Page 3

HAZEL

L et me be clear—I am a witch, not a glorified raccoon wrangler.

It’s just after twilight and already I’ve tripped over three enchanted pinecones, narrowly avoided a flirty gnome who tried to barter me for gumdrops, and now I’m standing in the middle of the northern trail with one boot stuck in quick-moss and a pixie shrieking obscenities at me from a tree.

“This is beneath me,” I announce to the woods like they care.

“No,” Derek says dryly from behind me, “this is exactly your level.”

I whip around, nearly slipping in the moss. He’s leaning against a birch tree like he was born from brooding itself, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Probably thinking about the ethics of neck-snapping or how much blood is too much blood for tea.

“I don’t need your vampire sass,” I mutter, yanking my boot free with a damp squelch.

“You’re getting it anyway,” he says. “Pixies don’t respond to sarcasm, by the way.”

“They don’t respond to reason either,” I shoot back. “This one flipped me off.”

“She’s territorial. That’s her tree.”

“She told me it was my face that was a problem.”

Derek sighs, pushes off the tree, and steps toward the pixie, who is now humming an ominous tune while spinning in circles like a glitter-crazed top.

He speaks softly in a dialect I don’t recognize.

Probably Vampireese. The pixie blinks twice, throws a stick at him, then flutters away with a high-pitched cackle.

“I see your charm is universal,” I say.

“I didn’t bite her. That’s restraint.”

We head back toward the lake trail, and I try not to trip again. The moonlight filters through the trees like a blessing and a dare. This would be romantic if we weren’t actively being heckled by magical wildlife and mutual disdain.

“You really think I’m a disaster, huh?” I ask after a minute.

Derek doesn’t look at me. “I think you’re unpredictable. That’s dangerous.”

“Well, thank you, Captain Killjoy.”

We walk in silence for a while, but it’s not the awkward kind. It’s… charged. Like static right before a lightning strike.

Suddenly, a rustle from the bushes.

“Wait,” Derek mutters, throwing an arm in front of me like a magical seatbelt.

I stop, mostly because that arm is very solid and very close and smells faintly like old leather and something darker—stormroot and steel maybe?

“Raccoons,” he says, voice low.

“No way. Not the aggressive kind?”

“The enchanted kind.”

“Oh, wonderful. ”

They come barreling out of the underbrush like tiny furry goblins, glowing faintly purple and dragging what appears to be glittery rope. One of them has a harmonica.

“They’ve unionized,” I whisper, horrified.

“Disperse them,” Derek says, cool as you please.

“Oh, now you want my brand of chaos?”

“Before they summon reinforcements.”

I yank my wand out of my belt pouch and flick it once. The end sparks, whimpers, and fizzles like a sad sparkler on a rainy birthday.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’m working on it!”

The raccoons are forming a semi-circle now. The harmonica begins to play the opening notes of what sounds suspiciously like a sea shanty.

“I got this,” I say, stepping forward. “Hey little guys, love the whole rebellious woodland vibe—super aesthetic. But we’re gonna need you to, uh, disperse before my coworker here gets all medieval.”

One raccoon chucks a glitter-bomb.

I yelp, duck, and accidentally grab Derek’s sleeve in the process.

He doesn’t flinch. “You’re terrible at negotiations.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe they’re just not fans of repressed immortal types.”

“I’m not repressed.”

“You just said ‘I didn’t bite her’ like it was a love language.”

Before Derek can bite back (figuratively), I rip open my backup charm pouch and chuck a distraction sigil. It bursts midair in a crackle of teal light and peppermint. The raccoons shriek and scatter into the underbrush like caffeinated toddlers fleeing bedtime.

Silence. Glorious, weird silence.

“Well,” I pant, “that went great.”

Derek brushes glitter off his shoulder like it insulted his lineage. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Of course they will. They’ve tasted freedom. And glitter.”

He gives me a sidelong look. “You know this is only the first night, right?”

“Wait until you see what happens on full moon Fridays.”

He groans. “There are themed patrols?”

“Welcome to Camp Lightring, baby.”

We circle back toward the cabin. My feet are killing me. I collapse face-first onto the bottom bunk while Derek, because of course he does, takes the time to line up his flask and boots with clinical precision.

“I think I pulled something,” I mumble into my pillow. “Like a soul muscle.”

“You whined less when a cockatrice nearly decapitated you.”

“Yeah, well, that was adrenaline. This is existential defeat.”

He pauses. I hear it—the quiet shift of thought.

“You’re not bad out there,” he says finally.

I blink into the sheets. “Wow. Is that praise? Did I just earn a vampire merit badge?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” I say, smiling into the pillow.

And then, I glance up at him.

He’s sitting on the edge of the top bunk now, back hunched slightly, shoulders rigid. His flask is in his hand, but he’s not drinking. Just staring into it like he’s seeing something that isn’t there. The set of his jaw, the tired weight behind his eyes—it hits me then.

He’s sad.

Not the quiet kind of sad that comes and goes. No, this is the type you learn to live with. The type that curls around your ribs and makes a home of your spine. The kind you try to disguise with silence and routines and sharpening everything about yourself until no one wants to ask why.

And suddenly, I want to ask.

Instead, I say softly, “You okay?”

He looks at me, startled for a second. I don’t press. Just let the question hang.

He doesn’t answer, but he nods once—barely—and looks away.

That’s the moment I stop seeing him as a brooding cliché.

And start seeing the man underneath.