Page 19

The magic was… quiet. For the first time in ten years, the Hollow hummed .

Not crackled, not shrieked through shattered sigils or burbled like a potion left too long over fire. It purred . Low and content. Like the ley lines had curled up under the town’s roots and fallen into a long-overdue nap.

Rowan stood at the edge of the Heartroot grove, bare feet in the loamy moss, watching the Hollow wake.

Sunlight poured golden and thick over the cottages, catching on ivy-draped roofs and the glittering dewdrops that clung to every petal and leaf.

The entire village had gone technicolor.

Flowers burst open in cascading glory, bees zipped through the air in tight, drunken spirals, and somewhere in the near distance, someone had started playing a fiddle with frankly suspicious enthusiasm.

It was all too much.

She squinted up at the sky. “Are you high?” she asked the universe. “Is that what this is? Did the Hollow eat a special brownie?”

Behind her, Linden’s laugh rumbled like warm wind through trees. “No, love. It’s just… happy.”

Rowan turned.

Gods, he looked happy too.

Tunic rumpled from where she’d definitely ripped it half-off last night, the bondmark, a tangled vine in gold, green, and deep blood-crimson, visible just above his collarbone.

Sunlight kissed his cheekbones. He had moss on his elbow and a flower she hadn’t noticed tucked behind one ear. Of course he did.

He stepped up beside her, arm brushing hers. “May I?” he asked softly, eyes flicking toward her hand.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. “You’ve already seen me naked and full of ley-fire. What’s a little hand-holding?”

Still, her fingers curled into his like muscle memory. The bondmark on her own skin warmed faintly. Pulsing, alive, and wholly hers. Theirs.

“I can feel it,” she murmured. “The ley. All of it. No longer just ripping through me like a drunk banshee but… singing.”

Linden nodded. “It’s re-rooted. In you. With you.”

“Ugh,” she groaned, tipping her head back. “You’re going to keep saying sappy things like that, aren’t you?”

“Forever,” he said cheerfully.

***

By the time they made it back up to the village proper, the celebrations were in full swing.

Someone had conjured streamers that sparkled like stardust and smelled faintly of baked apples.

Tables appeared out of thin air, groaning under the weight of pies and stews and dubious bottles labeled Moonberry Reserve – Consume with Shame .

Children ran shrieking through the square, pursued by butterflies that appeared to be enchanted and mildly sarcastic.

“Tell me this is a hallucination,” Rowan muttered. “Tell me we didn’t accidentally trigger a seasonal festival orgy.”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing,” Linden said, eyes twinkling.

And then…

“WELL, IF IT ISN’T THE POWER COUPLE OF THE CENTURY!”

Rowan didn’t even have time to brace before she was enveloped in a blur of flower-scented chaos. Marigold on one side. Briar on the other. Identical grins, identical glitter-stained aprons.

“You did it,” Briar cooed, pinching Rowan’s cheek.

“I did something ,” Rowan muttered.

“You unleashed sacred erotic energy into the root of the Hollow and saved the entire town , darling,” Marigold said brightly. “Don’t be shy.”

They shoved a massive wicker basket into her arms. It was filled with what appeared to be: six aggressively phallic carrots, a pie that radiated post-coital contentment, three tiny heart-shaped jars labeled Stamina Jam , and what might have been a carved figurine of her and Linden mid-bonding.

“Oh gods,” Rowan croaked.

Linden peered into the basket. “Is that…?”

“An anatomical cake of your backside,” Marigold confirmed with delight. “Fae buns included,” Briar added.

Rowan seriously considered hexing her own eyeballs.

“I told you they’d be perfect together,” Briar stage-whispered to her sister. “You could feel the UST from the bakery.”

“Unresolved Sexual Tension and Unstable Spell Turbulence,” Marigold agreed, nodding sagely. “Both resolved now!”

Rowan turned slowly to Linden. “You made me come in a sacred ley chamber. In front of the town’s ancestral ghosts. I hope you’re proud.”

“I am,” he said serenely, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Very.”

Briar and Marigold shrieked in unison.

They escaped back to the apothecary with the basket, the figurine (Linden insisted on keeping it), and a trail of flower petals that may have been sentient.

The shop was… different. The air inside felt sweeter, the shelves sturdier, and the herbs thrumming . Her mugwort hummed. Her thyme practically pulsed . Even the despair had been replaced with something that smelled suspiciously like hope.

“I think it’s alive now,” she said faintly, touching one of the shelves.

She turned to him.

And then she did something she’d never done before. Not without panic. Not without biting it back with a bark of sarcasm.

She leaned in. Rested her forehead to his. Let herself exhale.

“I feel…” she started. Her voice caught.

“Soft?” he offered gently.

“Yeah.”

“Scary?”

“No,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

He smiled. Kissed her forehead. Kissed her temple. Kissed the corner of her mouth and said, “You’re allowed to be soft, Rowan. Especially with me.”

She kissed him back.

Mottle leapt up onto the apothecary counter, adjusted his tiny spectacles, and stared at them both with deep judgment.

“You reek of bonded magic and questionable decisions,” he grunted.

Rowan sighed. “Some things never change.”

But Linden’s fingers were laced with hers, the bondmark pulsed gently at her collarbone, and her magic sang inside her like sunlight through trees.

And Rowan Blackthorn didn’t flinch from the joy.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and said, “Alright, Thornling. Let’s see what peace tastes like.”

He smiled, warm and rooted and golden.

And the Hollow bloomed.