Page 10

Story: The Hazelwood Pact

Rowan woke in the faint blush of pre-dawn, tangled in the blankets, limbs frozen in place like she'd been trying to avoid breathing too loudly all night. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.

Her foot had strayed once, traitorous and warm against Linden’s leg, and the echo of that touch lingered like a spell that hadn’t been fully broken.

Linden hadn’t moved. Not away, not closer. Just stillness, deliberate and quiet. She'd half expected him to speak, to say something soft and damning, like he always had a knack for doing. But he'd said nothing.

Now, the air in the cottage smelled like early rain and toast. Linden was already up, probably making breakfast like they weren’t embroiled in magical ley line triage and forced magical intimacy.

Rowan sat up and immediately regretted it.

Her body felt like it had been turned inside out emotionally, and she hadn't even had her first tea of the day yet.

***

The glade for the second harmonic rite was silver with morning mist, glistening as if the whole forest had exhaled into itself overnight.

Moss lay thick beneath their feet, sponge-soft and furred with dew, and something with wings stirred now and then in the branches overhead, just beyond sight. The world was holding its breath.

And Rowan hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was, in that fey, unsettling way of things untouched by human fuss. But, she knew exactly what beauty like this meant. It meant ritual. Vulnerability. Compulsory closeness disguised as spiritual necessity.

And she was not in the mood for a feelings-based trust fall in the woods.

She hovered at the edge of the clearing like a sulking cat, arms locked tight across her chest, her whole body strung with tension. The ley line beneath her boots pulsed lightly, a sensation like a heartbeat against the soles of her feet.

Across the clearing, Linden waited by the ritual stone. He looked like something painted in soft pastels: dawn-light on skin, his hair caught with mist, a faint golden thread of power coiling idly at his wrist as he centered himself. Calm. Composed.

Rowan scowled. “Forehead-to-forehead chanting?” she muttered as she approached. “The Witch Council really is into performance art these days.”

Linden didn’t rise to the bait. He rarely did, which made Rowan more annoyed. “We only have to match breath,” he said, the words as gentle as spun flax. “Not verse. Keep it simple. Intent, not complexity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I swear, if this makes my magic explode again, I’m kicking someone into the river.”

He only smiled and offered his hand. Open and quiet and maddeningly kind.

Rowan stared at it like it might bite her. Or like she might bite him . Her jaw worked, resisting the pull of it, but her traitorous magic leaned forward.

She grudgingly took his hand as if it cost her blood. The ley line surged beneath them the moment skin met skin. Not aggressively. Not dangerously. Just... in welcome.

“Oh no,” Rowan muttered. “That’s worse.”

Linden didn’t laugh, but his eyes crinkled faintly, and that was worse too.

He drew her forward, their joined hands a quiet tether, into the circle of stones etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the mist. The glade wasn’t loud, exactly, but the silence felt inhabited . Like the forest was watching.

They turned to face each other.

Rowan’s heartbeat lurched as Linden tilted his head down, slow and unhurried, and rested his brow against hers.

That was it. Just the soft press of skin, the warmth of breath shared in the narrow space between mouths. His fingers didn’t grip hers. His body didn’t lean. He was there , fully and devastatingly present, and it was too much.

Rowan squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel everything: the smooth column of his throat as he swallowed, the hint of mint and rosemary in his breath, the steady throb of the ley line vibrating up through the soles of their feet and into their joined palms.

It was impossible not to remember every other time her magic had gone wild. Her power was a weapon she barely controlled, and here she was, forehead-to-forehead with the man who knew exactly how breakable she really was.

He began to chant.

The sound was low and resonant, threading through her like smoke, ancient syllables spun in a dialect older than this grove, older than names. Not power-heavy or showy. Just true . Root-deep and leaf-soft.

Rowan tried to join in. Her voice snagged on the first word, choked with resistance, pride, panic.

But then… something shifted.

It wasn’t like the other times. No flashbang of magic erupting from her chest like a star detonating sideways. Just... warmth.

Steady and golden. Like sunlight on honey. Like a river choosing to carry her instead of crush her. Her magic, her stubborn, battered, traitorous magic, relaxed .

She gasped.

It felt like the forest exhaled with her. The ley line surged again beneath their feet, not in warning, but in gratitude. The moss brightened. The mist caught light. A single bird trilled, brave and tentative.

Tears stung her eyes, furious and uninvited.

Her voice faltered. The chant wavered.

Linden didn’t stop. He adjusted nothing. Just stayed with her, brow to brow, quiet and sure and devastatingly patient.

Her magic sang . For the first time in over a decade, it didn’t hurt to be powerful. Rowan bit the inside of her cheek to keep from weeping like a child.

Eventually, Linden stepped back. Slowly. Gently. His hand slid from hers, a parting she felt down to the marrow.

The clearing was brighter now. Sunlight dappled the stones. Birds dared to sing. The ritual stone at the center glowed faintly, touched with gold. Balanced.

Rowan stared at him, throat raw with things she’d never say.

Linden, of course, said nothing either. Only murmured, “Thank you.”

And gods, that hurt .

That hurt worse than power surging wild. Worse than tears. Worse than magic that had never fit. Because there was no mockery in his voice.

And Rowan, prickly, furious Rowan, had no idea what to do with that.

***

Night had crept into Linden’s cottage on velvet paws, soft and silent, curling itself into the crooks of the ceiling beams, the corners of the hearth, the folds of Rowan’s freshly washed robe. Smoke from the fire sighed upward in lazy ribbons, scented faintly with birch bark and rosemary.

Outside, the forest had gone hushed and reverent. Inside, the only sounds were the occasional pop from the fire and the soft, snuffling snores of Mottle on his chosen moss bed beneath the window.

Rowan sat cross-legged on the hearth rug, still-damp hair clinging to her neck.

Her body was clean, for once. Warm. Relaxed in the loose-limbed, dangerous way that only came after a bath too good to be trusted.

The tub had been steaming when she’d found it.

Spiced with herbs. A charm tucked discreetly in the soap dish to ease tension.

And Linden hadn’t said a word, which, frankly, was suspicious as hell.

She didn’t hear him return from the kitchen until he was right behind her, moving with that uncanny quiet that made her want to punch him and write him poetry. He knelt down slowly, not touching her, just a calm, steady presence at her back. A wooden comb rested in his palm.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Rowan went still. Every part of her locked up like a startled cat.

But then, something in her unwound. Just a little. Not trust, not quite. But something tender-adjacent. She nodded once.

Linden didn’t thank her. He didn’t make it “A Moment”. He simply gathered a small section of her hair at the ends, and began combing.

He was infuriatingly gentle. Not tentative, he wasn’t afraid of her, but precise , like he was brushing down a spell.

The comb slid through knot after knot with quiet patience, never tugging.

When it snagged, his fingers followed, warm and broad and work-rough.

He teased out the tangles with the reverence of someone untying a charm woven from thistle and silk.

Rowan stayed perfectly still, the firelight painting her face gold and shadow. Her breath had slowed without her realizing, deep and even, and her heart thudded like it was trying to perform a mating dance behind her ribs.

“Gods,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “If you start massaging my scalp, I’m marrying you out of spite.”

Linden chuckled. Low and warm and very close to her ear. “Noted.”

It shouldn’t have felt so intimate. It wasn’t a kiss. Wasn’t even a caress. But still, her skin buzzed beneath his touch. Her knees had gone faintly useless. She wanted to lean back into him, let her head rest on his chest, hear the rhythm of his breathing up close.

He finished detangling and slid the comb into his pocket, then began to braid her hair into a crown. The rhythm of it was almost meditative. Over. Under. Smooth and gentle and maddeningly steady.

“You used to wear it like this,” he said quietly, fingers threading the memory into her hair.

Rowan snorted. “I was twenty. I also used to wear velvet cloaks like I was the main character in a tragic operetta.”

“I liked the cloaks.”

“Of course, you did.”

He tied the braid off with a strip of green thread. A protection knot woven into the tie, she noticed. Old magic. Subtle. Familiar.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was a stillness to the space between them now, thick and golden and humming like the moment before a kiss or a spell. Her skin felt too small for her body. Her heart ached with something she didn’t have a name for.

“I cleared a room for you,” Linden said, voice low. “Just down the hall. Thought you might want your own space.”

Rowan turned. She met his eyes, searching for any sign of disappointment, of expectation, of pressure.

There was none.

Only him. Steady and warm, as if her silence didn’t scare him. As if the way she held herself together with brittle will and sarcasm wasn’t a thing he feared, but something he understood.

Something he would wait for.

Gods, it was unbearable.

He stepped aside, motioning down the hall, and she followed him like a tide pulled by gravity.

The room he’d made for her was small but intentional.

The walls were strung with dried herbs and soft light.

A handmade quilt in her favorite stormcloud grey lay folded at the foot of the bed, like it had always been waiting.

A shelf housed tiny jars of salves and teas and bath salts, all labeled in tidy handwriting.

The window was cracked just enough to let in the sound of the wind threading through the trees.

It was a refuge.

She stood in the doorway too long, hands at her sides, throat clenched tight.

“Thanks,” she said, barely louder than breath.

Linden didn’t press. He only nodded. “Sleep well, Rowan.”

He left with no more ceremony than that.

She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, one hand rising automatically to press over her heart.

It wasn’t thundering now. Just... humming. Low and certain. Her magic curled beneath her ribs like a cat in the sun.