla folded her arms, golden eyes sharp. “Not our story to tell.”

He glared. “If it threatens Hollow Oak, it is.”

Miriam held up a calming palm. “Sugar, if you want answers, go ask the girl directly. And maybe think on why she came to us first.”

The words landed like a slap. He opened his mouth, shut it, shoulder muscles twitching.

Twyla tapped a manicured finger on the table. “You ever wonder why folks keep part of themselves hidden around you? Might be all that scowling.”

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

“Then go listen,” she shot back. “With ears, not claws.”

He pivoted on his heel, stalking out of the café. The square blurred past, colors too bright. Her cottage sat a short walk down the trail, white smoke curling from the chimney. He slowed only when the gate creaked under his hand.

Cora knelt by the herb bed, head bowed. At the sound of the gate she looked up, freckles stark against pale cheeks, eyes shadowed with something heavier than sleeplessness.

“You should be resting,” Callum said, softer than he felt.

She pushed to her feet, brushing dirt from her palms. “Couldn’t.”

He studied her face, the tightness around her mouth, the faint tremor in her fingers. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

She glanced at the open door, then back. “Inside.”

The cottage smelled of rosemary and damp parchment. On the table lay a folded scrap, edges crusted brown. Beside it sat her sketchbook. She moved past him, lifted the scrap with pinch-tight fingers, and handed it over.

Blood had dried rusty, soaking the rough paper. In the center a single word spiraled: Mine.

Heat detonated behind Callum’s sternum, lion roaring awake. He crushed the parchment in his fist, then forced his fingers to ease. “When?”

“Yesterday.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “A raven delivered it at dusk.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

Her eyes flashed. “You made it clear we should keep things professional.”

His jaw flexed. Professional. Safe. A wall he put up and now hated. “Sit,” he said, voice gravel. “Tell me every detail.”

She sat on the sofa, notebook in her lap, picking at the corner. “It landed on my fence while I was in the garden. It dropped the parchment, stared at me—eyes wrong, like smoke. Then it flew north.”

“North leads to the Forgotten Cut.” The phrase tasted foul. Crooked gullies and broken ley lines up there, a perfect hide-away for dark ritual. “Anything else?”

She opened the sketchbook to a fresh page. Under quick strokes her charcoal shaped words, symbols, a map of the surrounding woods. “He knows I’m here,” she whispered. “He’s using the relic to anchor his claim, pushing the Veil until it lets him in.”

Callum sat opposite, elbows on knees. “Tell me everything about this binding. No pieces missing.”

She spoke then, voice steady though her hands shook.

About meeting Elric, the tutelage that turned to obsession, the ritual circle lined with nightshade and silver, his knife slicing her palm so their blood mingled while he whispered chains into existence.

She told how she’d snapped the circle with raw panic, how the backlash scorched her magic and freed her body but left a thread inside her, one Elric could tug across distance.

When she finished the room felt thinner, air stretched tight. Callum’s hands had fisted against his thighs without noticing. He forced them loose.

“You should have told me this the night you warned the council,” he said. No anger, only grit. “All of it.”

“I tried.” She met his gaze. “But you were already carrying so much. And after the… kiss… I didn’t want to lean on you for every rescue.”

His pulse kicked at the memory. Lilac and fire. “You think I’m worried about being leaned on?”

“You pulled away.” Her smile held no humor. “I assumed that was the message.”

He looked down, shame scraping. He had pulled away, shoved her at arm’s length then snarled when she didn’t trust his reach.

Silence stretched. Fire popped in the grate. Outside, rain started again, light at first then heavier, drumming on the roof.

He stood, crossed to the window. The forest blurred behind sheets of water. “I made you think you couldn’t count on me. That ends now.”

She rose too, slower. “What does that mean?”

He turned. Resolve settled like armor. “We plan. We find the relic. We end his claim.” His voice dropped, threat and promise mingling. “No raven, no warlock touches this town or you.”

Her lower lip trembled once then went stubborn. “You can’t guard me every second.”

“Watch me.”

Soft disbelief flickered in her eyes, chased by reluctant hope. “You’ll need help.”

“I’ll take Maeve and Twyla. Edgar for ward work. Varric if he’ll leave the Glade.”

She nodded, coming closer until only a mug length separated them. “Callum?—”

He held up a hand, palm toward her. Not rejecting, just bracing. “We fix this first. Then we talk about… other things.”

She exhaled shaky laughter. “Always the ranger.”

“Always.” Yet his thumb brushed her wrist, a spark of something that felt like promise.

He dropped his hand, pushed past the knot in his throat, and moved toward the door. Outside, rain hammered hard, obscuring the path. He stepped through it anyway. The forest waited, restless and ready.

Thunder rumbled over Hollow Oak while the ranger plotted war.