Page 3

It feels like we’ve moved in. That’s the worst part of it. Weeks bleed into weeks, and suddenly this house—the one Silas somehow conned the villagers into selling him for a handful of coin and promises he never intends to keep—feels like a cage we’ve decorated. The floorboards still groan under every step. The roof still leaks when the Hollow spits rain. And the walls breathe when you’re not looking.

But it’s home now. Because we haven’t left. Because we can’t.

The house leans at odd angles, hunched like it’s waiting to collapse. Like everything here. The village outside it is half dust, half whisper. Every night, I hear the cathedral bells echoing through the Hollow, even though there’s no one left to ring them.

If I sit still too long, it crawls under my skin. Makes my fists itch. Makes me want to burn something down.

So I don’t sit.

I work.

The ground is stubborn beneath me, packed and dead like it’s forgotten how to hold life. But I dig anyway—spade cutting through clay, roots, old bones I pretend not to notice. I carve a space out of nothing, turning soil into something she can sit in. Somewhere she can breathe, without the weight of everything pressing down on her.

A garden. For her. Because I can’t fix the Hollow, or the curse Branwen left snarled around our throats, but I can give her this.

The sky is still gray, smudged like ash across the horizon, when I hear her.

“.”

My name, soft and worn on her lips, like she’s spent the whole night chewing on it.

I glance up. Luna stands barefoot at the edge of the makeshift porch, a chipped mug cradled between her hands. Her hair’s pulled back, loose and messy, strands sticking to her cheek. She’s wearing one of my shirts—oversized, sleeves pushed to her elbows—and it makes something sharp twist under my ribs.

Her eyes catch mine, and her mouth curves, tired and crooked. Without a word, she crosses the yard, the brittle grass crunching under her steps, and holds the mug out to me.

Tea. Because there’s no coffee here, no electricity, no way to pretend we’re anything but ghosts playing house at the end of the world. I take the mug from her fingers, careful not to touch, because if I do I won’t stop.

“Thanks,” I murmur, voice rough from hours of being alone with my thoughts and the dirt.

She doesn’t leave. She stays, watching me work, the weight of her gaze heavier than the shovel in my hands.

“You’re building something,” she says quietly, like it surprises her.

“For you,” I answer, before I can think better of it.

Her breath hitches—just a little—and she glances at the patch of ground, at the half-dug rows and broken fence posts.

“You don’t have to.”

I look up at her fully now, sharp and sure, letting her see every jagged thing in me.

“I do.”

She swallows, shifting her weight, toe tracing a line in the dirt. “You don’t have to make it better.”

“I’m not trying to make it better,” I tell her, voice low, pulling tight at the edges. “I’m trying to make it bearable.”

“You’re gonna make me soft,” she mutters, voice half a laugh, half a confession.

I shake my head, sipping the tea. It tastes like ash and something bitter, but it’s warm.

“Too late.”

I drain the mug, set it down on the nearest fence post.

“You wanna help?” I ask, voice light but sharp.

Her gaze flicks back to mine, something dangerous in it now. “What, you think I can’t dig?”

I smirk. “I think you’ll complain.”

“I’ll definitely complain.”

“Good,” I say, tossing her the spare shovel resting by the porch. “Wouldn’t want you to forget who you are.”

She catches it one-handed, easy. The shovel’s too big for her hands, the ground too stubborn for her weight, but she doesn’t flinch. She drives the blade into the earth anyway, hair falling into her face, bare toes curling in the dirt. The soft scrape of metal against stone settles deep in my chest, almost grounding.

She glances over at me after a few minutes, wiping the back of her hand across her brow, lips quirking.

"You know," she says, breathless but smug, "you could do this in half the time. Hell, you could clear this whole damn yard in ten seconds if you used your magic."

I don’t look up from the patch of soil I’m ripping apart, knuckles tight around the handle. "That’s not the point."

Her voice drops, playful. "What is the point, then?"

I shove the spade deep, twisting until the weeds tear free with a satisfying snap.

"It takes longer this way," I murmur, wiping dirt from my palms. "I want it to."

She watches me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if I’ve finally lost it. Knowing her, she probably thinks it’s both.

"You could snap your fingers and this would be done."

I shrug, scoffing quietly. "I can’t plant here. Not really. This soil’s dead, like the rest of this godsdamned place. When it’s time to make something grow, yeah—I’ll have to use magic for that. But the work—the cleaning, the clearing—the mess? That’s mine."

She tilts her head, biting back a smile, tongue flicking over her lower lip.

"So you’re telling me," she says slowly, deliberately, "you’re voluntarily doing manual labor because you’re sentimental."

I level her a look.

"Domesticated," she sings under her breath, grinning. The smile that curls my mouth isn’t pretty. It’s sharp, feral, something she put there.

"Shut your mouth," I mutter, voice low, but there’s no heat in it.

She laughs—quiet, soft like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear her. Like this is only ours. The sound slips under my skin, hooks into me in ways I don’t want to think too hard about.

She squats beside me, resting her chin on her knees, eyes flicking over the wrecked yard and the mess of roots and rocks we’ve been pulling out. Her hand brushes the ground absently, fingers tracing lazy patterns in the dirt.

Before I can speak, before she can say something that will undo me, footsteps crunch through the grass behind us.

Loud. Purposeful. Absolutely not subtle.

"Well, well, well," Elias drawls, voice stretched thin with mischief, "if it isn’t my favorite domesticated rage monster."

Luna grins without looking at him, but her hand shifts, resting on her knee a little tighter like she’s trying not to laugh.

I glance back, expression flat, unimpressed.

Elias stands at the edge of the yard, shirt half-buttoned, silver hair a mess, eyes flicking over both of us like he’s walked in on something scandalous.

"Are you two playing house?" he teases, eyes landing on the half-tilled dirt. "Is this a couple’s activity? Do I need to get Silas so we can double date?"

"Get out," I mutter, voice sharp enough to cut.

He ignores me entirely, sauntering forward, hands in his pockets.

"Look at you," Elias continues, grinning wide now, "sweaty, covered in dirt, making a garden like some suburban dad. This is it, . You’ve officially lost your edge."

Luna snorts beside me.

I glare at him. "You’re about to lose your teeth."

Elias raises both brows. "Hostile. I like it."

Then, deliberately, he looks at Luna, all teeth and dangerous charm.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Her lips twitch. "Elias."

He scratches the back of his neck, pretending to look casual, but his eyes linger too long on her mouth, on the curve of her throat where her pulse beats too fast.

"You know," he says, voice low and conspiratorial, "if you’re bored digging dirt, I’ve got much more interesting things you could be doing."

I groan, dragging a hand over my face.

Luna doesn’t even blink. "Like what?"

Elias grins wickedly. "I could show you my rock collection."

She blinks.

"Silas has a rock collection," she deadpans.

Elias shrugs, smirk widening. "Yeah, but mine’s better. All the rocks are shaped like things I regret."

She laughs, low and warm, and I feel it straight in my chest. Before she can say anything else, Elias drops into a crouch beside us like this isn’t the middle of a cursed graveyard realm we’re pretending is home.

The sun hasn’t broken through the Hollow’s gray shroud in weeks, but it’s warmer now, the kind of warmth that crawls under your skin and makes you forget, for one dangerous second, that this place isn’t trying to swallow us whole.

The dirt’s damp beneath my boots, the smell of earth clinging to the back of my throat as I drag another rusted wheelbarrow toward the edge of the garden. The thing’s older than sin itself, the wheel groaning under the weight of the stones I’ve been prying from the ground like buried bones.

Elias lounges beside her, one arm slung carelessly over his bent knee, grinning like he hasn’t slept in day. He plucks a blade of grass from the ground, holds it between his fingers like a weapon, and flicks his gaze to Luna.

“Wanna see something stupid?” he asks, voice light but curling with something sharp underneath.

She glances up at him, brow arched. “Always.”

He smirks, twists the blade between his fingers, and murmurs something low, a flick of magic threading through his voice. The grass stiffens, straightens like a blade, and hovers between his fingers unnaturally still—time leeching from the thing until it’s frozen mid-bend, sharp as a dagger.

Luna’s mouth quirks. "That’s what you’re doing with your magic now?"

Elias grins wider, like he knows exactly how stupid this is and doesn’t care. "What can I say? I’m a man of simple pleasures."

She snorts, shaking her head, but I can see the way her shoulders ease. The way her eyes soften, crinkle at the corners like she’s trying not to laugh at how fucking absurd this all is.

I shove another rock into the wheelbarrow with too much force, the metal groaning under the weight. “If you’re done showing off, maybe put that grass sword to work.”

Elias doesn’t even look at me. “You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.”

Luna hums, twisting another blade between her fingers, voice deceptively light. “He’s mad because he’s domesticated.”

I shoot her a look that could cut stone, but she just smiles sweetly at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Because she does.

Before I can bite back at either of them, the back door slams open with a bang loud enough to send crows scattering from the rooftop.

And then—

"Be free, my babies!" Silas’s voice carries across the yard like a fucking battle cry.

Frogs.

A flood of them spilling out of the house in chaotic, slapping little waves, tumbling down the crooked steps like they’ve been waiting for this prison break their whole slimy lives. Silas barrels after them barefoot, grinning like a madman, mud streaked up his calves and a frog perched smugly on his shoulder.

Silas skids to a stop at the edge of the porch, arms spread wide like he’s preaching. "Run, my children! Taste freedom! Your oppressor sleeps no more!"

One of the frogs hops straight toward my boot, pauses, and blinks up at me like it knows exactly how close it is to being thrown across the yard.

I lean down, pick the thing up gently, and deadpan at Silas. "Your oppressor is going to roast them for breakfast."

Silas gasps, clutching his chest. "You wouldn’t dare."

Elias wheezes beside Luna. "Please do. I want to watch."

Luna rolls onto her stomach, chin in her hands, looking at me like I’m the last sane person in the room.

"You gonna build me a frog sanctuary next?" she asks, voice lazy, soft.

I glance at her, and something slow and dangerous settles behind my ribs.

"For you," I say quietly, "I’d build you a fucking empire."

Her breath catches—just for a second—but she covers it with a smirk, rolling her eyes like she doesn’t believe me.

The wheelbarrow creaks under the weight of rocks behind me, forgotten, the half-dug garden left half-dug.

My eyes keep coming back to her. To the way her eyes flick to each of us without trying, how her laugh pulls everything in tighter, how we’re circling her like moths we don’t want to admit are already burning.

And then the door clicks open again.

Ambrose steps out, barefoot, mug cradled in one hand like it’s some ceremonial chalice. His silver hair’s a mess, falling across his forehead, shirt rumpled like he slept in it—and judging by how he’s still here and not locked away in some study like usual, he probably did.

He’s blowing softly on the tea, long fingers wrapped around the chipped porcelain. His gaze sweeps over the yard—frogs, mud, scattered laughter—and settles on her. His mouth curves just slightly at the edges, the closest thing to soft anyone’s ever gotten from him.

And I realize—we’re collecting again. We do this a lot lately. All of us orbiting her without meaning to. Gathering like wolves around something sharp and wild and impossible.

Because she’s fun. Because she’s soft in ways none of us know how to hold. Because even Ambrose, cold bastard that he is, isn’t immune to her. He catches me watching him and lifts his brow, the mug halfway to his mouth like he’s daring me to comment.

I don’t.

Because I know what this is. It’s not about tea. It’s not about frogs or gardens or whatever stupid thing Silas will think of next. It’s about how we can’t help pulling closer. How even when the Hollow is swallowing us whole, we find our way back to her.

Always.

Ambrose walks past me, steps quiet, calculated, and stops beside Luna like he’s not doing it on purpose. Like we’re not all doing this on purpose.

Elias glances up, snorts, and mutters under his breath, “Look at this. Full house.”

Silas throws his arms wide, spinning on the porch. "It’s a party now! Someone get Orin. He loves my frog liberation movement."

Orin appears first, moving like the world doesn’t dare shift without him. He’s dressed in black again, long sleeves rolled to the elbow, book tucked under one arm, the other hand clasped loosely behind his back. Calm. Measured. Always carrying too much knowledge in his quiet, watchful gaze.

Lucien trails behind him, half-scowling, half-trying to keep up. His coat’s slung over one shoulder, hair damp like he’s just come in from the Hollow’s relentless rain.

And right on cue—A frog hops straight onto Lucien’s boot. Dead center.

Lucien stops walking immediately, looks down like he’s just stepped in a curse.

"Why," he mutters flatly, voice devoid of any emotion, "is there a frog on my boot."

Before anyone can answer, Silas bolts across the yard like he’s been shot out of a cannon.

"That’s Gregory!" he shouts, diving forward dramatically and scooping the frog up in both hands like it’s made of gold. "That’s my favorite one!"

Lucien looks at him like he’s considering homicide. "You named the frogs."

Silas cradles the stupid thing like a newborn. "Of course I did."

Elias tips his head, grinning like a bastard. "Gregory, huh? What makes this one so special? His winning personality?"

Silas straightens, chin high. "He’s got an extra toe."

Everyone goes quiet.

Orin finally speaks, voice dry as old parchment. "You’re aware frogs don’t have toes in the traditional sense."

Silas beams at him like he’s just been blessed. "And that’s why Gregory is special. He defies the system."

Elias leans toward her, voice pitched low but obnoxious. "You know, you’re the reason we’re all like this."

She glances at him sideways, eyes bright. "Like what?"

"Domesticated." He grins, repeating the word like it’s his new favorite joke, throwing a wink at me.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

Lucien exhales slowly like this entire morning is testing his already thin patience. "You’re all out of your godsdamned minds."

Orin hums thoughtfully beside him, gaze cutting over the mess of us. "I think that’s the point."

Silas raises Gregory like a trophy. "Long live the revolution!"

The frog croaks loudly. Luna’s laughing again—loud, reckless, full—and it settles deep in my chest like a bruise I never want to heal.

Because it’s stupid.

And it’s safe.

And it won’t last.

But right now, in this yard full of frogs and madness, with her laughing like the world isn’t trying to kill us—

It’s everything.