Page 34

"A path appeared near the Butterfly Ward."

Miora froze.

Only for a heartbeat. But it was enough.

The way the flicker in her form stilled and the quiet hum of the cottage paused, just a little, told me everything I needed to know.

It was a calling path.

Even the fire in the hearth snapped louder than before.

"Golden and laced with mist. No one’s seen anything like it. Except…" I hesitated.

Miora didn't speak.

"Except Elira,” I finished. “She told me you once walked one.”

Miora turned slowly toward me, the trace of her image trailing slightly behind like memory unwilling to catch up. Her eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them.

“Yes,” she said simply.

The word hung between us like an open door.

“I’m sorry,” I said, voice low. “I didn’t mean to press.”

She pulled out the opposite chair, though her form hovered just above it, never quite touching. She looked at the tea, then at me.

“When I saw mine,” she said, “it was dawn. There had been a storm the night before. It was one of those deep, unruly spring storms where the weather cracks the sky apart but doesn’t let the rain fall. I’d woken early. The air was still heavy with the promise of thunder, but it never came.”

I nodded, hoping for more.

“The path was violet,” she continued. “Silver at the edges, like it had been stitched with moonlight. It wound through the grounds beyond the old stone fence, and where it passed, the grass grew taller, lusher. Lilies were blooming in places I’d never planted and that were too early to bloom. And the air…”

She paused, eyes far away now.

“It smelled like the in-between,” she whispered. “Like salt and sweet and loss and home, all at once.”

A chill crept up my arms despite the fire’s warmth.

“The inn-between?” My heart stilled. “Wait. Are you a hedge witch?”

“Indeed.” Her eyes sparkled with pride. “And you are too, my dear.”

“You knew?”

“I did.” She didn’t offer more.

“What did the path want?” I asked.

Her gaze sharpened.

“That’s the thing, Maeve. A calling path doesn’t want anything. It offers. It reflects. It listens. But it doesn’t pull.”

I studied her face as the flicker in her outline steadied again.

“But you went through.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Miora hesitated, then gave a ghost of a smile. “That’s the part I never told Elira. Not fully. Between you and me, she wasn’t happy I’d received one, and she hadn’t.”

“She was jealous?”

“Partly. I think she felt she was the more studied witch, the more loyal student.” Miora smiled fondly. “She was probably right, but that’s not how magic works. We don’t choose it. It chooses us.”

I leaned in.

“Anyway, I walked for what felt like hours, but there was no sun to measure the time, no shadow to follow. The trees shifted when I looked away from them, and some whispered while others wept, but they all watched as I roamed the path.”

My fingers curled around the mug a little tighter.

“I found myself in a mirror grove,” she continued. “Trees with bark like glass. Reflections in every direction. And every one of them showed a different version of me. One where I stayed home. One where I followed love. One where I never left the woods.”

She paused. “One where I died.”

I swallowed hard.

“They don’t show you to punish you,” she said. “They show you what you carry. Every choice. Every doubt. Every dream you buried. Every choice you didn’t make and every choice you did.”

I stared at her. “And when you came back?”

“I understood the cost of holding too tightly to the wrong things,” she said. “And the danger of refusing to let go of the right ones.”

I looked down at my tea, as the steam now curled lazily in the morning light.

“I want to bring Celeste here,” I whispered. “I miss her. But I know it’s not time. I know the risk.”

Miora nodded slowly. “And yet the ache remains.”

I met her eyes. “Yes.”

She studied me for a long, quiet moment.

“I can’t tell you what yours will show you,” she said gently. “But I suspect it won’t be merely about danger. It’ll be about truth, in its various shades. Perhaps, possibilities.”

“And I have to walk it alone?”

“Most do. But you’re not most.” She smiled then, a soft and bittersweet expression. “You’ve always walked with others around you. That’s part of your magic. But the final step? That will be yours.”

I felt something shift inside me. Resolve replaced readiness.

Miora looked at me with that familiar patience I’d come to love during my first days in the cottage when I’d cried over burnt spells and cursed at my ex.

“You’ve already begun, Maeve,” she said. “The moment you saw the path, you started answering it, and it started questioning you.”

I let out a slow breath. “What if I’m not ready?”

She smiled. “Then wait until you are. It will not leave. It will not forget you.”

“Thank you.”

“You always come home when you need to,” she said. “And that, too, is magic.”

Outside, the trees rustled softly. A wind picked up that wasn’t part of the weather.

And somewhere beyond the Butterfly Ward, the path shimmered quietly, still waiting.

The fire had burned low. Miora had vanished somewhere between the shadows and the kettle, leaving only the faintest hum of her magic behind.

Twobble, comfortably burrowed in the armchair with a blanket up to his chin and a biscuit balanced on his chest. He’d pretended not to eavesdrop so well that he fell asleep.

I was just starting to let my thoughts drift when there was a knock at the door.

Not a loud one.

Firm. Familiar.

Twobble groaned without opening his eyes. “This better be good. I finally got some good zzzs.”

I moved to stand, but he waved a lazy hand and slid down from the armchair with a theatrical sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll get it. Spirits, gremlins, smitten travelers—come one, come all.”

He waddled dramatically to the door, flung it open, and froze.

“Well,” he said, blinking. “The smitten traveler is real.”

My breath caught before I could stop it.

Because there, framed by the soft glow of the cottage porch light, stood Keegan.

Hair wind-tousled, jacket collar turned up, cheeks flushed from the cold evening air, but his eyes locked onto mine before anyone spoke.

And despite everything, despite the calling path and the swirling magic and the knot of decisions ahead, my stomach flipped.

The good kind.

“Evening,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

Twobble cleared his throat and stepped aside. “Would it matter if you were?”

“Good point,” Keegan replied as he stepped inside.

His eyes scanned the room once before they returned to me, landing there like they meant to stay.

“Tea?” I asked, trying to pretend like my heart wasn’t doing its own internal jig.

He smiled. “I won’t say no.”

Twobble shuffled back toward his chair. “Someone else can serve it. I’ve already fulfilled my quota of effort for the day.”

I gestured toward the table and moved to the kettle, which obligingly refilled itself. Steam curled through the air, carrying scents of mint, citrus, and the warmth of home. I poured two cups and carried them over, setting one in front of Keegan before taking my seat.

“This feels like old times,” he said, wrapping his hands around the mug. “Back when the Academy hadn’t opened yet. When it was just you, the cottage, and the rest of us wondering if you were quietly going mad in the woods.”

“Well, surprise.” I chuckled. “I was going mad in the woods.”

He smirked. “You hid it well.”

There was a long pause that was comfortable and soft.

But there was also something unsaid, so I finally exhaled.

“A path appeared.”

Keegan stilled. “What kind of path?”

“A calling path.” I looked up at him. “I think I might have called it when the shimmer in the Academy happened.”

His gaze sharpened. “Where?”

“Near the Butterfly Ward. The vampires found it first.”

He leaned forward, brows drawn. “Is it stable?”

“So far. It hasn’t moved. No one’s entered it. I haven’t…” I trailed off.

He watched me. “But it’s calling to you.”

I nodded slowly.

He didn’t speak right away. “You’re going to walk it.”

It wasn’t exactly a question.

I swallowed. “Yes.”

A silence followed, but it wasn’t the heavy kind. He was merely giving me the space to say more or the peace not to if I chose.

So I started.

“Miora walked one once. She told me tonight. She said calling paths don’t take. They show. And Elira said… they only appear when something inside you has already reached for them.”

Keegan leaned back, processing. His fingers tapped once against the mug.

Then, casually, but not without weight, he said, “I want to go with you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I want to walk it with you.”

I stared at him.

Not because I didn’t believe him, but because I did.

Because he wasn’t offering out of protection or pride.

He was offering because he knew me.

And maybe because he’d seen the same things I had. The shadows, circles, and choices that didn’t come with instructions, but I always landed squarely in my way.

“I thought I was supposed to go alone,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He shrugged lightly. “Maybe most people do. But you’re not most people.”

Those were almost the exact words Miora had said.

I felt something unfurl inside me, something tight and uncertain loosening, making room for something new.

“You don’t even know what’s in there,” I murmured.

He held my gaze. “I don’t need to, and neither do you.”

I let out a long, shaky breath and smiled.

“Okay,” I said. “You can come.”

Twobble made a choked sound from the armchair. “If he turns into a tree or gets stuck in a mirror dimension, I’m not explaining it to the rest of Stonewick.”

Keegan smirked. “I’ll sign a waiver.”

I laughed then, full and real, the sound bouncing gently against the walls of the cottage that had once held only silence.

He reached for more tea, and our fingers brushed briefly across the tabletop.

Maybe a small moment to some, but everything felt different now.

The path was still waiting, but I wouldn’t face it alone.

And that, somehow, made all the difference.