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HAZEL

I t starts, as all great disasters do, with glitter.

I didn’t plan for it. Swear on my broken wand and the last decent cup of coffee in the universe.

But the second my boot hits the welcome mat at Camp Lightring’s main hall, the trigger spell I rigged as a “dramatic reentry flourish” misfires and—boom—explosive sparkle storm.

Ruby-red sparkles coat the porch, the door, the sign that reads “No Spellcasting in Administrative Buildings,” and most unforgivably, my new summer-camp-issue cargo shorts. Tragic.

“Hazel Blackmoore,” a voice says behind me, already world-weary. “Not even five seconds and we’re committing minor arcane vandalism.”

I whip around. Lyra Vance, long white sundress flowing like she’s permanently walking through a dream sequence, has her arms crossed and one eyebrow arched high enough to signal divine judgment.

“Oh c’mon,” I grin, “you missed me.”

“You owe the custodial team a blood sacrifice.”

“Cute. I brought cookies instead.”

“Cookies don’t remove enchantment glitter, Hazel.”

“Not with that attitude.”

Lyra sighs and steps aside to let me in. The main hall still smells like eucalyptus and chalk dust, just like it did three years ago when I stormed out after The Incident. Not my finest moment. But I’m back now. Chaotic, yes. But stronger. Probably. Sort of.

Clara and Thorn greet me at the check-in table. They radiate that calm, mentor-y glow like they’ve just meditated themselves into sainthood. I half expect Clara to hand me a crystal and tell me to realign my emotional chakras.

Instead, she smiles gently. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” I correct, dropping my duffel with a thud. “I brought those peanut-butter things you like.”

Thorn, tall and elegant in a tunic that probably cost more than my entire college debt, just nods. “We appreciate you coming back, Hazel.”

My heart does that annoying flutter thing. I ignore it.

“You’re assigned to magical creature patrol this season,” Clara adds, her smile sharp now. “And your co-counselor is already settling in.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll be bunking in Cabin Nine with him.”

Wait. Him?

I blink. “Sorry, ‘him’?”

Clara and Thorn exchange the kind of look that means they’ve already decided not to warn me. Classic.

My smile falters just a little. “Not arts programming? Spellcraft mentorship?”

Thorn tilts his head slightly. “We thought this would suit your… energy.”

Translation: they think I’m too much of a hot mess to be trusted near structured spellwork.

I try to laugh. “Sure, nothing says professional witch on her game like midnight shifts picking troll lint off toadstools.”

Clara leans in, tone soft. “Hazel… we need someone who can think on their feet.”

I nod. Smile wider. “Of course. I’m flexible. Like magically elastic.”

But inside, my stomach’s doing Cirque du Soleil.

The truth is—my magic’s been off. Not like “I mispronounced a rune” off.

Like “I exploded my hairbrush and accidentally summoned a howling wind in the produce aisle” off.

Little things fizzle. Big spells backfire.

The more I try to focus, the more it wriggles away.

And every time I pretend it’s fine, something else slips.

It's like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

I haven’t told anyone. Not Lyra. Not Clara. Definitely not Thorn. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And I can’t be the girl who ran off three years ago and then came back broken.

So I flash my biggest grin, pick up my bag, and say, “Can’t wait to meet my bunk buddy.”

I hoist my bag and stomp across camp, mentally preparing myself for a bro-y centaur or a werewolf with emotional constipation. Maybe an orc who thinks deodorant is a human conspiracy.

Cabin Nine is tucked near the edge of the woods. Half-shadowed, slightly crooked, and has the vibe of a haunted AirBnB. Love it.

I swing the door open.

And freeze.

Inside, meticulously organizing a cabinet of enchanted first-aid kits, is a tall, pale man with inky hair tied back and an aura of "do not talk to me unless you're on fire.

" Dressed in all black, of course. Sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that say I bench-press guilt and unresolved trauma for fun .

He's sipping from a metal flask. And scowling.

“You’re the roommate?” I say, pointing, already dismayed.

He glances up, slow and unimpressed. “You tracked glitter all the way to the threshold.”

“Consider it ambiance.”

“You’re Hazel.”

“You’re observant.”

He stares at me like I’ve ruined his entire week. “Derek Virel.”

Oh. Of course. The vampire.

I plop onto the bottom bunk with dramatic flair. “Creature patrol, huh? Guess we’re coworkers.”

He places the flask down and mutters, “Celestial help us all.”

The air between us crackles. Not magical—just… hostile. Or maybe that’s just his broody vampire aura doing its thing.

“You drinkin’ blood in there?” I ask sweetly, nodding at the flask.

He doesn’t answer.

“I brought cookies,” I offer, like a peace treaty with extra peanut butter.

He gives me a look that says he’d rather eat sunlight.

“No worries,” I say, biting into one and talking with my mouth full, “you’ll love me eventually.”

His expression does not shift.

So, naturally, I grin wider. “You want top bunk or bottom? I snore like a banshee in heat.”

No answer.

I clap my hands together. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Outside, a pixie screams, someone’s already set fire to the arts & crafts tent, and my glitter bomb’s still raining from the sky. Summer at Camp Lightring has officially begun.

And the bitch?

She’s so back.