Page 8

RYDER

I wake choking on saltwater.

Except there’s no water.

Just my bunk. Cold sheets. My skin slick with sweat.

The dream fades in pieces. Cold hands. Whispers in the current. Something pulling, dragging me down into the dark.

My heart is hammering like it wants out.

I sit up, swing my legs over the edge, and rub a hand over my face. It’s still dark out. Just a sliver of moon through the window. A breeze stirs the edge of my curtain, soft as breath.

It shouldn’t rattle me. I’ve had dreams before. Every one of us from below has. That’s what happens when you leave the deep, you don’t get to forget it.

But this one felt different.

Older.

I stand, dress quickly, and head out toward the lake. Can’t sleep now. Not when the dream’s still clinging to my ribs like seaweed.

The air is heavy tonight. Not humid. Just… thick.

The lake is calm. Too calm.

Even the bugs are quiet.

By mid-morning, I’ve almost convinced myself I imagined it.

Almost.

Then the riptide hits.

We’re running our group course on the west end of the lake, canoe handling under light wind conditions. I’ve got three campers paddling figure-eights between the buoys. I’m scanning the water, routine, alert but relaxed.

Callie’s on the dock with the next group, teasing Jason about sunscreen and tying juice boxes into a floatie wreath like it’s art class.

Then I feel it.

A shift.

Like something inhaled just under the surface.

I snap my gaze back to the water, Group Two’s canoe is drifting. Not paddling. Drifting fast.

“Eliza, brace left!” I shout. “Paddle back into current!”

They try, but the water isn’t obeying anymore. It’s yanking the canoe sideways, faster than the wind accounts for. Faster than the kids know how to handle.

The buoy jerks from its anchor. Water sloshes in unnatural pulses. And I know this isn’t just a current.

This is magic.

“Callie!” I bark, already diving.

I hit the lake like a blade.

Cold. Fast. Pure instinct.

The current fights me, but I’ve trained for worse. I push through the drag, find the canoe just as Eliza starts to panic, her paddle spinning uselessly.

“I’ve got you,” I growl, grabbing the side. “Keep it balanced.”

Her friend is shaking. I lock eyes with him. “Hands on the rim. Now. Don’t move unless I say.”

They listen. Thank the gods, they listen.

I kick hard, using my tail to stabilize, shifting the boat’s angle while assessing the flow.

It’s not natural. It’s not right. It moves like it’s got a mind. Like something underneath is stirring, testing the surface.

It pulses again.

My spine prickles. I grit my teeth and push through it.

Takes everything I’ve got to drag the canoe out of the drag zone. Once it clears the invisible line, the pull vanishes just like that.

Gone.

Like it was never there.

I guide them back, breathing hard, jaw locked so tight I taste blood.

On shore, Callie’s already helping the kids out, calming them with that voice of hers, warm and strong like a campfire on a bad night.

“You okay?” she whispers as I haul myself onto the dock beside her.

“No,” I mutter.

She frowns.

I shake my head. “That wasn’t wind. That wasn’t water physics.”

“You think it’s the rupture?”

“I know it is.”

She swallows, quiet now. “How bad?”

I glance out at the lake, where the surface ripples soft and innocent.

“It’s waking up,” I say. “And it’s hungry.”

Later, I’m in the staff lodge with a towel around my neck and the old depth charts spread out on the floor. Julie crouches beside me, reading the notations in quiet horror.

“I thought it was sealed,” she says.

“It was. But seals weaken. Magic isn’t static.”

Callie walks in with a thermos and sets it in front of me without speaking.

I take it, nod once. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. Just sits down beside me, cross-legged, serious.

“Tell me what we’re looking at,” she says.

I point to the rift zone on the south map. “That’s where it pulled them. It was mild this morning. Barely a grab. But if it spreads”

“we could lose someone,” she finishes.

I nod.

Julie exhales. “What do you need?”

“Restricted swim zones. Deep alert training for all staff. And I want the magical anchors reactivated.”

“They haven’t been used in”

“I know,” I cut in. “Get them.”

She leaves, already texting.

Callie stays.

Her fingers brush mine on the map. Brief. Warm.

“I saw the way it hit you,” she murmurs. “Like it knew you.”

I look at her. “It does.”

She doesn’t flinch. “Then we fight smarter. Together.”

There’s no sass in her now. No quips. Just steel under freckles.

And I realize something:

She’s not just glitter and chaos.

She’s grit. And guts.

And if this rift opens all the way, she’s exactly the kind of fire I want beside me.

Later that night, I meet Torack down by the old boathouse. He’s waiting in the shadows, arms crossed, sea-stone beads threaded through his beard like silent warnings.

I don’t waste time. “It’s active.”

He nods once. “I felt the shift this morning. Thought maybe I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.”

Torack’s eyes flick to the lake, dark and still under the stars. “Is it waking slow? Or is it coming hard?”

“It’s probing,” I say. “Testing the edges.”

His jaw tightens. “Same as before.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Worse. It feels older.”

Torack goes quiet.

“You think it’s the breach at Wren’s Hollow?”

“No.” My voice is steady. “I think it’s the core fracture under Lightring itself.”

He curses under his breath. “You’d better be wrong.”

“I’m not.”

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “We always knew the camp sat too close to deep water. Too much magic. Too much pressure. We made it work because you made it work.”

“It’s not just campers anymore,” I say, voice sharp. “Max went under today. If Callie hadn’t been there, I don’t know if he’d have come up.”

Torack nods grimly. “And it’s not just Max.”

I stiffen. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t blink.

I stare.

Then it hits me. Cold and deep.

“You mean?”

Torack nods. “That kid in Cabin Seven. Short, loud, eyes too old for her age.”

My blood freezes.

My voice comes out like gravel. “Lillian.”

“Yeah.”

Torack’s voice softens, but only just. “It’s not just magic or protocol. It’s personal.”

I nod, once. Tight. “Understood.”

“You tell me what you need, Ryder,” he says. “Anchors, markers, old rituals, we’ll give you everything.”

“I’ll stop it,” I promise, voice like stone. “Whatever it takes.”

Torack clasps my shoulder. “Good. Because if we don’t stop it this time…”

He doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t need to.