The air crackled as Mother Thorne emerged from the trees.
Silver flames spiraled in her wake—not natural fire, but something older, laced with lunar energy warped into something dark and wild. Her eyes glowed like a fading eclipse, and her robes whispered against the earth like the hush before a scream.
She wasn’t a witch from stories.
She was the one those stories tried to forget.
“Return the vessel,” she said again, her voice calm as death.
“He’s not a vessel,” Quinn growled, stepping in front of Rowan, arms outstretched.
Jace mirrored the movement on Rowan’s other side, his stance coiled like a spring.
“He’s our son.”
Mother Thorne tilted her head, her lips curling into something that might’ve been a smile… or a snarl.
“You mistake possession for parenthood. The boy does not be
