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DEREK

T here’s glitter on my boots. On my boots .

I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and already the ground sparkles like it’s been cursed by a party god. I crouch at the end of the training field, trying to brush the dust off with the least amount of dignity I have left. It clings. Of course it does.

Because Hazel Blackmoore doesn’t enter a room—she detonates inside it.

I didn’t come to Camp Lightring to babysit chaos in combat boots.

I came because the ley lines in this region are starting to hum again.

Soft now, sure, but unstable. Like a heartbeat you only hear when everything else goes quiet.

Something’s shifting beneath the Grove. Thorn knows it.

That’s why he pulled me back into this mess.

"Community repair," they call it. A joke. A neat excuse for old weapons like me.

The morning sun slices through the trees. I wince and adjust the brim of my hat lower. My sunscreen charm is solid, but the sensation still burns like shame.

“You gonna scowl at the grass all day or are we hunting homicidal weasels or what?”

Hazel again.

I stand, slow and deliberate. She’s walking toward me in a pair of combat boots at least two sizes too big, a clipboard tucked under one arm, and a half-eaten muffin in the other.

She looks like trouble in the body of a sitcom.

“Punctuality would help,” I say.

“Punctuality is an illusion imposed by fascist time demons,” she shoots back, stuffing the last bite of the muffin in her mouth.

I sigh.

"Creature patrol. Let’s go over the protocol?—"

“No need,” she interrupts, already marching off. “I got the rundown from Lyra. Something about an ill-tempered cockatrice that keeps pooping stones near the climbing wall.”

I move to catch up, resisting the urge to walk five paces ahead. “You should hear it from me.”

“Oh? You got better bird poop strategies?”

“Strategy in general would be a good start.”

We march down the worn forest path leading to the creature preserve, dodging a small gaggle of shrieking campers wielding spark wands. One nearly zaps Hazel’s leg.

“Watch it, Sparklehands!” she yells, pointing at the offender. “You fry my jeans again, and I’m turning your toothbrush into a spider.”

The kid giggles and bolts.

I watch her.

There’s something about Hazel. Not her power—that's a mess. It’s the bravado. She walks like she owns every second, but her magic keeps flickering like a broken lantern. I can feel the fluctuation. Too much energy in the wrong spots. Not enough in the ones that matter.

When we reach the preserve gate, she leans against the post, arms folded.

“All right, Boss Bat,” she says. “What's the grand plan?”

I pull out the tracking scroll. “We start with the cockatrice near the climbing wall, then double back through the mushroom glen for sightings of that rogue badger?—”

“The one that bites love spells out of people?” she perks up.

“That’s not confirmed.”

“It totally is. Callie said it made two interns break up last week and now they only communicate in passive-aggressive notes.”

“Not our concern,” I say flatly.

Hazel makes a noise that might be a snort. “You’re fun.”

I ignore it and open the gate with a whispered passphrase. The barrier sizzles as it recognizes my energy signature. Hazel watches with narrowed eyes.

“Cool trick.”

“Basic security,” I say.

“Still,” she murmurs. “My barrier spells just hiss and melt lately.”

I glance at her, but she waves it off.

“Nothing. Never mind. Where’s the murder bird?”

We hike up the ridge near the ropes course, and there it is—perched like a demonic peacock, red eyes gleaming. A cockatrice in full preen. Its tail feathers twitch like it’s composing an opera of murder.

Hazel whistles. “I love her already.”

“Don’t antagonize it.”

Hazel immediately reaches into her bag. “Relax. I brought crickets.”

The cockatrice’s head snaps in our direction.

“Hazel—”

Too late.

She tosses a handful of crickets, and the beast lunges—not for the snack, but for her.

I move fast. Preternatural speed. Hazel hits the dirt with a shriek as I intercept the cockatrice mid-air, shoving it back with a burst of pressure from my palm.

It skids across the dirt, feathers ruffled, and flaps angrily back toward the underbrush.

Hazel’s on her back, blinking up at me.

“Derek,” she breathes. “Did you just vampire-judo a cockatrice?”

“I told you not to antagonize it.”

She grins, breathless. “You’re kind of hot when you’re terrifying.”

I extend a hand. She takes it, and for a moment, her skin is too warm against mine. Not physically—magically. Her power buzzes under her skin like trapped lightning.

“You need to be more careful,” I say, letting go too quickly. “Next time, it won’t be a cockatrice. It’ll be something worse.”

“Noted,” she says, brushing dirt off her jeans. “I’ll hold off on the cricket diplomacy.”

We spend the rest of patrol in relative silence.

She stops trying to provoke me, which is a mercy.

I’m hyper-aware of her the entire time—her too-loud laugh, the quick glances she thinks I don’t see, the flickers of raw energy that spike every time she feels something too hard and tries to pretend she doesn’t.

As the sun begins to dip, we reach the edge of the Grove. I stop, because the humming is louder here.

Hazel follows my gaze. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

I don’t answer.

The ley lines are whispering. Just beneath the surface. Something is waking up.

And I don’t know if Hazel Blackmoore is a wildcard or the warning bell.

Either way, summer just got a hell of a lot more complicated.