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DEREK

T horn finds me by the perimeter stones at dawn.

He always does this—appears like the wind whispered him in. No footfalls. No shadows. Just the quiet snap of space rearranging itself to accommodate someone too ancient and too calm to be normal.

“Derek,” he says.

I grunt. That’s all I’ve got right now. I’m already half-buried in a sigil repair, crouched low, fingers brushing broken ward lines carved into the stone.

Someone—probably a kid with more ambition than sense—tried to etch a new channel into one of the keystones without supervision.

The result? A hairline crack in the boundary enchantment that could’ve let in something with too many teeth and not enough logic.

Typical.

Thorn doesn’t comment on the damage. Instead, he studies me like I’m the one with the fracture.

“You’ve been distant,” he says.

“I live here,” I mutter. “Not exactly hard to find.”

“Distant doesn’t mean far,” he replies, stepping closer. His robes shift like fog. “It means closed.”

I straighten, slowly, my knees protesting the movement. “If you’re here to reprimand me for not holding Hazel’s hand through spell practice, you’re wasting both our time.”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m here to tell you not to run.”

I freeze.

The words land sharper than they should. They slice something old. Something I’ve stitched closed so many times, it bleeds memory instead of blood.

Thorn doesn’t look away.

“You see her,” he says. “More than anyone else has. And it’s rattling you.”

I glare at him. “I see a girl with raw magic and zero impulse control. I’m rattled because she’s dangerous.”

“She’s dangerous,” Thorn agrees. “But not to you.”

He lets that hang in the air, just long enough for the silence to settle like frost.

“You’re not afraid of her breaking,” he adds. “You’re afraid of what she makes you remember. ”

I hate how well he knows me. Always have. He’s been around long enough to witness everything—my mistakes, my shame, my cowardice.

“You think I don’t remember?” I snap. “You think I don’t carry it every damn day?”

Thorn doesn’t flinch. “I think you carry it like armor. And armor is heavy.”

I look away.

He walks a slow circle around me, his presence calm but pressing. “Hazel is not your brother.”

I shut my eyes.

Not this. Not him .

“I know that,” I bite out.

“Then stop treating her like a curse you’re trying to avoid,” Thorn says, voice low now. “She’s not the ghost. She’s the flame.”

My jaw tightens. I remember fire. I remember the scent of it in our old home, in the cliffside sanctum where I turned my brother too late and held his body too long. I remember the heat of a hand I couldn’t save and the sound of his voice saying my name right before it turned to ash.

I ran then.

From him. From the coven. From everything I couldn’t fix.

And now Hazel—chaotic, loud, glitter-covered Hazel—is waking something in me I locked behind centuries of rules and silence.

“She’s a child,” I say finally. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“She’s not a child. She’s a woman with fear stitched under her skin and a fire she doesn’t understand yet. But she will. ”

“And if she burns?” I whisper.

“Then let her,” Thorn says. “But don’t leave just because it’s bright.”

His words hit somewhere deep. Deeper than I’m ready for.

He steps back. “You don’t get many second chances, Derek. You’ve lived long enough to know that. So if you care— don’t run. ”

Then he leaves, like he always does. Quiet. Final.

I don’t move.

Not for a long time.

Eventually, I make my way back to the cabin. Hazel’s curled up on the bottom bunk, a book open on her chest and a frown etched into her sleep.

She mumbles something in her sleep. Something about waffles.

I don’t smile.

Not really.

But I sit down in the chair by the window.

And I don’t run.

The sun’s setting behind the trees, washing the mess hall porch in amber and shadow. I’m leaning against a support beam, trying to pretend I’m here to monitor ley-line tremors, not people. Not her .

Hazel is sitting cross-legged on the wooden steps, her back to me, with a kid curled up beside her like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. Milo. Eight years old, all knees and magic-static hair, sniffling into his sleeve and refusing to talk to anyone but her.

She doesn’t push him. Just sits there, swinging a stick of rock candy like it’s a wand, absently tracing little sigils into the dirt with the tip.

“Y’know,” she says, voice soft but animated, “I once got so homesick I accidentally hexed my bunkmate’s pillow to whisper my mom’s name all night. She didn’t sleep for three days.”

Milo sniffles louder. “Did it work?”

Hazel shrugs. “Not really. But it did get me out of dish duty for a week, so… win-win.”

A wet giggle escapes him, small and sharp.

She reaches over and taps his shoulder with the candy wand. “Wanna try it?”

He looks at her, eyes wide. “You’ll help me curse a pillow?”

“Only mildly,” she says. “Whisper charms. Harmless. Mostly.”

His smile cracks through. Just a little.

And something stirs in my chest.

It’s not lust. Not the heat that usually follows proximity and shared adrenaline.

It’s quiet . Subtle.

A kind of ache I don’t recognize at first.

Until I realize it feels like... hope .

Hope’s dangerous.

I force my arms tighter across my chest, jaw clenched.

Hazel leans closer to Milo, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You don’t have to pretend you’re not missing home. That’s not a weakness. That’s being human.”

He looks at her like she’s just handed him the moon.

She ruffles his hair. The gesture is so light, so easy, it makes my throat feel like it’s trying to close.

She doesn’t notice me watching.

She doesn’t see how steady her magic is in this moment—calm, warm, unforced. It wraps around the boy like a blanket. No sigils. No sparks. Just intention.

And gods , she’s radiant in it.

I turn away before she can catch me staring.

But I can’t stop the feeling rising in my chest.

Whatever it is, it terrifies me.