Page 27

HAZEL

I smell the circus before I see it.

Caramel smoke. Spell-dusted popcorn. The fizz-pop of runes barely holding shape in the humid evening air. It wafts through Camp Lightring like a seductive promise and a big blinking neon “Come Break All Your Rules” sign.

Milo tells me first. Naturally.

He runs up, grinning so wide his face might split.

“Hazel! HAZEL. There’s a magic circus two miles from the outer ridge. Actual witches! And a levitating tiger with pearlescent fangs! ”

“Pearlescent?” I blink. “You’re sure it’s not just sparkly dental work?”

“No, Hazel, it’s not a glitter spell! This thing roared and half the trees swooned. ”

By the time dusk rolls in, half the camp has already skittered down the path into the woods toward the town square.

Derek stays behind, because of course he does—he’s broody and allergic to joy.

I tell him I’m going “for research purposes” and he gives me one of his patented Don’t Get Hexed Without Me looks.

“I’ll behave,” I say.

“You never behave.”

“Fine,” I wink. “I’ll mostly behave.”

The circus spills over the riverbank like a fever dream.

Lanterns float midair, bouncing in lazy spirals as charmed vines braid themselves into ticket ropes.

Music blares from a self-playing hurdy-gurdy that keeps morphing instruments mid-melody—a violin here, a jazz horn there, then a harp that sounds like moonlight.

There’s a man made entirely of moths at the entryway. He bows low and hands me a candied rose on a stick.

“This won’t poison me, will it?”

“Depends on your definition of ‘poison,’” he says, wings fluttering, and disappears into smoke.

Okay. So we’re doing that kind of magic.

Inside the tent grounds, everything pulses with enchantment.

A tent painted in brushstrokes of sunset shifts color each time I blink.

A fire dancer twirls with twin torches made of blue flame that scream when they spin.

There’s a tightrope walker dangling upside down from nothing at all, humming lullabies to a floating jar of stars.

I know show magic.

I know glamours and dazzle and illusion-layered sleight of hand.

But this?

This is art.

A woman with glowing ink in her skin calls me over after the midnight act ends. She wears a corset made of snake vertebrae and speaks with the kind of confidence that says, I’ve outrun every law that tried to break me.

“You’re Hazel Blackmoore,” she says, smiling. “I felt you from three counties over.”

I don’t even ask how. It’s a magic circus. Boundaries are mostly theoretical here.

“I’m Sal,” she adds, “Lead Spellcaster and Rift Dancer. And you—have a hell of a signature.”

“Uh, thank you?”

She eyes me. “You sealed a tear with blood, love, and wild chaos and made the land bloom. That’s not small magic. That’s legacy stuff.”

My throat tightens.

Sal doesn’t miss it.

She steps closer, dropping her voice. “You ever think about going bigger?”

I frown. “Define ‘bigger.’”

“Traveling show. We’re down two acts. You’d headline easy. Real magic—raw magic— is rare. You wouldn’t just be a witch in the woods. You’d be a legend. ”

I should feel flattered.

Part of me is.

But another part—deep and still and stupidly loyal—just thinks about the Grove.

About the dirt under my nails and Derek’s voice pulling me back.

About Milo sneaking honey charms into my jacket and the stupid flicker lights over the cabins and Thorn handing me grimoires like I won’t accidentally set them on fire.

I think about home.

And I realize, I’m already exactly where I’m supposed to be.

“I appreciate it,” I say softly, “but I’ve got my own circus already.”

Sal lifts an elegant brow. “That so?”

“Yep. Less glam. More monster patrol and emotional baggage.”

She laughs. “Well, if you ever change your mind—our tents are yours.”

I nod. Take the rose stick. Leave the spotlight behind.

The woods are quiet when I get back.

The kind of quiet that feels earned, not empty. Crickets hum low. The wind rustles the trees like it’s telling them secrets. Somewhere, a wisp blinks once and fades.

I follow the candlelit trail back to camp. Past the Grove. Past the rune stones still humming faintly. Up the ridge path, until I see it—his cabin. His shadow in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning like he’s been waiting for me since I left.

He doesn’t speak as I walk up the steps.

He just watches me.

And I can’t stop the smile that curls.

“You gonna growl at me for disappearing?” I ask.

“I was considering it,” Derek says. “Or sulking. Maybe brooding by firelight.”

“That’s your usual Tuesday night anyway.”

His mouth twitches. “You went to the circus.”

I nod, stepping closer. “Sal offered me a place.”

He stiffens, just a little. “And?”

“I said no.”

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet. “Why?”

I take a breath.

Look up at him, lit by the porch lantern’s glow. His eyes aren’t glowing. They’re just… soft. Human. Tired and strong and full of things I still don’t know how to carry.

And I tell him.

“Because for the first time in my life,” I say, voice shaking just a little, “I’m not searching. I’m building.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t look away.

“I’ve been running since I was fifteen,” I continue. “From schools, from covens, from who people thought I should be. Even from my own damn magic.”

I reach for him. He lets me.

I run my fingers along the inside of his wrist—where his pulse beats steady.

“But here?” I whisper. “With you? I’m not running. I’m rooting. That’s scarier. And better.”

He’s silent for a long time.

Then he steps closer, cups my cheek in one rough, warm hand.

His thumb brushes a tear I didn’t realize was there.

“You terrify me,” he murmurs.

I laugh, thick and wet. “Good. Keeps things spicy.”

He huffs a breath and leans in.

The kiss is soft.

Not explosive. Not desperate.

Just full.

Like we’ve both been waiting for it to feel like this.

His other hand curls at my waist, gentle but firm, drawing me closer until there’s no space left. My fingers slide up into his hair, and he shudders when I tug—just enough to make him tilt his head and deepen the kiss.

We don’t speak for a while.

Just stay wrapped up in each other, under the porch light, with the woods holding their breath.

When we finally pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.

“You’re staying.”

“I’m staying.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I just built you a bookshelf.”

I blink. “You what?”

He shrugs. “You leave chaos wherever you go. I figured your books deserved better than a floor pile.”

My heart cracks.

Not in pain.

In wonder.

I cup his face with both hands and kiss him again, slower this time. Like I’m tasting a future. Like I’m not afraid anymore.

When we break apart, he’s smiling.

And I realize, I’m smiling too.